Cast into Doubt (5 page)

Shelby walked over to a newsstand across from the gate and glanced at the collection of newspapers. She half expected to see Chloe’s picture splashed across the front page, under a huge headline about her being missing, being overboard. But there were no pictures of Chloe in sight. Shelby bought a couple of newspapers and sat down far from the other waiting passengers. She began to thumb through the papers impatiently. Nothing. She stopped looking for a moment and tried to think why this was not on the front page. Perhaps the news hadn’t reached the newspaper yet. No, that’s stupid, she thought. News was instant on the internet. Perhaps the newspaper had been printed before Chloe disappeared. Almost to reassure herself, she glanced up at the overhead TV in the lounge that was tuned to CNN. If there were any news, it would be there, on CNN. She stared at the screen, one story scrolling after another, but there was no mention of her missing daughter. Shelby felt indignant on Chloe’s behalf; indignant that the news media was being so dismissive of her disappearance. Maybe that meant she was fine, Shelby told herself. Maybe that meant she had been found.

The ticket agent announced the boarding of the flight, and Shelby got up to join the line, shuffling toward the jetway. She found her seat on the plane and prepared to wait it out. The woman in the next seat tried to make conversation but Shelby remained monosyllabic, and discouraged any questions.

Although the trip was amazingly uncomplicated, to Shelby, it was one of the most torturous days of her life. A thousand times she wanted to call Rob, but she resisted the temptation. Once the plane landed in St Thomas she called his cell and he told her to take a cab to the police station. When she began to ask about the search he said, ‘We’ll talk when you get here.’

Before Shelby could protest, he hung up.

Shelby clutched her phone as she made her way through the crowded airport, just in case he wanted to call her with news. She needed all her strength just to get to her destination. She stepped out of the air-conditioned airport and was smacked by the sultry, tropical air of the Caribbean. The sky was somewhat overcast, the humidity high, as if rain were imminent. She threaded her way to the taxi stand. A large black woman in a lavender blouse and oiled, skinned-back hair was the dispatcher. She glanced at Shelby’s overnight bag and pointed impassively to an approaching driver.

‘Which hotel?’ the woman asked in a lilting accent, checking a clipboard to see who she could place along with Shelby in the cab.

Shelby realized that she had not given a thought to a hotel, or where she was going to sleep, in part because she could not imagine herself sleeping – not while Chloe was missing.

The dispatcher was looking at her impatiently. Shelby felt the sudden, urgent need to tell someone. ‘My daughter is missing,’ said Shelby. Tears filled her eyes.

The woman’s severe gaze softened. ‘Where are you going, ma’am?’ she asked more gently.

‘The police station,’ said Shelby. Her voice was faint, but the woman caught her words. She looked at the expression on Shelby’s face and frowned, shaking her head. Then, she summoned a driver and spoke to him. The man insisted on gently wresting Shelby’s bag from her, and putting it in his trunk. Shelby sat down in the taxi, and the man pulled away from the curb without another word. His radio was on, tuned to a Christian station where a preacher exhorted his listeners to give their lives to God.

The traffic out of town was almost at a standstill, but the driver found narrow streets where he could zip up and away from the road leading past the harbor. Shelby caught sight of several enormous cruise ships docked there, and her heart stood still. Which was their ship? Which one of those monstrous boats had Chloe been on? The people on board seemed to be the size of ants, and the drop from the jutting decks to the turquoise waters of the harbor looked steeper than a snow-covered glacier. The taxi climbed a hillside and Shelby was almost glad when the ships in the harbor were hidden from view. She could see how beautiful and picturesque the streets were with their colorful, shuttered buildings, cascading flowers and palm trees. It was an elegant, tropical paradise. The cab left the charming streets of the downtown and drove back down to the harbor road, pulling up in front of a modern concrete building painted in buff and salmon, with lots of hermetically sealed windows. The cab stopped. Shelby could see dark-skinned men and women in suits, or in crisp police uniforms, coming and going from the building. ‘This is it, ma’am,’ the driver said carefully in accented English. ‘Courthouse on the right, police station on the left. Up those steps.’

Shelby asked him the fare, and as she counted out the bills the driver went around to the trunk and pulled out her bag. He handed it to her gravely as she paid him. ‘I’m very sorry for your trouble, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ll pray for you.’

