Chapter 1 #4
Wes shook his head. “I can navigate the norm, but . . . tracing IPNs, etcetera, is not in my scope of brilliance. Thankfully—or maybe not—that’s why we’re field agents with the true brains of it all behind us.”
She smiled and nodded. “Last two on this list of six are a married couple. Both employees of something called Amarylis Solutions.”
“Money,” Wes said, reading. “So, Celia Henderson started the company and quickly enlisted her husband, Hank. They handle money, paychecks, payroll, for corporations around the world. Now, why would such a pair want to murder those involved in other aspects of computing?”
“They want more paychecks coming to themselves?”
“What they could embezzle right now is humongous.”
“Is that a word?” Chloe asked.
“Sure! Anyway . . .” He frowned, looking at her across the table. “You’re getting on a cruise ship like that? I mean, not that you don’t look fine! Just . . . you look like a cop.”
“Ouch! Okay, I’ll change now!” she told him.
He grinned. “My wife can’t be better dressed than I am!”
She groaned and stood and headed out to grab her bag from the front office and change. She had planned well enough, just . . . well, coming to this meeting, where state and federal agencies were combining, she’d wanted to start off with a more professional look.
Most of the time, it didn’t matter if she looked like a “cop.” In fact, it could help.
But she chose a short halter dress with a flared skirt, a “fun” outfit, she hoped. She let her hair free and grabbed a light sweater, a “Florida” sweater, enough to take on a breeze—or air-conditioning that could bring a room down to sixty in defiance of the high eighties or nineties outside.
She met him at the door. Alonzo was there, ready to send them out. Their bags had been repacked with the weapons that could pass through any screening. Alonzo nodded gravely to them, and they headed out in the nondescript car that had been given a “fake” ID as well.
As they headed to the car, Wes stopped and looked at her.
“What?”
“Are you going to be insulted if I drive?” he asked her.
She groaned. “I don’t give a damn who drives. I mean, I am making an assumption. You are a decent driver, right?”
He laughed and slipped into the driver’s seat.
And as he drove, she studied their lineup again and spoke aloud.
“Edward Thompson, VP with the hosting company Milestones. Abigail Swenson, Daniel and Broderick McClintock, brothers, and married couple, Celia and Carl Henderson. And they are all people who know one another already—they’ve been at the same conferences or meetings, all near the sites of our so-called murder-suicides. They will all be speaking on the ship.”
“And there she is! Time to park our car, darling, and get on board!” Wes said.
The ship was beautiful. They quickly discovered that two decks held pools, one that was adult only and offered lounges right in the water, whirlpools, bars and plenty of friendly waiters.
There were five choices of restaurants for food, and since their cruise was on a “luxury” yacht, there were less than six-hundred people onboard, including the crew.
The rear deck offered an exceptionally scenic view of anything that the ship might pass.
And their cabin.
In truth, Chloe thought dryly, it could have been one hell of an amazing voyage. They’d been given a balcony suite.
A small, elegant parlor with a plush sofa and a spacious restroom were just inside from the hallway entry.
Through a second doorway, one reached the bedroom, an extremely elegant place with a giant bed, television screen, stereo system, a dressing table, and a closet larger than some of the cabins Chloe had enjoyed as a kid, cruising with her folks.
“This is nice. Alonzo has set us up nicely. Maybe too nicely,” Wesley said, looking around. “All right, the sofa out here is mine—”
“That’s okay. I sleep well on a couch,” Chloe told him.
“No, no—”
“Hey, come on, we’re both agents! You don’t need to play the gentleman around me. I’m your coworker, your . . .”
She broke off, wincing inwardly.
Equal. That was the word she’d been about to say. Which indicated, of course, that she assumed him to be a misogynist.
He grinned at her. “I totally respect being equals,” he assured her. He shrugged. “I just don’t need a dressing table.”
It was okay. He made her grin. She hadn’t been that offensive.
“You’re suggesting that I do?” she inquired.
“Whatever,” he told her.
“We can switch back and forth,” she suggested.
“Whatever!” he repeated. “Right now, well, the main dinner tonight is the captain’s welcome. And we’re at a reserved table—along with a few of our suspects. Good thing I am hungry. So, dearest, do you need any repair—”
“You’re suggesting I need repair?” she teased.
“Just asking. Hey, come on. I don’t wear any makeup!”
She laughed and headed to the tour.
“Darling,” she told him, “don’t forget all the ads for the excursions we might take! We should definitely discuss those at dinner and find out what our fellow cruisers are doing!”
“Onward.”
He paused at their cabin door, looking back into the room.
He shrugged. “Nice. Sure. I can take the bed. You do wake at the drop of a pin, right?”
“Pretty much so. Why?”
“Because if an armed invader arrived, the person on the sofa will be the first to go,” he reminded her.
“And you?”
“Oh, you bet. I do wake at the drop of a pin.”
She grinned as he locked their cabin door, leaning close to tell him, “I also know how to set a trap for anyone trying to open a door. Much better than counting on our ‘sleeping senses.’ Yours or mine!”
Don’t miss
A Cruise to Die For
from Heather Graham,
available April 2026 wherever