The Mountains Bow Down (45 page)

I held the phone to my ear, waiting for Geert to locate “Serif.”

Jack held his phone, talking to Barnes.

We both walked along the top deck.

“He's in the theatre,” Geert said. “Something wrong with the lights. Why?”

“Thank you,” I said, hanging up.

“Understood,” Jack was saying into his phone. “But I'm giving you a courtesy call. Before I make direct contact.”

His golden-brown hair was damp from his speed-shower, and while he listened to Kevin Barnes, I glanced out at the water. Stretching out the hours, the sun began mixing afternoon gold with gloaming dusk and it suddenly seemed impossible that this much tragedy was taking place amid this much beauty.

“No, you can't,” Jack said.

When I looked over, his blue-green eyes were roaming over my face and when the wind burst, blowing hair in my eyes, Jack reached up, absently brushing it away. I turned my face away, my heart skipping beats again.

“Fine, she's right here.” Jack handed me his phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Kevin Barnes said, “Have your SSA in Seattle light a fire.” Supervisory Special Agent, McLeod. “My LAPD contact isn't calling me back and Romeo says you're in a big hurry.”

“Right.”

“And don't waste the connection,” Kevin said.

“Pardon?”

“Make sure management knows you want the job in Juneau.”

The Italians were yelling again. Only this time they yelled at me and Jack as we barged through the door marked Authorized Personnel Only. The tall lanky chef swung a long ladle, flinging tomato sauce and Mediterranean curses. But Jack yelled back.

“FBI!” He flipped open his credentials.

The Italians fell silent.

And we hurried through the suddenly quiet kitchen. Down the Highway, the food scents seemed even more distinct, as though settling throughout the day. The salt-and-iodine of shrimp, the acute acid of sliced pineapple and oranges. But as we passed the produce, I grabbed Jack's shirt, stopping him.

The first elevator, the one Geert used to take me to the penthouse, was on my left, and I suddenly saw Vinnie's face looming, telling me to get out.

“Staff only,” I said. “Maids and stewards. It goes straight up to Deck Fourteen.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Harmon.”

“No, seriously. I just had an idea. Vinnie, he didn't want me at that party. But he
really
didn't want me in that elevator. I thought he was just being a tough guy but . . .” The look on his face. Anger. And concern in those predatory eyes. “There's another elevator.”

Jack looked at his watch. “All right, show me. It's not like Ramazan can leave.”

We followed some crew who wore coveralls. They pushed a procession of garbage cans, wheeling them toward the back end of the Highway. It looked more like industrial storage, leaving behind the bakery and the fresh food. Mostly Hispanic, the men had been talking but stopped as we walked behind them. The air they trailed smelled slippery and sickeningly sweet, that scent of decomposing waste.

At the end of the Highway, an embossed steel wall held signs in English, Spanish, and French. Warnings about electricity, fire, automatic doors that were cutting off the stick leg of the stick figure, radiating black lines indicating the stick man's extreme pain and suffering. The men folded back the plastic lids on a set of large green Dumpsters and I turned a slow circle. Jack watched as they hoisted bulging trash bags, flinging them like slingshots into the steel containers. I stared at the elevator. The dented doors were closed and a key stuck out of the wall panel. Jack reached over, turning it. The door slid back. The garbage guys stood still, staring at us.

“This runs to the Sky Bar?” he asked them.

When nobody answered, he repeated the question in Spanish.

One of them replied. “Sí.”

Silent again, they waited for another question. But there wasn't one and they pushed the now-empty can back up the steel tunnel, taking quick glances over their shoulders to watch us.

“The bartender saw her leave,” I said, once they were out of earshot. “She walked out of the bar. Nobody disputes that.”

“So no elevator?” Jack asked.

“Somebody
else
could have used the elevator. Then nobody would have seen them walk into the bar.” Geert had told us there was a camera at the bar's entrance. On the deck, pointed at the door. “The Dutchman even says she walked out.”

Jack turned the key again and the doors slid shut. “Who do you think used the elevator?”

“Let's go ask Ramazan.”

At the other end of the Highway, we headed up the set of steel stairs Jack and I used to get to the laundry, the ones Geert used to search the crew cabins. Once again a showgirl rushed past us. She wore a 1920s flapper costume and her patent leather tap shoes
click-click-click
ed down the steps.

On Deck Six we found the dressing room for the stage. Naturally I took the women's, Jack took the men's, and I opened the door to find five girls leaning into bright mirrors, fixing their makeup, wearing only bras and panties. They looked over as I opened the door. “I'm with security,” I said.

They went back to the mirrors, with the unselfconscious nakedness of dancers. I heard a garish sort of music and it seemed to pulsate through thin walls. Across the room, another door was marked Stage. I was heading toward it when a green light flashed. The girls squeaked and rushed past me, grabbing dresses from a metal rack. Tenting elbows to protect their makeup, they slid into sequined and fringed tank dresses. The back door flew open. The flapper from the stairs raced in.

“You're cutting it close!” scolded one of the girls.

“I had to go!” the flapper cried.

“You can't use this bathroom?”

“The door's locked.”

“If you laid off all that Diet Coke—”

“I'm trying to stay awake—”

The green light flashed again and though still bickering, the girls
click
ed out of the room in their tap shoes.

