Chapter 51
“Arliss, I—”
“I’ll let you know what we find,” he said, and ended the call before she could argue.
“He could be anywhere,” Lola whispered.
Cutter gestured at the stairs with an open hand. “Ajit said Leo was heading down the last time they saw him.”
“Just so I’m clear,” Lola said. “Security cameras are out over the entire ship?”
“Our view of Joellen’s door is on a different system,” Cutter said. “But everything else is offline.”
“That’s stuffed,” Lola said. “We find Malosi or Leo, I say we go ahead and confront their ass. We’re miles beyond pussyfootin’ around.”
“Yep.” Cutter picked up his pace, clearing two steps at once on the way down.
Unlike the wide carpeted stairwells between upper decks, the steps leading down below Deck 5 were concrete painted maritime gray. The door to Deck 4 was marked CREW ONLY but left unlocked. Anyone who ventured beyond without the requisite crew badge was bound to be challenged.
Cutter and Lola were fine with that. They had badges, too, and in US waters, their badges trumped everything on the ship.
“Don’t go anywhere for the first time,” Lola muttered, footsteps echoing off the gray concrete. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
“I do,” Cutter said.
He and Lola had studied diagrams of the ship’s layout online, but they hadn’t had time to get an actual tour from Ajit—making him break one of Grumpy’s primary rules.
A wide corridor ran down the center line of the ship almost the entire length of Deck 4. This served as the main highway for the crew to rapidly get themselves and tons of ship’s stores from one end of the vessel to the other without setting foot in the passenger area. This was I-95.
Crew cafeteria, crew kitchen, bake shop, and ship’s butcher were forward, along with cold and ambient storage lockers holding the tons of stores loaded on the ship at the beginning of each cruise. Offices, training rooms, some crew cabins, and the crew bar were all aft.
Cutter had learned years before that if he walked with purpose, he was rarely confronted. Of course his imposing height and resting mean mug might have had something to do with it. He put his hand on the metal hatch that would take them out onto the I-95 corridor.
“?Listo?”
Lola perked up the moment the doors swung open.
“I’d recognize that voice anywhere,” she whispered. “It’s Abraham Malosi.”
Lola went in first, bladed at a slight angle, hand on the butt of her Glock. Accustomed to going through doors with Cutter, she took three large steps inside, giving him plenty of room to follow unimpeded.
Crew members from all around the world made their way up and down the hallway, alone or in groups of two or three. Not nearly as crowded as the passageways on the upper decks, it was far busier than Cutter had hoped it would be.
Two men in blue coveralls and crew badges that identified them as assistant engineers glanced up.
One of them smiled at Lola, then narrowed his eyes when he saw she was a passenger.
She raised the tail of her jacket, exposing her silver star and Glock pistol.
The assistant engineers hustled away without so much as a word.
Whatever part of the world these men were from, encounters with law enforcement were not likely pleasant.
Bright fluorescent lighting gleamed off the polished gray floor.
Some of the crew wore the uniforms of their respective departments; some wore sweats and T-shirts between shifts.
Many, if not most, hailed from the Philippines, Indonesia, India, or African countries, where a life of months at sea paid astronomically better than any land-based job.
Women in housekeeping uniforms chatted among themselves as they pushed carts piled high with sheets.
A young Indonesian man in black slacks and a white shirt pretended to run down a laughing group of his friends with a cart full of rattling glasses and dinnerware.
Another tired-looking man a foot shorter than Lola trudged past, leaning like Sisyphus into a heavy canvas cart heaped to overflowing with blue pool towels.
“There!” Lola said. She pointed to the hulking Samoan security man fifty feet ahead, talking to someone they couldn’t see in an alcove off the main corridor.
Cutter gave a curt nod. “Let’s get a little closer—”
Pool Towel Sisyphus chose that moment to issue a barking challenge. He was polite but firm.
“Very sorry! Passengers not allowed here. Is not safe!”
Security officers are particularly attuned to such commotions. Malosi, carrying the guilt of a conspirator and fearful of being found out, was already jumpy. His head snapped around at the noise. His eyes flashed to Cutter.
Lola called out, turning up her Kiwi accent in an attempt to tone down the perceived threat, “Hold up a sec, brah!” It didn’t work. Malosi had been in the security office during Ajit’s tour. He knew who the deputy marshals were and why they were on the ship.
