Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (24 page)

Sonny seemed surprised at that news. “So Alley wasn't making this up? There really are two FBI agents on board the ship?”

“By actual count there are three,” I told him. “You may know Todd Bowman.”

“You mean that young, fat-necked baby fed from up in Juneau?” Jake Ripley asked.

From my point of view, Todd Bowman wasn't all that much younger than Jake was, but age, like beauty, is relative. “That's right,” I said. “Bowman's on board, too. He's investigating the death of Margaret Featherman.”

“That's the lady who supposedly fell overboard day before yesterday?”

I took exception to the way Sonny Liebowitz spoke and to the question itself. I didn't like his use of the word “supposedly.” Margaret Featherman was gone. There was no “supposedly” about it.

“That's right,” I said.

Sonny clicked his tongue. “Sounds like this cruise has been nothing but a barrel of laughs. I guess the
Love Boat
's leaving fantasyland. You wonder why people around here are tired of cruise lines and all the people and shit they drag up here? I'll tell you why. They dump their raw sewage and garbage and bilgewater into our waterways and figure it's no big deal. As for the passengers, some of them decide they're back in the Wild West and think anything goes. Wrong!”

Obviously Detective Sonny Liebowitz wasn't a card-carrying member of the Alaskan Tourism Board. Furrowing his thick brows, he studied his notes for some time before he spoke again. “So, from what you're saying, I'm assuming that the FBI is taking this whole situation seriously. What about you, Mr. Beaumont? Do you think someone came through the car, ran out onto the observation platform, and pushed Mike Conyers over the side when what they really meant to do was off Marc Alley?”

“That's what I believe happened,” I said. “When we went into the tunnel, I know Marc was standing right in front of the door, lining up his camera to take a picture. Then, in the dark, I remember hearing doors open and close.”

“You say doors. As in at both the front and the back of the car?”

I nodded. “That's right, and it worried me. Marc was out there, and I was afraid that in the dark someone might stumble into him without seeing him. I was on my way to check when someone coming back up the aisle—back from the observation platform—crashed into me running full-tilt. The blow was hard enough that it knocked the wind out of me and sent me flying ass-over-teakettle right back into my seat.”

“But you didn't see who it was?”

“No, it was dark.”

“Any chance this unknown assailant might have been Lucy Conyers?”

“Lucy?” I repeated in surprise. “Of course it wasn't Lucy.”

“Why not?” Sonny returned. “It's happened before. Some old person goes off his rocker. Next thing you know, it gets to be too much for the relatives—you know, for whoever's supposed to be taking care of him. Matter of fact, we had an incident just like this a little over a year ago. Middle of August last year, a woman pushed her husband out of their motor home and left him stranded in the middle of nowhere on the Al-Can Highway. Claimed they stopped along the road to take some pictures and she drove off without knowing he was out of the vehicle.

“That was a damned lie, of course. After we questioned her long enough, she finally broke down and told us what really happened. She said her husband was so hard to deal with that she just couldn't take it anymore, that she couldn't handle all the responsibility. According to her, she thought the bears would take care of the problem for her. They didn't, of course. Somebody found him first, but then he caught cold and died of pneumonia anyway. Now we've got his grieving widow in the slammer. She's serving seven to nine, man-two.

“When we talked to Lucy Conyers a little while ago, I got the same feeling from her that I did with this other dame. Relief that poor Mike wouldn't be suffering anymore. Made me wonder if maybe sweet little Lucy hadn't done something herself to help ‘poor Mike' along.”

Everything in me said he was wrong. “It wasn't Lucy,” I declared.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because Lucy was sitting closer to the door than I was. Whoever knocked me down did so while rushing back through the train to one of the other cars. You need to talk to the passengers in those cars and find out who all left their seats during the time the train was in the tunnel.”

“But Lucy Conyers wasn't in her seat when it happened,” Jake Ripley said quietly.

“She wasn't?” I asked in surprise.

