Murder on the Spanish Seas Page 2

  “Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve?” The bartender’s name was Enzo, evident by the large name tag he and every other crew member were wearing.

  “Yes, thanks. Make it a double.”

  No way the Vintage Reserve was part of their regular stock. Sam thinks of everything. I absentmindedly touched the four-inch scar on my forehead, mostly hidden by my hair, that marked the starting point of my friendship with her.

  Enzo poured a healthy shot and set it in front of me. Good bartenders know when you just want to be left alone and he didn’t bother me with small talk, thereby guaranteeing us a close, ten-day relationship.

  I sat there thinking about the trouble at the boarding area. The ship had left port since then, so whoever had caused the problem was a safe distance away at this point, probably locked up and maybe facing jail time. Likely a local disturbance, but it would be something to look into. I was already wondering what I was going to do on the ship for ten days, and it might help relieve the boredom to have something interesting to occupy my mind.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a man and a woman entering the bar. I’d seen the woman board earlier. She was in her sixties or so, and like everyone else on this cruise, except for me, clearly from a lot of money. Maybe it was because I was on a cruise ship, but she reminded me of Shelly Winters—a little overweight but sturdy, her hair artfully styled and a blonde-orange color that most likely came from a hairdresser. Her makeup was classic and understated, with a modest amount of color framing her ice blue eyes. She was wearing an expensive-looking light green skirt, blouse, and jacket set, accessorized by what looked like a 500-carat wedding ring on a fleshy white finger that bulged around it. I’d seen her board the ship with the man she was with now, along with a young woman I assumed was her granddaughter.

  The man was middle-aged, and they seemed familiar. A son, maybe? He had dark brown hair in a buzz cut, thick eyebrows, very dark brown eyes, and a large nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. Possibly at the same time he acquired the prominent scar that ran from just outside his left eye down to his chin. He was plainly dressed in a dun pullover, dark cargo pants, and functional-looking boots. Even under his loose clothes I could see he was powerfully built. He carried a small black backpack over his shoulder that he set on the floor when they took their seats at the bar. His expression was intense, and they seemed to be arguing in what sounded like Russian.

  The woman ordered and the bartender put two shot glasses in front of them, along with a fairly spectacular glass bottle in the shape of a skull. Very cool, if a little creepy looking. The bartender poured two shots and they both drank.

  They talked in low tones for several minutes, the discussion gradually growing more heated, and his voice increased in volume until he was nearly shouting at her. To her credit, the woman didn’t back down. She calmly responded without raising her voice.

  At one point, the man leaned into the woman’s face, practically spitting at her. Out of nowhere, her hand came up and slapped him hard on the cheek. The crack echoed in the small space.

  Whoa. This trip might be more interesting than I thought.

  The man stopped, stunned. I wondered what kind of medical services were on this ship, because if this guy punched her back she’d end up at least unconscious.

  The old girl had a pretty good right hand, and his face was already starting to show her handprint. He looked like he was going to explode, and I waited for his retaliation, but to my surprise he leaned back and just glared at her. He checked his watch, then smacked his hand hard on the bar and left the pub.

  The woman was red-faced but composed. She nodded at Enzo, who poured her another shot. She drank it immediately and got up to leave, heading straight for the door and not acknowledging that there was anyone else in the room.

  I looked at Enzo, who shrugged. Maybe this was standard behavior on cruise ships.

  I finished my drink and debated having another. Like a lot of high-end luxury cruises, this one was all-inclusive. We could eat and drink whatever we wanted to with impunity. But I had ten days to get my money’s worth, so I decided to head back to our suite.

  On the way out, I saw the Russian man leaning against the wall. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. After a few breaths, his face adopted a bland expression, and he opened his eyes. I expected him to go to the elevator, or the central stairs, but instead he went down the little unadorned hallway and stopped near one of the doors. In a short while it opened and a crew member came out. They seemed to know each other, at least well enough to have a conversation. They shook hands.

  No, not shaking hands. It looked like he handed the crew member something. From where I was standing it looked like an envelope. Then he took the backpack off of his shoulder and handed that over as well. The crew member took the backpack and went back through the door. The Russian watched it close behind him, and then turned and walked to the elevators.

  What was that about?

  He hadn’t looked at all like he had in the pub with the woman. Instead of angry, he was more…businesslike. But what kind of business could he have with a crew member four hours into the trip?

  It didn’t take much to ignite my healthy, some would say pathological, curiosity. And once that happened, it demanded to be satisfied. Sam said I was a slave to it. Maybe, but it made me a good investigator. Well, a good former investigator.

  Who was this guy, and what had he said to get smacked in the face? And why was he giving things to a crew member? I wanted to follow the crew member to see if I could get a look in the backpack, but there was a key pad next to the door he’d gone through, and I didn’t have the code. I decided to tail the Russian for a few minutes to see what else he was up to.

  I watched him get in the elevator and waited to see where it stopped. Twelfth deck. One of the pool levels, and the highest outside deck on the ship. I quickly walked up the atrium stairs to level ten and took the stairwell the rest of the way.

