The Mountains Bow Down (17 page)

“The door is locked. Nobody can come in.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You have my word.”

My word
. I felt sick saying it.

She began a trembling prayer and I closed my eyes. Still clutching her hand, I believed in what I could not see and what I could not give. When she finished, she rolled on her side, staring at the wall. I stared at her back.

“Do they spy on people?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The FBI.”

“No.”

I waited.

But after that, there was only silence.

Chapter Thirteen

S
he went to sleep like someone falling from a cliff—swift, sudden, gone. For several minutes, I puttered around the cabin, wanting to see if noise would wake her. It didn't and I stepped into the hallway, holding down the brass handle until the door quietly closed.

“Baby sleeping?”

I turned around.

They were a handsome middle-aged couple. The woman held a finger to her lips, then whispered, “We'll be quiet.” She glanced at the man. “We remember those days. Nothing like a sleeping baby.”

I gave a wan smile and waited until they had gone inside their cabin before opening my phone. I felt a sudden gratitude that we were on satellite phones that worked even if we left a port.

“Did you get Webb?” I asked Jack.

“Yes. Did you find your mom?”

“Yes. Where's Webb?”

“What did you tell her?”

“About what?”

“Harmon, knock it off. About working for the FBI.”

“I told her Claire's crazy.”

“So you told her the truth.”

The levity made me suddenly dizzy. I put my hand on the wall, not sure if I would laugh or cry.

“You okay?” he asked.

There was no point answering. Either I'd lie again or turn to Jell-O. So I changed the subject. Again. “Where are you?”

“Coming up to the ship, then heading for the Dutchman's office.”

“Where's Webb?”

“Right here in my hands,” Jack said. “You want to see him?”

Boxed in on one side by Geert and Jack on the other, with Ninjas following, Martin Webb shuffled through the casino. A navy blazer three sizes too large draped over his hunched shoulders. Both the coat and his posture told me Webb was cuffed, but Geert was hiding the restraints from the other passengers.

Following the scrum, I watched Jack maneuver Webb, using the man's elbow like a rudder, navigating him to the secret hallway. Geert handed the tall Ninja a black nylon bag—our guns, I decided—which the Ninja carried down the hall to Geert's office, to the safe. We did not follow.

Geert whipped the blazer off of Webb's shoulders and pointed to the first room on the left. It was an empty office with a desk pushed to the side, the walls bare. Jack spun Webb around, then dropped him in the only chair.

“Okay, Marty. Let's talk.”

Webb glared at him. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“For starters we could discuss destruction of state and federal property. And that's small talk.”

“I was in a hurry.”

“You had time to lock yourself in the bathroom down at the base house. Then flush the toilet until it clogged.”

“You guys violated my privacy,” Webb said.

“It's a public restroom, Marty.”

“The name's
Martin
.”

Geert was twirling the handlebar mustache, his cold blue eyes frozen on Webb. But the color was darkening, like the North Sea in January.

Jack nodded at Geert. “Marty, the big guy who speaks funny English? He's the only reason you're not behind bars. But he can change his mind. And if he does, the Alaska cops would love to throw you in jail right now.”

“I said I'll pay for damages.”

“What did you send down the toilet?” Jack asked.

Webb smiled. “There's a lady in the room.”

“Glad you noticed,” Jack said. “Because if you don't answer, that lady will kick the snot out of you.”

Webb scowled.

But when I stepped forward, he leaned back.

“Let's start over,” I said pleasantly. “Why were you sneaking into the woods?”

“I wasn't
sneaking
anywhere. I'm scouting locations.”

Jack laughed. “C'mon, Marty, give honesty a shot.”

But the tall Ninja appeared, standing in the doorway. With his eyes, he gave Geert some kind of signal. Geert started to follow the Ninja back down the hallway but turned around at the last moment. He smiled at Webb. It was not a nice smile.

Webb blinked, watching Geert leave.

Just as I'd learned two days ago at the crime scene, Webb was beginning to realize this ship was not the United States. This was not ACLU America. Not only did Geert not Mirandize him, Geert didn't care about his rights. This was a place called Geertville, run by a Dutch dictator who wanted his floating village to remain peaceful.

Webb dipped his chin to his shoulder, wiping off the sweat. “Where's he going?”

“To find a noose.”

“
What?
”

“Speaking of nooses,” Jack continued, “let's talk about Judy Carpenter.”

Much as I hated to admit it, my admiration for Jack was climbing. Judy Carpenter wasn't hung in a noose—it was a tight double knot; a noose would have tightened on her, severing her head. But the only people who knew that were us and the killer.

Webb glanced at me. Then back to Jack. “Judy? That's what this is about—Judy?” He let out a long breath, shaking his head. “Don't tell me, you two morons think somebody killed her. Is that it?”

We didn't reply.

“Everybody knows,” he said. “They've known for years.”

“Known what?” Jack said.

“That Milo can't keep it in his pants. Everybody knew except Judy. When she finally figured it out, she decided to check out.”

“Marty, if you were playing a part in a movie, I wouldn't believe you.”

“You didn't know Judy. She was having a nervous breakdown.”

I said, “She seemed calm to me.”

“Because she had class. Judy would never let anyone know. But inside, she was dying.”

“What're you, her girlfriend?” Jack asked.

Webb raised his chin, haughty. “We were very close.”

“And what about Milo?”

The director sneered. “What about him?”

“He's broken up about her death,” Jack said. “Is that an act?”

“Are you kidding? Milo can't act. He never could. But the idiots in Nebraska think he's an action hero. At least they used to. These days nobody goes to his rotten films.” Feeling superior, despite the fact that he was directing one of those rotten films, Webb tried to straighten his back. But the cuffs put him back in a slouch. “However, if anything is suspicious about her death, you should look at Milo.

