Cooks Overboard (2 page)

In a complex known as the Lawrence Laboratory in the hills overlooking the University of California campus in Berkeley, Professor Conrad Von Mueller slowly, methodically stroked his goatee as he, once again, pored over records of the effect of mixing 0.97 part deuterium with one part palladium. At age sixty-seven, he found it hard to believe he came here to the laboratory each day, that he wasn’t home enjoying the fruits of long years of successful work and study. But he’d had no fruits of success, only long years of discouragement, faulty experiments, and bad investments.

Until now.

He slid his horn-rimmed glasses down his nose and peered over the top of them, better able to see the rows of tiny numbers. As always, the experiment had worked as he’d hoped.

While running the results through a shred
der, he rubbed his eyes, then put the glasses on again. Someday he might get used to this ever-worsening eyesight, this strange combination of being both near- and farsighted, and determine whether he could see better with the wretched trifocal glasses or without them.

Maybe he needed to invent a new kind of glasses. He chuckled as he watched the last paper disappear. Soon enough he’d have the time to pursue such work.

And the money.

A knock at his office door startled him. He froze, listening. “Mail,” came the softly feminine voice.

He breathed easier. “Come in, Susan,” he called, a little too jovially. He’d have to watch that. He had to act the same as ever. Couldn’t let anyone get suspicious.

The door opened and his graduate assistant reached into the office just far enough to drop the mail into an in-tray next to the door. “Morning, Professor,” she said, giving him a warm smile.

He nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and she shut the door and was gone. A nice girl, Susan, he mused, thinking of the smile and blur of long, silky blond hair swinging seductively as she leaned into the office. He’d never been one to pay much attention to the young female grad students. Not like some of his peers, anyway.

Maybe he’d have time for that soon, too.

He smiled as he crossed the room to his tray,
despite the painful dragging of his left foot as he went, and sorted quickly through the letters. One in particular caught his attention: an oversized soft plastic mailer from UPS. He peered nervously at the return address.

Ah, Professor Luftenberg. A colleague. He gave a forced chuckle. You could never be too careful. No, you couldn’t. Not with these people. He glanced fearfully toward the door again, then shook off the feeling.

He put the big envelope aside. Unbidden, his thoughts turned once again to the street musician in Berkeley, the tall blond fellow singing Norwegian songs. The contact to whom he’d passed the microfilm with his formula. He rubbed his brow. Had he made a mistake taking that route? But if he wanted to be someone, be noticed and admired for once in his life, what choice did he have?

If only he didn’t have the eerie feeling that he’d been followed. Who would follow him, though? Why would anyone bother? He’d made the transfer. The deed was done. It wasn’t as if he could take it back now, even if he wanted to. It was gone. Out of his hands. He’d made a deal with the woman and the big-money interests she represented. No one else was involved, so there couldn’t possibly have been anyone following him. Could there?

He walked slowly back to his desk, feeling suddenly much older. Still standing, he called the special number he had been given in the
Caymans. Before long, he was put through to a banker. After giving the coded information previously agreed upon for his account, he said, “I want to make sure the denomination of the money is clearly indicated. U.S. dollars.”

“Of course, Professor,” the tinny voice came over the line.

“And the amount? No question about it, is there?”

“None at all, sir. The amount is five million United States dollars. It hasn’t been placed in the account yet, you understand. It’s still awaiting final authorization to be moved.”

“That’s fine. That’s as it should be. I understand,” he said.

Tomorrow, though, the bank’s message should be quite different. If it wasn’t, well…he had his backup plans. He was a good scientist. Even though it appeared he had destroyed his paperwork, all his formulas, as a good scientist he could always replicate his experiments.

That was what differentiated science from mere miracles.

Angie stood on the bridge deck at the top of the deckhouse as the
Valhalla
steamed under the steel girders of the Golden Gate Bridge toward the open sea. Although the sky over Oakland Harbor, where they’d boarded, had been clear, once they passed Alcatraz, it had turned gray and overcast with a breeze so cold she had to put on a down jacket and scarf. As the freighter nosed through the choppy waters, the faint outline of the isolated Farallon Islands in the distance gave them the appearance of rocky sentinels guarding the passage to the bay.