For a moment she was taken aback, wondering how he knew, and then she remembered the taxi dispatcher at the airport. She must have told him. Shelby wanted to thank him for his kindness but the words caught in her throat. She nodded, and pressed her lips together to hold back her tears as he got back into his cab and pulled away from the curb. Then, her knees shaking, she turned, hoisted her bag over her shoulder, and climbed the steps to the police station.

A receptionist rose from her desk the moment Shelby identified herself and led her down a bustling hallway and through a closed door to a room at the rear of the modern-looking police station. At the door, a burly man in a police uniform, sat at a desk, blocking the entry.

‘This is the missing girl’s mother . . .’ the receptionist said to him.

Immediately the guard’s stern expression softened. He stood up and gestured to her. ‘Come through,’ he said to Shelby. Still clutching her overnight bag, she followed the man through the doorway.

If she had doubted the urgency of the investigation, the sight of the room she entered was both reassuring and terrifying. The room was abuzz with groups of officers and men dressed in street clothes conferring, clustered at desks, maps, bulletin boards, and lightboxes.

The lightboxes were devastating. Photos of Chloe in her summery yellow cotton dress had been enlarged and posted. Shelby gasped at the sight of them. They had clearly been taken on board the ship and seemed professional in quality. Chloe’s skin was slightly tanned, her long hair windblown. Shelby covered her mouth with her hands to stifle a cry as she stared at these images of her daughter. Chloe’s companion had been cropped from the photo, and all you could see of Rob was his hand, draped over her shoulder, the wedding ring on his finger.

‘Shelby.’

Shelby jumped at the sound of her own name. She turned and saw her son-in-law.

His face was ashen under the fluorescent lights, his beard stubbly. His large, light eyes were dull with exhaustion and red with weeping. He set down a paper coffee cup on a nearby desktop.

‘Rob,’ she cried out. She asked him the only important question with her eyes, but she knew the answer before he could reply.

‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. Suddenly, his chin began to tremble, and his blue eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

He reached to embrace her, but Shelby drew back and stiffened

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said miserably. ‘I should have been with her.’

Shelby suddenly found the sight of Rob’s hapless expression infuriating. ‘That doesn’t explain anything,’ she said. ‘How could she have fallen overboard? Rob, people don’t just fall overboard.’

‘There was a balcony outside our bedroom,’ he said.

Shelby recalled the brochures, remembered choosing the nicest cabin for them. She had pictured them eating breakfast on their balcony. Watching the sunset from their private little deck.

‘They think she fell from the balcony. They found her sandal on the awning below it,’ he said.

Shelby felt as if she could not draw in a breath. She knew instantly that the image of that single sandal, flung off in flight, would haunt her days forever.

‘You should sit down,’ said Rob.

A dark-skinned, middle-aged man in a short-sleeved police uniform approached them. ‘Is this your wife’s mother?’ the man asked.

Rob turned and looked around. ‘Yes,’ he said. He turned back to Shelby. ‘She just arrived. Shelby, this is the Chief of Police here in St Thomas, Chief Giroux. This is my mother-in-law, Shelby Sloan.’

‘Please,’ said the policeman. ‘Mrs Sloan, I’d like to speak to you in my office.’

‘Shall I come?’ Rob asked.

‘No, why don’t you wait out here.’ It was an order, not a question. The police chief guided Shelby by her forearm, as if she were blind. They walked into a spacious, light-filled office where two other men were seated, talking quietly. There were three pots of shiny-leafed, tropical plants on the window sill, and on the walls was an assortment of framed diplomas and citations. The other men stood up as Shelby was led into the room.

‘Mrs Sloan, let me present to you Mr Warren DeWitt from the FBI, and Captain Fredericks, the ship’s captain.’

Captain Fredericks took off his hat and turned it nervously in his hands as he gave her a brief nod. Agent DeWitt extended a hand to her and Shelby shook it. Then she gripped the back of the chair in front of her, feeling suddenly faint.

‘Mrs Sloan, please sit down,’ said Chief Giroux.

Shelby seated herself carefully in the chair he offered.