Six-five and topping three hundred pounds, the big man spun with the speed and grace of a gazelle, leaving only a blur of white shirt and dark slacks, and he fled up I-95 toward the front of the ship.
Cutter threw stealth and surprise to the wind.
“Police!” he barked. Few members of the multinational crew were likely to know what a US Marshal was, but they understood police.
Lola called again, “Malosi! Stop!”
“Keep an eye on the right,” Cutter said as they approached the alcove where the security man was standing when they first saw him.
“Got it,” Lola said.
Neither had drawn their sidearm. Running with a gun in hand was a recipe for disaster.
It wasn’t so much that they worried about accidental discharges—neither let their finger camp out on the trigger when they weren’t planning to shoot—but a trip or stumble could easily separate them from their weapon when they needed it the most.
They slowed a hair as they reached the alcove. As Cutter expected, it was a dead end. Instead of Leo Bouchard, a tall woman with a blond ponytail and the epaulettes of a junior officer on her white uniform blouse stepped in front of them, blocking their path.
“Passengers are not allow—”
Cutter’s first reaction was to flat hand the woman in the face, but he stopped himself at the last second, cursing under his breath as he juked around her, losing precious time.
Lola slowed enough to lift the tail of her jacket and flash her badge—and the Glock beside it. “Police,” she said. “Call Ajit on the radio and tell him the marshals need help!”
“That’s not—”
“Do it!” Lola said over her shoulder, digging in to pick up speed.
The brief encounter allowed Malosi to add another three paces to his already twenty-yard lead. But I-95 was not quite a thousand feet long—the interior length of The Polar Star. He was about to run out of highway.
Two men dressed in the white scrubs of kitchen staff pushed carts side by side down the passage.
Each cart was stacked with trays two-dozen high with assorted pastries.
Malosi screamed at them to get out of his way, but the men were too busy with their conversation to see what was happening until they were almost on top of him.
The big Samoan had the advantage of knowing the ship.
He ducked quickly, crashing through a set of double doors.
A wisp of a woman in gray sweats and T-shirt flew out and into the hallway, crashing into the carts.
Piecrusts and puddings went everywhere. The woman had apparently been on her way out when Malosi went in.
He’d helped her along with a backward shove.
Completely airborne, she bounced off the carts and hit the ground hard, screaming as her outstretched arm gave a sickening pop.
Cutter and Lola slid to a halt on the sloppy floor, Cutter watching the door while Lola checked on the injured woman. The ponytailed junior officer trotted up behind them, apparently now up to speed with what was going on.
“I’ve got her,” she said, stooping beside the injured woman. “Ajit is on his way with reinforcements. Go!”
Cutter took a moment to snatch the clip badge off his belt and pull the steel chain out of the pocket in the back of the leather circle, throwing it over his head like a necklace. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the double doors. “Is there a back way out?”
The injured woman clenched her teeth, clutching her own arm. “Hatch on the starboard … the right side of the storeroom … leads to a kind of raceway behind the bulkhead that runs parallel to I-95.”
Lola held a door while Cutter stepped inside, waving for the half-dozen occupants to exit the bar.
A couple of musicians, who were surely vying for Peter-Frampton-in-his-heyday look, glanced up blinking blearily at the giant shouting in the doorway.
The female bartender had surely seen Malosi run through and, by now, had snapped to what was going on.
She helped usher the Frampton look-alikes out to the corridor.
“He’s in the storeroom,” she said as she passed. “Careful now. The kitchen keeps extra cutlery in there. Big knives. Lots of big knives.”
“Sweet as!” Lola drew her Glock as the doors swung shut behind them. “A storeroom full of blades …”
The storeroom door was at the far end of the bar.
Painted steel, like most of the hatches on the ship, it sported heavy hinges and a thick handle like a freezer, rather than a conventional knob.
Colt Python in right hand, Cutter moved approximately 45 degrees from the opening, reaching across to grab the handle with his left.
Lola posted at an angle as well. She held her handgun near her chest, muzzle down in a position called sul, meaning south.
Her thumb hovered over the small weapon light mounted under the Glock’s barrel.
Cutter took a deep breath. “?Listo?”
“Ready as,” she said.
