Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (11 page)

“And so you made up the story you told me about Margaret probably having found some new boy toy who was keeping her too preoccupied to come to dinner?”

“It sounded plausible enough,” Naomi returned.

Just then Virginia Metz and Sharon Carson came cruising through the lobby bar on their way to the elevators. Catching sight of the two of us sitting there, they descended on our table in a flurry of questions and shopping bags.

“Did you hear what's happened?” Virginia demanded at once. “Margaret is missing.”

“We heard,” Naomi said.

“Have they found her yet?” Sharon added.

Naomi shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Maybe we should go talk to the first officer and find out what's happening,” Sharon Carson suggested. “He told us that if we had any questions or concerns, we should come see him right away.”

“No,” Naomi said quietly. “Not just yet. The three of us have to talk. There's something I need to tell you.”

I've wised up enough in my old age to know when to take a hint. “If you ladies will be good enough to excuse me,” I said, standing up, “I believe I'll head on back to my cabin.”

O
N THE WAY THROUGH
the ship, I was still stunned by Naomi's admission. I couldn't imagine a woman being so desperate for a baby that she'd go to such lengths to conceive one. Why not use an anonymous donor? And the fact that her husband had helped hatch the plan was downright astonishing. As for Harrison Featherman—in my book he was beneath contempt. It seemed to me that Margaret Featherman had every right to be pissed as hell at both of them—at her friend Naomi Pepper and at her ex-husband as well.

I expected I'd be able to go back to my cabin and have some time to relax and think things over. Naturally, that turned out to be an unachievable goal. There's a little clear Plexiglas mailbox on the wall next to the door for each cabin on the
Starfire Breeze
. Mine was stuffed full of messages. When I opened the various envelopes, the messages were pretty similar. In steadily increasing levels of urgency I was told to contact the purser's office ASAP.

The message light on my phone was blinking furiously as well. I listened to the messages, but they turned out to be the same thing—see the purser. Obviously, whoever wanted me to contact the purser wasn't taking any chances on my not getting the word.

“This is Mr. Beaumont,” I said, as soon as someone answered the phone. “I have several messages saying I should contact the purser's office at once. Do you have any idea what this might be concerning?”

“Of course, Mr. Beaumont. If you'll just stay on the line, I'll put your call right through.”

To where?
I wanted to ask, but naturally whoever had answered left me hanging without giving me a clue. I wondered if maybe I was next on the list to have a door-pounding visit from Dr. Harrison Featherman and his traveling henchman, the first officer.

“Dulles here,” a cool female voice announced in my ear.

“Would that be Ms. Dulles, Mrs. Dulles, or Miss Dulles?” I asked.

“That would be Agent Dulles,” she responded even more coolly. “Agent Rachel Dulles.”

Agent Dulles didn't bother to add “of the FBI.” She didn't have to because I'd already figured that out.
Typical fed
, I thought.
No sense of humor
. But then, I supposed, if you're posted as agent in charge of an end-of-the-earth outpost like Juneau, maybe your sense of humor disappears right along with the transfer papers to your new territory.

“Is this Mr. Beaumont?” she asked.

I find that humorless FBI agents always bring out the worst in me. I had to rattle her chain just a little. “Any relation to John Foster?” I asked.

If there was a hint of a smile at that, no trace of it leaked into her strictly business telephone voice. “We're distant relations,” she said icily. “My grandfather and John Foster were second cousins.”

Great
, I thought. If her grandfather and John Foster Dulles were second cousins, that meant I was dealing with a young and humorless female FBI agent.

“The purser's office said this was Mr. Beaumont,” Agent Dulles continued. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”

“As in Jonas Piedmont, retired Seattle homicide detective? How kind of you to call me so promptly.”

I didn't point out that I was responding to a whole series of urgent messages, but it did cross my mind that even though Agent Dulles might be young, if she knew that much about me, she had done her homework.

“I understand you left the ship today in the company of one Naomi Cullen Pepper,” Agent Dulles resumed. “Is that also correct?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Ms. Pepper and I, along with a number of other passengers, took a shore excursion and rode the cable car in Juneau.”

“Two of those other passengers would be your grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Lars Jenssen, I believe.”

I could feel my hackles rising. “That's also correct,” I told her curtly, “although I can't imagine why you'd be interested in involving my grandparents in all of this.”

“In all of what?”

I wasn't about to be sucked into playing that kind of game. “In whatever it is you want to talk to me about,” I growled back at her. “My grandparents are on their honeymoon. I expect them to be left undisturbed.”

“That remains to be seen,” Agent Dulles responded. “I'd like to speak to you in person at your convenience. We could do that in the privacy of your cabin, if you wish, or someplace more public if you'd prefer. I'm at your disposal.”

Like hell you are!
I thought. “Name your poison,” I told her.

“How about if I come to you, then,” she offered brightly. “It might be a little less awkward.”

“Suit yourself,” I told her.

“Good. I'll be right there.”

She was, too, in less than five minutes and without needing to be told where my cabin was. As soon as I opened the door and found her standing outside, I recognized her as someone I had seen before, although I couldn't place her. She was tall and slender with wide-set gray eyes. Her hair, brunette with flecks of gold, was trimmed in one of those chiseled cuts where the back is cropped close to the skull and the front and sides swing free. I doubted a single hair on her head ever had nerve enough to be out of place.

“Mr. Beaumont?” she asked. “Or should I call you Beau?”

Since she wanted to play the game as though we were old pals, I decided to string along. “Beau will be fine,” I agreed grudgingly, beckoning her into the room.