“No. She claims she was in the rest room in the next car when the lights went off. According to her, she stayed put the whole time because she was afraid of trying to walk on the moving train in the dark, afraid she might stumble or fall.”

“I would have been afraid of the same thing,” I said.

“And maybe that's exactly what happened—she did fall,” Sonny theorized. “Coming back down the aisle from the observation deck, she lost her balance in the dark. She fell against you hard enough that she knocked you back into your seat. There's no apparent bruising, but it's a little early for that.”

“In other words, you've already made up your minds as to what happened, and Lucy Conyers is it?”

Sonny Liebowitz beamed and nodded. “In a manner of speaking,” he agreed. “Lucy brought her ailing hubby on the cruise and train ride hoping for an opportunity that would allow her to unload him before he had a chance to get any worse. Up here, we believe in letting nature take its course—in not rushing things along; know what I mean?”

“Sounds just like Leave It To God.”

“If that's what floats your boat,” he returned with a shrug.

“That's not a philosophical position,” I told him. “That's the name of the organization I believe is targeting Marc Alley.”

“You got any proof of that?”

“No. But talk to the FBI suits. They're on the ship charged with protecting a guy by the name of Harrison Featherman. He's the neurologist who did Marc Alley's brain surgery. Leave It To God is made up of kooks who go after cutting-edge doctors. They target the guys who are doing stuff that's just one step above experimental—the ones using advanced, court-of-last-resort techniques on patients who otherwise would die. Then, when the patients defy the odds and make it, Leave It To God goes after them, too. Their position is that since it was God's intention for those people to die, they take it upon themselves to make sure that happens.”

“In other words, the patients are damned if they do and damned if they don't.”

“Right.”

“And Marc Alley is one of those guys who's supposed to be dead one way or the other. So what's the FBI doing about all this?”

“They have their hands full protecting the doctors. They have a list of targeted doctors from all over the country, and Harrison Featherman is evidently on the list. Once we were on board, Agent Dulles contacted me and asked me, unofficially, of course, to keep an eye on Marc Alley.”

“The FBI's so short-handed these days that they've got to deputize retired cops?” Sonny Liebowitz shook his head and grinned. “Maybe if you'd been doing a better job of it, Mike Conyers wouldn't be splattered all over that boulder back up the mountain.”

I let that one pass. “Look,” I said. “Whoever did this must have known the train's route and the whole program. He or she knew that as soon as the train entered the tunnel, the lights would go off and stay off until we reached the other side of Tunnel Mountain. The killer counted on being able to make his move, hot-foot it to the end of the train, push Marc off, and then dash back to his place without anyone being the wiser. He or she left in the dark and returned in the dark. The only thing he didn't count on was the fact that Marc Alley wasn't alone out there on that platform.”

Sonny Liebowitz held up his hand. “That's stretching it some, isn't it—the idea of planning in advance to do the whole deal in the dark? That would be very premeditated. My guess is that this was more a crime of opportunity. Lucy saw her husband standing out on the balcony. As soon as the lights went out, she realized that was her chance to get rid of him once and for all, and she took it. End of Mike. End of story. We're just damned lucky another person—Marc Alley, for instance—didn't get hurt or killed in the process. Thanks for your help, Mr. Beaumont. That'll be all.”

“What do you mean, that's all?”

“I mean we're done here. We have your name, address, and phone number back home in Seattle. If there's anything more we need from you, we'll be in touch.”

“And what about Lucy Conyers?”

He grinned. “What about her? I think she'll be staying over for a while. Extending her vacation, so to speak, compliments of the state of Alaska.”

“But she didn't do it,” I objected.

“In your opinion. Jake, go let Fred and Louie know they can head on into town now. I'm pretty sure we've got everything we need. You should also let him know that Mrs. Conyers will be riding down with us.” Nodding, Jake Ripley left the room.

“Who are Fred and Louie?” I asked.

“The engineer and the conductor.”

“You're telling them to take the train and leave? Does that mean you're not going to interview anyone else?”