His wife being dead is the biggest career boost in year—”

The door opened. Geert filled the space. Once again he offered the director a brutally sweet smile, the white handlebars rising until they resembled fangs.

“Leave pansy boy here,” he said. “My assistant's gonna babysit.”

“Hey, wait—” Webb cried.

We stepped into the hall and the Ninja with the pencil mustache walked into the room, closing the door. Following Geert down the hall, I could hear Webb hollering. The sound diminished in the Dutchman's office where my Glock 22 sat next to Jack's Springfield 1911, .45 pistol. Geert headed straight to the safe and twisted the dial. It appeared stuck. “I wanted you to see why I'm taking the guns to the purser's safe. Something went wrong with mine. The guns will be safe there.”

“You could always just give us back the guns,” Jack suggested.

“Ach,” Geert said. “What I need: you two with guns.”

But I wasn't thinking about the guns. Moving to the side, I scanned the teak safe-cabinet's base. The carpet below was blue nylon and it looked faded in places. But those places weren't near the porthole, and the fading seemed unlikely, particularly on a ship obsessed with perfect appearances.

“This ship would be a whole lot safer if we carried our guns,” Jack said.

“Nobody carries weapons on my ship.”

“If you know what to do, a saltshaker is a weapon,” Jack said.

I held up my hand, signaling a cease-fire, and asked Geert, “Could you carefully roll back your chair?”

Following my gaze, he glanced down at the carpet.

“Yes, don't touch that dust.” I came around the desk. The tall Ninja was still standing by the door, and when I asked him to bring the crime kit, he looked at Geert. The Dutchman tossed his head, giving permission.

The powder-coated safe was roughly the size of a microwave. The stainless steel door was secured to a titanium baseplate, and I ran my eyes over the knob, searching for nicks in the striated surface. But there were no obvious signs of forced entry. Bending at the waist, I stared at the baseplate from below. A fine-grained gray dust rested on the safe's shelf, and more dust stuck to a tiny circle, no more than one-sixteenth of an inch, at the bottom of the faceplate. My fingers twitched, tempted to tap the ashen circle. I wanted to know if the glue or paint was still wet. Tackiness could tell time—how long since the drill bit had penetrated the baseplate directly beneath the knob, bypassing the safe's numerical code. Whoever cracked the safe had done an excellent job cleaning up. But any high-speed drill spiraling into a safe had to tunnel through several fireproof layers, flinging a dust into the air so fine it could remain suspended for hours, even days. Whenever the thief left, the dust—on the shelf and the carpet and stuck to the drill bit hole—hadn't fallen yet.

The Ninja returned with the crime kit, setting it on Geert's desk.

“Gloves, please,” I said. “And if you have it, some kind of dropper. And a small sterile container.”

Asking no questions, the Ninja pulled items from the case. Down the hall, I heard a sudden burst of sound. Webb, perhaps yelling about his rights. Then I heard a door close, followed by silence. I glanced at Geert.

“I sent another babysitter,” he said.

“I'm free of charge,” Jack said.

The handlebars twitched. “Please, tell him I said hello.”

Jack left. Holding an eyedropper, I kneeled on the floor and released my squeeze on the rubber bulb, suctioning the gray dust from the blue carpet. It was the consistency of powder and I deposited it in a sterile test tube. Fortunately, the thief had missed an area under the cabinet, leaving more than gray dust. I could see pieces of vermiculite with my naked eye.

Collecting all that I could, I snapped on a new set of gloves and grabbed a sterile piece of gauze, tapping it against the painted hole. Puttied, I decided, then painted black to match the safe's powder coat. The gauze barely stuck; the paint was almost dry.

“Were you in your office today?” I asked Geert.

“Neen.”

I looked over, hoping for elaboration.

“Port days are time to rest. My staff takes over.”

I waited.

“I take a long sauna,” he said, almost embarrassed. “I swim, get a massage.”

All of which could be verified. “So when was the last time you were in your office, before we came back with Webb?”

“This morning. I gave you two your guns.”

That was just before 6:00
AM
. Then Geert walked us to the gangway, allowing us to bypass the security arches.

I asked the Ninja to take photographs of the drill hole before we dusted for fingerprints. Not that I was hopeful about prints; anybody this expert at safecracking wasn't likely to leave the more obvious trails. I tried not to think about the difficulties. Crime was a game of cowardice and chance. Crime fighting was a game of perseverance, of determination constantly triumphing over despair as the obstinate cat pursued the greedy mouse.

And I was right: there were no prints. Feeling we'd collected what we could, I asked for pliers, then gripped the striated knob with the tool's hinged jaw, rocking back and forth. The insulation materials made a gritty noise as I ground them through the dial mechanism. But when enough particles had been dislodged, the dial began to turn again. Handing Geert the pliers, I stepped away and asked him to open it.

When the door popped open, he thrust his hand inside, slapping the dark space.

I knew the answer, but what was one more stupid question? “The bracelet is gone?”

“And the money.”

“What money?”

“Five thousand, American.”

“Your money?”

He was still running his hand around the inside of the safe, disbelieving its emptiness. In my mind, I jacked up the jewelry's price tag to six figures. Possibly seven, if the gems were extremely rare.
Blue diamonds
, I wondered, glancing around the room, searching for a camera. The ceiling held more of the starred sprinkler heads, dotting the acoustic tiles. When I looked back at him, Geert continued feeling around the safe, as if he might discover some previously unknown hidden compartment.