He pulled open the door, and Lola brought her gun to bear, flooding the dark room with white light.
A man’s foot was visible inside the door. The rest of the body lay hidden by a stack of Captain Morgan rum boxes. Navy blue uniform slacks were hiked above the ankle of a polished black shoe. Dress socks sagged, exposing dark skin, the same tone as Lola’s.
“Malosi!” Lola hissed. “Let’s see those hands!”
Cutter scanned the inside of the storage room.
It was roughly ten-by-twelve feet and crammed floor-to-ceiling with a labyrinth of boxes and crates, many of which were now overturned, bottles smashed against the concrete floor.
The strong odor of spirits filled the air and bit at his nose.
A quick glance showed pools of spilled alcohol growing larger across the floor.
Whatever had gone down in here had happened only seconds before.
Their view of Malosi’s torso was blocked, but his shoe was pointing toe down, as if he was doing a push-up behind the liquor boxes.
Cutter shot a glance at Lola, who was closer.
They’d worked together long enough that she knew exactly what he wanted her to do.
Glock at low ready, she stepped in and kicked the black shoe in the heel.
It moved with her kick, but the rest of the leg stayed put. “Malosi!” She kicked it again. “Hands.”
Nothing. Cutter moved slowly, cutting the pie step-by-step to reveal the big man’s body. He lay face down. A large pool of blood blossoming around his shoulders. His hands were up over his head, like he was flying. Both showed defensive blade wounds.
“Looks like his throat’s been cut,” Cutter said. “Check for a pulse.” He stepped around overturned boxes and broken liquor bottles to try the hatch along the back wall. It was slightly ajar.
“He’s gone,” Lola said behind him. “Nearly took his head off.”
The junior officer stuck her head in the storeroom. Cutter saw her name on her badge for the first time. Frida from Norway. “Ajit is—” Her words caught in her throat on the back of a stifled scream. “Abraham!”
Lola pushed her away. “You don’t want to see him like this if you were friends.”
“Were?”
Cutter snapped his fingers. “Get on the radio with Ajit and tell him you need medical now.”
“Yes.” Frida snatched the radio from her belt. “Medical. Perhaps we can—”
Lola gave a sad shake of her head. “No,” she said. “But we still need medical.”
“Of course,” Frida said.
The bartender appeared at the door, cursing at the mess in her storeroom. She threw her head back and groaned.
“Who’s gonna clean all this shit up?”
Cutter put his hand on the hatch again. “This is the raceway?”
She nodded.
“Can you get to other decks?”
“Hell yes, you can,” the bartender said.
“Pretty sure they used these raceways when they were building the ship. Ladders will take you up to Deck 5 or down to pretty much any deck below the waterline. Some places don’t even have cameras.
I’ll tell you right now, you do too much exploring and you’re gonna trip over a condom or two.
It’s a favorite after hours hidey-hole for …
you know.” She nodded at Malosi’s body, then motioned over her shoulder to Frida.
“He’s married, but these nine-month contracts get lonely. ”
“Got it,” Lola said. “You’d better step out until your security officers get here. This is a crime scene.” Then, to Cutter, “This had to be Leo Bouchard.”
“Yep,” Cutter said.
“Are we going after him?”
“He’s long gone by now,” Cutter said. “We’ll take a look back there and see what we can find, but we need to get this scene buttoned up for Ajit. Go ahead and call FBI Juneau. Who’s that new agent?”
“Sarah Nguyen,” Lola said. “She’s been there a month. This’ll be a good case to get her feet wet when we arrive in port tomorrow.”
“We’ll also need to call Ketchikan PD and let them know Bart Preston’s potentially connected to this.”
Lola hunkered down beside the body, careful not to step in the pooling blood. Forearms resting on her knees, she glanced up at Cutter. “I know you’re gonna tell me I need to stay in my lane, but don’t you ever wish that just for once we could run down one of these homicides to the end?”
“Nope,” Cutter said, matter-of-fact. “I’d hate to lose you, but the Bureau is always hiring.”
“Yeah, nah.” Lola gave an exaggerated shudder. “The paperwork would kill me. Still …” She shook her head, moving on to an entirely new train of thought in typical Lola Teariki fashion. “Aw, Abraham …” she said under her breath. “You poor dumb egg …”