  This pool deck was set up in two half levels. The pool itself was on deck twelve, but a shallow set of stairs led up to an additional sunning platform toward the rear of the ship. The platform was full of lounge chairs that were in the process of emptying out as everyone headed in for dinner. Behind the lounge chairs was the ship’s funnel, a typically iconic feature on cruise ships. This one was no different. While our vessel was relatively small, carrying only two hundred very wealthy, versus a more standard two thousand not-so-wealthy passengers, they hadn’t skimped on the funnel. It was the ship’s dominant feature, rising from the deck to well above the top of the ship like a giant blue-green winged bird, if that bird were a Transformer.

  I got to the deck just in time to see the Russian disappear behind it. I followed up the short set of stairs to the lounge chair area, and walked carefully to the side of the funnel on which he’d disappeared, and peeked around.

  He was facing the rear of the ship, looking down. He had his phone out and was taking pictures. Every now and then he would take one of the water or the rear of the ship, but it looked like his primary interest was whatever was directly below the funnel. He took pictures for about a minute.

  I waited until he finished and left, then walked to where he’d been standing. From here I could see down to deck ten, the fitness level that included another smaller pool. Directly below me was a crew-only restricted area, surrounded by a low barrier that contained some machinery and a deep well that went down numerous levels. Rising up from the well were a couple of long vertical cylinders that looked like storage tanks. Probably some kind of fuel.

  I waited behind the funnel until I thought he’d walked away, then came from around it. He’d left the lounge area, and I just caught him walking back through the door to the stairwell. I went quickly back down the little stairs to the door and opened it slowly. He wasn’t in the immediate hallway, so I stepped in. I heard steps, and then a door open and close below me, so I started down the stairs. I was about to open
the door to deck eight and the atrium when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I jumped, startled.

  A low voice growled softly, “Why are you following me?”

  I turned around and came face to face with the Russian.

  “I, um, I’m not following you…” I reached for the door handle to the atrium.

  He grabbed my wrist in a viselike grip and pulled me away from the door, then put both hands on my upper arms and moved me to the wall. I couldn’t believe how strong his hands were. He leaned in close to my face, his dark eyes boring into mine.

  Normally, when someone gets this close, you can smell something…their breath, their body, soap, cologne…something. But with him there was nothing. Just a suffocating force that pinned me to the wall.

  His fingers tightened painfully on my arms, digging into my skin and holding me immobile. I wondered how he’d been able to come up behind me without making a sound. Silently, like a cat. Not the kind that gets up on your counters and plays with plastic bag ties and Q-tips, but one of the big ones in the jungle. The kind that moves through bushes and over leaves without leaving a trace or a sound, secure in the knowledge that he’s the apex predator, and every single thing in the jungle is his for the taking.

  “Do not follow me. Understand?”

  I looked at him, unable to speak. I guess there was a first time for everything.

  His hands squeezed tighter. Both of my hands were starting to go numb.

  “Nod if you understand.”

  I nodded.

  He stared at me a moment longer before loosening his grip, then walked through the door of the stairwell and out into the atrium, glancing behind at me one last time before the door closed.

  I stood there for several minutes while the blood returned to my lower arms. Eventually, I got myself together and moved away from the wall. My arms hurt where he’d grabbed them.

  He was really strong. And really mad. Why? What was he doing that was so secret?

  I looked at my watch. Shit. Sam would be waiting. I hurried up the stairs to our suite.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sam was sitting on our couch when I got back. I rushed past her with a mumbled, “Sorry,” and went up to put on clean clothes and run a brush through my hair. As I was changing my shirt, I could see finger-shaped bruises starting to form on my upper arms.

  I’d decided not to share the interaction in the stairwell with Sam. I’d gotten myself into trouble before with what she referred to as my “excessive nosiness,” and I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from her right now.

  We left the suite and headed for the restaurant, sans-Chaz, who was undoubtedly being hand-fed free-range, organic, endangered species steak by his personal attendant. Sam had picked a restaurant on deck nine, Playa, one that featured regional cuisine (“Iberian-inspired food”). It was one of the larger venues on the ship, with high ceilings and an entire wall of glass that let in the ambient light from the atrium. All of the seating was at group tables, and we were placed at a round table with several couples and one man by himself.

  I did my best to avoid talking while Sam charmed the group. She has this rare combination of beauty that captivates men but doesn’t threaten other women, and a warm, sincere interest in people that draws them to her like a magnet. It didn’t hurt that she was in a sheer black cocktail dress and a pair of four-inch heels she had no trouble walking in. I was wearing what Sam referred to as “Jesse casual,” which was slim-fit black jeans, a black Michael Kors three-quarter sleeved jacket over a black T-shirt, black jump boots, and a necklace with a locket I’d gotten from my mom, my only jewelry except for a watch I still found useful even in the era of cell phones.

  As an expert witness, dressing the part was key, so my courtroom attire had been unerringly professional. I had two Brooks Brothers suits purchased solely for that purpose. But everywhere else I was firmly committed to comfort over style. I’d learned long ago that trying to pull off the perfectly accessorized lady look wasn’t part of my skill set, and once I accepted that, the act of dressing myself became much less stressful.