Although ugly containers stretching to the bow somewhat destroyed the romantic image of a tramp steamer or a slow boat to China, she wasn’t about to complain. Not after what she’d gone through to get Paavo on this cruise in the first place.

She leaned forward, her elbows on the rail
ing, her chin propped in her hands. Considering how difficult it had been to lure him away from his job, she couldn’t help but wonder about his sudden decision to leave the police force altogether.

She remembered how, from the moment she’d learned he had a two-week vacation coming, her main purpose in life had been to find a way to spirit him far from his partner, his co-workers, San Francisco homicides in general, and have him all to herself. She’d been determined to find a way to make him pay sufficient attention to her that he might propose—or at least consider it.

Her plan of attack had been to move him far from any place where a murderer might lurk. A cruise ship had seemed ideal. Not many dangerous people were likely to commit murder in a spot from which there was no easy means of escape.

That decided, her first step had been to suggest an article for
Haute Cuisine
magazine, an article to be called “Dining Out in Acapulco.” It was accepted. That, of course, meant she had to go to Acapulco for research. What better way to get there than by taking a cruise?

To her amazement, Paavo had flatly refused the idea. For some reason, the notion of being packed like a sardine with hundreds of strangers, plus having a social director plan his days and nights, appalled him.

But Inspector Smith hadn’t considered travel
by freighter. Actually, Angie hadn’t considered it either, but when she was complaining about Paavo’s stubbornness to her cousin Sebastian, who knew everything there is to know about the travel business, he had said, “Angie, no problem.”

The very next day he had her and Paavo booked on a Norwegian freighter bound for South America, leaving in ten days.

“Paavo, your wish is my command,” she had told him that evening. He pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, so she added, “You said you would only go on a cruise if it didn’t have a lot of people. I’ve found one for you.”

“I never said I wanted to go on
any
cruise,” he countered.

“Trust me,” she replied with blithe confidence. “You’ll love it.”

He’d been involved in a homicide investigation right up until almost the time to board. Last night, she had thought she was going to have to go to his house to pack for him, but he’d made it home on time.

His case was finished. He’d found his man and arrested him, and now he should be feeling good about himself and his work.

Good enough to quit. What was wrong with this picture?

She studied him as he stood beside her, his hands gripping the cold steel railing. He was a tall man with a broad-shouldered build. His face was thin with high cheekbones, his nose slightly bent from more than one break, his mouth
firm, and his eyes a sky blue color Angie found absolutely beautiful. Those eyes were now peering hard at the ocean while gusts of wind sprinkled with a fine sea mist tossed his dark brown hair askew. His mind was clearly miles away. Probably back at the Hall of Justice, mentally saying good-bye.

She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. He glanced at her and his mouth curved into a small smile.

His eyes were bleak with weariness, though, and his shoulders slumped. Last night, after finishing work, instead of sleeping, he had probably spent the entire night packing, catching up on mail, paying bills, and—she was sure—thinking about his decision to leave, which couldn’t have been easy, no matter what he said about his reasons. “Why don’t you go and lie down?” she said softly. “Maybe sleep a bit?”

He shook his head and pushed back off the railing. “Once I go to sleep, I’ll need more than a short nap. I don’t want to miss anything. I’ll get some coffee. I’ll be okay. Is there anything you’d like?”

“Perrier, if they have it,” she replied.

“Be right back.” He gave her a quick kiss. She watched him walk down the stairs toward the deck with the passenger lounge.

“Hey there!” a woman’s voice called out.

She turned to see two people behind her. The man was tall and lanky, with a wrinkled, bloodhoundlike face, fuzzy white hair in tight
little curls, and on his chin a beard, scraggly in a way only very old men or as-yet-undeveloped teen boys possess. He wore a Stanford sweatshirt, Birkenstock sandals, heavy wool socks, and baggy jeans—baggy in the way of old men who have no behind to hold them up, not in the way of punk teenagers.