“And I'm Rachel,” she returned, smiling and holding out her hand. It was while we were shaking hands that I noticed that her gray eyes, like her hair, also contained flecks of gold.

“Won't you have a seat?”

She walked over to the sofa that was part of the junior suite's sitting-room area. She was wearing one of those cruise-type pantsuits—dressed-up navy-blue sweats made of some kind of silky material with appliquéd anchors and other seafaring items sewn on in gold. As she walked away from me, however, I noticed the slight but distinctive bulge that revealed the presence of a small-of-back holster. She might be dressing the part, but Agent Dulles was no casually cruising tourist.

She sat down, crossed her legs, and turned on a surprisingly warm smile. “You didn't sound especially overjoyed to hear from me on the phone,” she said. “But I couldn't be happier that you're here. I've come to ask for your help.”

I was thinking about everything Naomi had told me earlier in the afternoon—about her relationship with Harrison Featherman and about her last confrontational conversation with the missing Margaret. If Agent Dulles asked me questions about that, I would be obliged to answer even if the information I gave resulted in the investigation turning its microscopic focus on Naomi Pepper.

“Sue always spoke highly of you,” Rachel added.

“Sue?” I asked stupidly.

“Sue Danielson,” she returned. “Your former partner.”

“You knew her?”

“Yes, I knew her. You probably don't remember me because there were so many other people at her funeral, but that's where I met you. We were actually introduced. I saw you again at the Fallen Officers Memorial when you were there with Sue's boys. That was a very nice thing to do, by the way, making sure they were able to attend.”

So that's where I had seen Rachel Dulles before—at Sue Danielson's funeral. And that's also why I hadn't remembered her name. Funerals for murdered police officers bring together law-enforcement folks from all over the country, who attend in order to pay their respects. Those two separate events had been attended by hundreds of people, most of whom I hadn't known personally. But I have to admit, hearing Sue's name mentioned right then rocked me. I had come on this cruise hoping to escape my nightmarish memories, yet here she was cropping up in casual conversation.

“How did you know Sue?” I asked the question while trying to gather my wits about me.

Rachel Dulles smiled. “I know, I know. It's a tradition. FBI agents and local cops are always supposed to be at each other's throats, right? People may think that old adage ‘Sisterhood Is Powerful' went out of fashion right along with bra burning, but when it comes to women in law enforcement, there still aren't all that many of us. And, no matter what jurisdiction or agency we work for, we're all fighting the same battles for respect and acceptance. Several years ago, a group of us from various agencies in the Seattle area—”

“You're from Seattle?” I interjected. “I thought you were based somewhere up here—in Juneau, maybe.”

“No, Alex and I are both based in Seattle.”

“Who's Alex?”

“Alex Freed. My partner. He's young, straight out of the academy, and useless as far as I'm concerned. He was playing cool, macho dude and couldn't be bothered with taking his Dramamine. Said it would make him sleepy. As soon as we hit rough water, he turned green. He tried taking the Dramamine then, but it was too late. He was up all night long, puking his guts out. I didn't get much sleep.”

“You mean you're staying in the same cabin? That's not the way partners used to work back at Seattle PD.”

“This is the new FBI, remember?” she returned with a smile. “Alex Freed and I may be in the same cabin—it's an inside one and not nearly as nice as this, by the way—but don't think there's any fooling around between us. My husband would definitely not approve. On board Alex and I are known as Kurt and Phyllis Nix, husband and wife.”

“I see,” I said.

“But getting back to Sue,” Rachel Dulles continued. “Several years ago a few of us started getting together informally once a month or so, to network and talk things over. Sort of like Footprinters, but for women only and with no dues. That's where I met Sue Danielson. We became acquaintances if not close friends. What happened to her was . . . tragic,” Rachel added after a pause. “It also should have been preventable.”

That, of course, was my position, too. That Sue's death should have been entirely preventable. That I—J. P. Beaumont—should have done something to prevent it. My thoughts must have been written on my face. Or else Agent Dulles was a first-class mind reader.

“I don't mean you,” she said quickly. “I mean we as a society should have prevented it. Domestic abuse kills people. After years of suffering, it's so easy for women—even strong women like Sue—to get sucked back into all the old patterns and fall for the same old lies. She never should have agreed to see Danielson on her own.”

“That's true,” I said. “I wish to God she hadn't.”

“One Saturday morning, not long before she died, Sue and I were having a second cup of coffee after the rest of the group had gone,” Rachel continued. “That in itself was unusual because most of the time Sue would have to go rushing off early to get her boys to or from soccer or Little League or something. But that particular morning, for some reason, she had some extra time. We got to talking about partners. I remember her mentioning you in particular. She said that of all the partners she'd ever worked with, you were by far the best. Her exact words were that you were ‘good people.' Later, when I saw you with Sue's boys at the funeral and again at the memorial service, I knew what she meant when she said it. I also knew it was true. You
are
good people.”

Rachel's compliment caught me totally unawares. “Thanks,” I mumbled, forcing the word out over the fist-sized lump that had formed in my throat.

“And that's why I'm here. Because you're good people, and we need help.”

“We who?” I asked.

“Alex and I,” she returned. “The Agency.”

“With Margaret Featherman's disappearance?”

“No,” she said. “Not that exactly. The agent working her disappearance hasn't come on board yet, although he's scheduled to arrive sometime later today. Alex and I are working another case right now. He's pulling shore duty at the moment, which suits him just fine. We've been on board the
Starfire Breeze
since she left Seattle. A handful of people—high-ranking officers—know we're working a case. As far as everyone else is concerned, we're a pair of ordinary passengers, one of whom isn't a very good sailor.”