Chief Giroux bent down and spoke to her kindly. ‘Can one of my officers get you something to drink? You’ve had a terrible shock and a long trip. Something hot? Tea perhaps? Or a cold drink?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Shelby whispered.

The FBI agent and the ship’s captain resumed their seats. Captain Fredericks fiddled with the brim of his hat.

Shelby looked at Agent DeWitt, a beefy man with a beard, wearing a jacket and tie. ‘Why is the FBI here?’ she said in a small, frightened voice.

DeWitt leaned forward in his chair. ‘It’s standard procedure, Mrs Sloan. St Thomas, being a US possession, is in our jurisdiction. Captain Fredericks contacted Chief Giroux when it became clear that your daughter was no longer on board the ship. Chief Giroux contacted the Bureau, as well as the Coast Guard, for help.’

Shelby stared at him. Her lips were so dry that they felt like they were made of paper. She could barely raise her voice above a whisper. ‘I don’t understand. Was there . . . a crime?’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Agent DeWitt. ‘It was, most likely, an accident.’

‘You talk as if she was . . . as if Chloe . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘The search is ongoing,’ Chief Giroux said kindly. Shelby grasped at the word ‘search’ as at a life preserver. ‘Yes, the search . . .’

She looked hopefully at Captain Fredericks, a tanned, wiry, white-haired man dressed in a white uniform. He started when she met his gaze. Then he cleared his throat. ‘The Coast Guard,’ the captain explained, ‘sent an HU-25 Falcon jet to the scene as well as a Dolphin helicopter, and two Coast Guard cutters. They have been looking for her ever since I alerted them to your daughter’s disappearance.’

‘In addition,’ said Chief Giroux, ‘we have many local fishermen and boaters who have volunteered to aid in the search.’

‘How long has it been?’ Shelby whispered.

Agent DeWitt frowned, and looked at the captain. ‘Well, we received notification at about five thirty this morning.’

‘That’s when my son-in-law called me,’ said Shelby.

‘But we surmise, from the evidence now available, that she fell overboard somewhere between eleven and twelve midnight,’ said Agent DeWitt.

Shelby gasped as if they had punched her. The men exchanged grim glances.

Warren DeWitt cleared his throat. ‘According to your son-in-law, he got back to the room around midnight. When he realized that your daughter wasn’t there, he went looking for her. He then asked a steward for help, and, when they both couldn’t find her, they went to the captain. Captain Fredericks ordered a search of the boat.’

‘You went back the way you came, looking for her?’ Shelby said hopefully to the captain.

The ship’s captain nodded. ‘When the search was completed, yes, we turned around and headed back,’ said Fredericks.

It took a moment for the import of his words to dawn on Shelby. ‘When the search was completed? How long did that take?’

The captain tapped anxiously on the crown of his hat. ‘It took approximately three hours to search the ship.’

Shelby covered her mouth with her hands and stared at him. Finally, she said, ‘You left my daughter in the ocean and kept going? For three hours?’

The captain did not flinch. ‘We don’t stop the ship and turn back when a passenger is reported missing, unless someone actually saw the person going overboard. We couldn’t. We’d never be able to adhere to our schedule. These ships are enormous, and people are often reported missing when they are actually somewhere else on board. This is an official policy of the company.’

The hopelessness of it all suddenly struck Shelby like a sack of concrete. Chloe had been missing now since last night. Even in these warm waters, to be alone, in the vast ocean. Her next thought made her feel sick to her stomach. ‘Are there sharks . . . ?’

Fredericks’ gaze flickered. ‘The Coast Guard is still searching. It’s possible they will find her. I’m terribly sorry . . .’

‘Sorry?’ Shelby cried. ‘That’s not enough.’

FBI agent DeWitt interrupted. ‘Mrs Sloan, Chief Giroux has very kindly set me up in a room across the hall. And I need to ask you a few questions. Could I prevail upon you to come with me for a few minutes, please?’

Shelby hesitated, looking from the captain to the FBI agent. Both of them wore identical, impassive expressions.

‘What is he going to do?’ she demanded of Chief Giroux, looking, all the while, at Captain Fredericks.

‘I need to speak to some people at our corporate headquarters. They’ve asked me to keep them updated on the situation,’ Fredericks said.