His companion was also dressed like an over-the-hill college student. She wore an
I
SEATTLE
T-shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and penny loafers. Long steel-colored hair was pulled into a knot at the top of her head, with wisps flying about her face and neck. The skin on her face was paper-thin, stretched back from a long nose that dipped down to a pointed, fleshy tip. She was the younger-looking of the two.

Angie knew that freighters that carried twelve or fewer passengers, like the
Valhalla
, weren’t mandated to house a medical staff. Travel guidelines required that passengers meet a certain level of agility, plus an age limit of seventy-five or eighty years. She wondered if these two had faked their way on by trying to look younger than they were. Sort of the opposite of being carded at age twenty-one.

“Hello,” Angie said, smiling. “I’m—”

“Ruby Cockburn here,” the woman said. Her voice could have doubled as the ship’s foghorn. “Said hey, not hello. Wondered what you were up to.”

“Nothing.” Angie was taken aback. “I was just looking at the view.”

“Not much to see yet.” Ruby waved her thumb in the old man’s direction. “That’s my husband, Harold.”

“What?” Harold said.

Ruby jabbed his arm, and he reached out his hand to meet Angie’s.

“Angelina Amalfi,” she said as they shook hands.

“Odd name,” Ruby said. “Are you an American?”

“Why, yes—”

“Good. Lots of foreigners on this ship. Whole crew is foreign, from what I’ve seen.” Ruby looked over one shoulder, then the other.

“Well, it’s Norwegian registry and—”

“Hope the captain knows what he’s doing. Should be simple, though. Follow California south, along the coast of Baja. Then to Cabo. Harold and me, that’s where we’re headed. I’ve never been to Cabo. You been there, Miss Amala-whatever?”

“Amalfi. I’ve been there. Cabo San Lucas is quite nice.”

“Good. You going there?”

“Not on this trip,” Angie said. “My friend and I are going to Acapulco.”

“This trip? You been on the
Valhalla
before?” Ruby asked.

“No. I meant, I’ve been to Cabo other ways before. This time, though, I’m going to Acapulco.”

“But the freighter goes to Cabo San Lucas.”
Ruby turned to her husband. “It goes to Cabo San Lucas, Harold. That’s what we were told. Did that travel agent lie? Shifty eyes on that one.” She scrutinized Angie, as if trying to determine if her eyes were shifty. “Learned that in the military. The WACs. None of this namby-pamby co-ed modern stuff.”

“What?” Harold asked.

“You’re okay,” Angie said. “This boat will stop at Cabo and then I’ll go on to Acapulco.”

“Oh. So you
have
been on the
Valhalla
before,” Ruby said. “Thought you said you hadn’t. Make up your mind. Or you lying about it? Why? Something wrong with this boat?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, I’m sure,” Angie said.

“Then why won’t you admit to being on it before?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Angie said. Why argue?

“Hello!” A tall, blond-haired steward came up to them. “You have already met, I see.” He turned to Angie. “I am Sven Ingerson, at your service. You must be Miss Amalfi.” She held out her hand to him and they shook.

“I am.” His hand, she noticed, was fiery hot and damp.

“I’d love an iced tea, young man,” Ruby said.

“Gladly,” he murmured, and took out his handkerchief to dab his temple. “Would anyone else like something?”

“Mr. Ingerson,” Angie said, “are you sure you’re feeling well enough to be working? Why don’t you sit down? You look feverish.”

“I’m all right.”

“I insist.”

“He does look ill,” Ruby said. “You got a sick bay? Think you need it, son. I’ll pass on that tea. Got to get yourself shipshape.”

“Go ahead,” Angie urged.

“Thank you,” he said with a nod. His gaze met Angie’s. “You’re very kind.”

As Angie watched Sven leave, Paavo stepped up with her Perrier and introduced himself to the Cockburns. He was acting almost jovial. She couldn’t stand it.

“Let’s go to the other side of the ship and look at the pelicans,” she said, taking his arm and turning him from Ruby’s inquiring gaze. There were too many strange birds on this side.