I followed and came out stage left. Heavy black curtains dropped from a cable, puddling on the stage. I could see another set of young women can-canning, swishing ruffled skirts before the cheering audience. When cymbals crashed over the sound system, the Charleston suddenly cranked up and the flapper girls shimmied on stage.

The can-canners went off stage right, washing past Jack who stood in the wings looking lost. And like he wanted to laugh. Catching my eye, he tipped his head toward the backstage and I stepped through the side curtains. The dance hall girls zipped across the truncated space, their quick steps timed to avoid electrical cords that snaked like vipers.

“You see him anywhere?” Jack asked.

I stared into the dark and cavernous space above us. Rows of canister lights beamed pastel columns to the stage. Nothing looked broken.

Jack grabbed a young man passing by. He was dressed in black, looking like a stagehand. “We heard you're having problems with the lighting.”

“Check with Kez.” He was American and pointed stage right. “Kez is in charge.”

Deep in the wings with a battery headset clamped over copious brown curls, a woman watched the Roaring '20s number. Her mouth twisted critically to the side. When she saw us, her expression didn't change.

“Kez?” Jack asked.

“Yeah.” It came out cockneyed.
Yea-eh
.

“We heard you needed some lights fixed,” Jack said.

“Is that a joke?” She flexed the word. “G'on, climb up. Right now, get some applause.”

“We heard—”

“Nothing's wrong with me lights. And if you fool with them again, I'll punch yours out.”

“Right.” Jack smiled.

I took out my credentials, which still carried photos of Ramazan and Serif. “Have you seen the one on the right?”

She looked down, genuinely interested. “You mean there's two of them? I thought it was one weirdo.”

“They do look alike,” I agreed. “The one on the right, has he been here tonight?”

“Yea-eh. Came and doodled with me lights. Check bick-stage.” She flicked her wrist, meaning backstage, then turned away because the flappers were stampeding toward us. The music shifted to rumba, and on the other side, more dancers rushed forward, dressed like torch singers.

Backstage, I watched as the same flapper we saw on the stairs ran on tiptoes, her bare shoulders hunched like someone trying to be quiet.

“Liza, you can't possibly—again?” whispered another girl.

“Shhh,” hissed the others.

“She's making us late!”

“Her bladder's
infected
, let it
go
!”

The flapper jiggled the knob on a door with an Out of Service sign. Crossing her long legs, she laid an ear on the wood, listening. Then, with the desperate frustration of someone trapped, she yanked the knob with all her might, almost whimpering. The other dancers had disappeared into the dressing room, and when she raced after them, she was on tiptoes again, tap heels up, not disturbing the rumba on stage.

Jack walked to the door, testing the knob. It was a simple lock, no dead bolt. When I pulled out my pocketknife, offering it to him, he slipped the blade into the lock, rocking the knob. After several tries, I pushed my keycard against the frame, pressing down as another flurry of dancers raced past us. Sock-hoppers, ready to rock around the clock.

The lock popped. The small bathroom was dark and seemed empty. Two stalls and a double sink. No doors on the stalls. Toilet in one, urinal in the other. But over the urinal, a metal tripod stood as though using the facilities. And a framed poster was propped on the floor, demanding employees wash their hands. Where it was supposed to hang, on the wall over the white ceramic appliance, light was leaking through a two-inch hole.

I stepped into the women's stall. Same poster, but still hanging on the wall. I lifted it and found another hole, the same size as the other. When I leaned into it, I saw a rush of bright color. And I heard their voices now. Dancers, young women changing costumes. Running past in bras and panties. Jack was already at the sink. The mirror above was bolted to the wall, just as the posters should have been, for seaworthiness. Squatting down, I opened the doors on the double vanity. The cleaning supplies were scattered. I poked my head in. The back panel was gone. I felt cool air blowing up. Crawling in farther, sticking my head into the opening, I saw short two-by-fours running down into a small open area. A ladder of some kind.

I backed out of the vanity.

“Call the Dutchman,” Jack said.

Chapter Thirty-nine

T
he Highway had shifted into an after-dinner frenzy. The long tunnel's traffic was as backed up as rush hour, with more garbage cans and stacked carts of soiled napkins and tablecloths. Jack wasn't helping. He stopped each one, pawing through, searching. For a video camera. Or even Ramazan.

I hit Redial on my cell phone.

Geert answered, “What now?”

I turned my head away from the crew passing by and quickly described the tripod in the bathroom. “They're filming the dressing rooms. And they made an escape route through an air vent.”

Jack turned, rolling his hands at me, signaling
hurry up
.

“We're on the Highway, in pursuit.”

“I'm coming down—”

“Good, but where's the best hideout down here?”

There was a pause. “Cold storage. The freezers. They will be shutting down for the night.”

At its middle, the Highway opened like a cross, splitting into two refrigerated wings. Jack ran left, I turned right. My feet splashed through warm water that smelled of bleach.

In one corner, a man wearing rubber boots blasted a high-powered hose at the welded steel floor.

“See anybody run through?” I asked.

He smiled. “What I see?”

As he reached down, twisting the brass nozzle to increase water volume, I felt a twinge in my gut. He kept smiling pleasantly and spraying the area. The air filled with bleached steam.