“Why should we?” Sonny asked with a shrug. “Lucy already told us that she's got a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy riding on poor Mike, double that if he dies of anything other than natural causes. She gets rid of the trouble and aggravation of having a sick husband on her hands, and she gets fifty thousand to a hundred thousand bucks in his place. Not bad. That gives us motive and opportunity both. I've known murders where what was at stake was a hell of a lot less than fifty large, and I'll bet you have, too. Not only that, I have a feeling once we have a chance to discuss this with Mrs. Conyers in more detail, that she'll straighten up and tell us everything we need to know.”

“As in confess?” I asked.

“Right,” he grinned. “Save us the trouble of having to convict her.”

“But she didn't do it.”

“Sez you,” Liebowitz returned. “Let me give you some advice, Mr. Beaumont. Go get on the train. It's a damned long walk from here, even if it is all downhill. And then there's the bears, you know. They're pretty damned hungry this time of year—getting ready for winter and all.”

“You're a sorry son of a bitch,” I told him.

“Really. Well, I may be a sorry son of a bitch, but I also happen to be in charge. FBI or no FBI, you've got no standing here, Mr. Beaumont. In fact, as an ex-homicide dick from the big city, you've got less than no standing. If I was you, I'd make tracks for that train, fella. And don't let the door slam on your butt on the way out.”

As if to underscore Sonny's statement, the train whistle gave two short, shrill blasts. Obviously Fred and Louie had taken Jake Ripley at his word. Not wanting to be left behind to hoof it, I jogged over to the train and pulled myself up onto the last car just as it started to move.

Beverly was waiting right inside the door. “Where's Lucy?” she demanded.

“She's riding into town with the two detectives.”

“Why? Is she under arrest?”

“I don't know that for sure, but I'd say it's likely.”

Beverly was aghast. “They think Lucy killed Mike?”

“That's my impression.”

By now Claire and Florence Wakefield had joined Beverly. “Preposterous!” Claire announced. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“Where are they taking her?” Lars asked.

“Into Skagway.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Beverly asked.

“I don't know,” I told her. “There isn't a whole lot anybody can do. She needs a lawyer, of course.”

“You have a friend who's a lawyer, don't you?” she asked. “What's his name again? He's always seemed like a very nice man.”

“Ralph Ames is a nice man, Beverly,” I said. “He just doesn't happen to be here.”

“But couldn't you call him?” she asked. “You really must do something about this, Jonas. You're the one who knows how these things work.”

I know how they're supposed to work,
I thought with a shake of my head. “With someone like Detective Liebowitz running the show, all bets are off.”

“He's from Chicago,” Lars put in from the sidelines. “Said he came here because he wanted clean winters for a change. Didn't like him much. Didn't seem to have all that much on the ball. That young Indian kid, though, he struck me as being pretty sharp.”

“What about Ralph Ames?” Beverly insisted. “Couldn't you at least call him?”

She was putting the squeeze on me again, using the same kind of tactics that had brought me along on the cruise in the first place.

“I suppose I could,” I agreed. “I'll try calling as soon as we get back on board the ship.”

Florence Wakefield reached into her purse and pulled out a cell phone with the face of Minnie Mouse on the cover. “No sense in wasting time,” she said. “Why don't you go ahead and call right now?”

And so I did. I called Ralph from a cell phone on a train in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Alaska, and it worked. Once he was on the phone, I explained that I was calling at my grandmother's behest.

“Is this the lady you sent me the E-mail about?”

“No,” I told him. “That's Naomi Pepper. Lucy Conyers is somebody else.”

“You're saying a second passenger on the cruise ship is also being accused of murder?”

“Right. Different victim,” I replied.

“You must be a jinx, Beau,” Ralph said with some amusement. “I've been on several cruises, but nothing like that has ever happened.”

“I'm just lucky, I guess. So what do you suggest?” I asked. “The one woman, Naomi Pepper, has simply been advised to stay on the ship unless the FBI agent in charge grants her permission to leave. With Lucy Conyers, though, I'm pretty sure she's under arrest, or she will be shortly, once they get her into Skagway and book her.”