  The meal was served in courses. During the first one we went around the table and introduced ourselves. The two couples were from Barcelona and traveling together, they did this a lot. The men were wearing Rolexes and the women looked like they were keeping the diamond mines in business all on their own.

  Sitting next to me was a single man who introduced himself as Ander Ibarra. He looked a little out of place in his off-the shelf business suit, a tie, and a watch that was not a Rolex. He was polite and answered questions, but didn’t offer any more information about himself. This made him immediately more interesting to me, as I’ve found that the less someone talks, the more they have to say. Ander looked to be around thirty, with straight black hair that went to just above his shoulders. He had a large nose and warm, intelligent brown eyes. He was trim and handsome in a rugged kind of way. I made an effort not to stare at him.

  The marketing about the cruise’s superior food wasn’t kidding. We started with beef filet carpaccio, langoustine bisque, and fresh bread. The main course was Iberian ribs cooked with honey and parsnip foam, followed by Crema Catalana, a kind of crème brûlée. All of this was washed down with unlimited ice-cold cava that was in a constant state of refresh by the wait staff. Apparently, they’d been instructed to never let a glass get more than half empty, which was fine with me.

  The conversation flowed with the cava, and over the course of the meal I learned all kinds of things I didn’t really need to know about the fabulously rich, like where they go online to buy rich people things (JamesEdition.com), where they vacation during the winter (Gstaad or Aspen), and what brand of private jet was the best (Bombardier). At one point, someone asked Ander where he was from.

  He took a small sip of cava. “San Sebastian.”

  Smirks crossed the faces of the Spaniards as one of the women made a comment in Spanish to her husband.

  My Spanish wasn’t great, but I caught the word lenador, which I thought meant lumberjack. San Sebastian is in Basque Country, and I knew enough about the region to know that many Spanish view the Basque as backcountry hicks.

  Ander smiled graciously, ignoring the jibe. “I am a teacher.”

  The woman said, “Where is your beret?”

  The Spaniards giggled.

  “It is at home,” he said patiently.

  They returned to their giggling and discussion amongst themselves in Spanish, which continued until dinner ended. I thought it was pretty rude, but Ander didn’t seem to mind. As usual, Sam was surrounded after the meal by several people from our table who wanted to spend more time with her. I was accustomed to this, and put on my “I’m waiting for my friend, and I’m not interested in talking” face. It got a lot of use when I was with her.

  After twenty minutes she said her goodbyes and turned to me. “I’m going to check in on Chaz. Want to come?”

  I couldn’t think of many things I would like less. “No, thanks. I’m going to wander around.”

  She knew what that meant. “You know we have a full bar in our suite.”

  “I know. I’ll see you in a while.” I started to walk away, but paused and turned back to her. “Hey, can you do something for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you remember those three people who boarded together, the older woman, the man who looked like her son, and the younger woman?”

  “No…I don’t think so.”

  “They were Russian. I think they might be the only Russians on the ship. Can you get his name?”

  “I’ll try. Why? Did you see someone you’re interested in?” She gave a sly smile. Sam was always trying to hook me up.

  “He’s having some kind of argument with the woman he boarded with. She hauled off and smacked him in the pub. I’m curious about him.”

  Her eyes sparkled. Sam is really good at getting information out of people because they can
’t help but tell her things. It’s one of her superpowers and she loves using it.

  “It might be nothing. Just seemed strange. Mostly, I need something to do.”

  “OK. I’ll have it by the end of the night.”

  I knew she’d have it within the hour. “Great, thanks.”

  We parted ways, and I headed back down the stairs to deck four, where I made a beeline for my pub.

  There was one person at the bar. I was surprised and not disappointed to see it was Ander from our table at dinner. He saw me and nodded, looking at the seat next to him. I sat down, and Enzo poured me a shot. He put it down next to Ander’s dark reddish-brown drink.

  “What are you having?”

  “Kalimotxo.” He looked at my blank expression. “Red wine with Coca Cola. Very popular where I come from.”

  To each his own. But, yikes. “Sorry about the assholes at our table tonight.”

  He smiled, revealing strong white teeth. “I do not care what a few diruz josias think. Many Spanish believe everyone from the Basque Country is either a lumberjack or a terrorist.”

  “Which are you?” I asked, surprising myself by smiling back.

  “Neither. I teach economics and law in the International Business Management Program at Deusto University.”

  Smart and good looking. Nice. I put away my drink in one sip and nodded to Enzo, who refilled my glass.

  “Your English is good.”

  “It has to be. The program is taught in English.” He turned a little in his seat, facing me. “And there are no terrorists at this point. The separatist movement is over. Rightly or wrongly, the treaty has been signed and the ETA is virtually done.”

  Rightly or wrongly? I filed that one away for later. I knew the ETA was the military arm of the Basque separatist movement. ETA stands for Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, which roughly translates to Basque Homeland and Liberty. Back in the nineties the ETA had been responsible for some of Spain’s most deadly terrorist events.