Haunted Destiny (3 page)

Her family really didn't need to worry about her. She accepted the fact that Zach was gone. Time didn't heal all wounds, but it allowed memories to offer consolation, to bring smiles instead of tears. She had simply become rather dependent on living on the ship. And she did love the
Destiny
, including all her history and her ghosts. Alexi didn't lie awake at night anymore, the way she had at first.

She'd lain awake and wondered why, when the dead from so many different eras and generations found her, she'd never seen Zachary Wainwright, never had a chance to hold him and be held one last time. Never had a chance to say goodbye...

Alexi smiled. “My mom won't be getting on this ship and without my mom—no dad. Mom's convinced the ship is haunted, which of course it is, and she wants nothing to do with that. She's... I don't know...very Catholic, slightly Wiccan, possibly? She believes that spirits can find her. Don't get me wrong, I adore my mother. But my dad always smiles and tells me that when they were married and moved into our home in the Irish Channel, she called in a priest to bless the house and cleanse it of ghosts.”

“She sounds like fun. And, hey, I agree with you that this ship is haunted! I try to say nice things to whatever gives me the chills as I walk by,” Clara said, shrugging. “In any event, they leave me alone.”

“I'll see you in a little while,” Alexi told her. “I'm going to grab some downtime with a pillow.”

“And I'm going to pop into the lounge,” Clara said. “Come with me and say hi. We have some new people in the entertainment crew.”

Alexi didn't particularly want to say hi to anyone at the moment; she wanted to lie down. She'd had lunch with her parents on shore, and much as she loved them, an hour or two in their company could be exhausting.

“Just for a sec!” Clara encouraged.

Alexi followed her into the crew lounge.

They didn't separate crew down here. It was a hallmark for most people who accepted employment with the Celtic American line. Entertainers and officers mingled with room stewards, even though the lounge space was small. But there was a television, a computer, lots of comfortable chairs, plenty of snacks, a refrigerator, coffeepot and a microwave.

And right now the lounge was crowded, mostly with entertainers, those who didn't play or perform as the passengers boarded. “Hey, new guys! This is Alexi Cromwell, for those who haven't met her yet. She runs the piano bar and she loves it when we stop by.”

“Hi, Alexi!” Ralph Martini was the first to hail her. She knew Ralph. He'd been on her first contract schedule.

Ralph continued with, “I'm not new. I'm just saying hi first!” Ralph was a friendly, easygoing guy. She thought he was about fifty. He had a great tenor and often did a one-man show. Balding, a little stout—and totally charming. Women on board loved him.

“Alexi. I'm Simon Green,” a man said, rising and offering her his hand. He was tall and lean, with a pleasant boy-next-door face. “In the cast, my first go at it. Just a chorus guy.”

“No such thing as
just a chorus guy
,” Alexi said. “I'm sure you're very talented. Good to meet you, and please, come by anytime.”

Simon Green shrugged, giving her a smile. “I'm a happy guy. I've been on a few cruises with Celtic American as a passenger. So I'm thrilled to be on the
Destiny
and seeing how it all works from the other side!”

She went on to meet Larry Hepburn, early twenties, blond, beach-boy type, out of LA, and Leanne Wilburn, from Des Moines. As they were all greeting one another, Bradley Wilcox, head of entertainment, who'd recently transferred over from the
Dublin
, stuck his head in.

Alexi had met Bradley Wilcox before. He, too, had been on her first run with the ship.

She stayed away from him as much as she could. He organized excellent shows, hired great bands for the various dining spots and bars—and was a complete jerk. He didn't seem capable of compliments.

“Guitar Hero Boys, you're due on the promenade in fifteen minutes. You should be getting in place.”

The foursome who made up the group rose and marched out. Alexi heard one mutter as he passed her. “Are you set up? Yes. Ready to go? Yes. Are you an asshole, Brad? Yes!”

She tried not to smile. And when the band had gone by, she left, too, wishing them all well—those who were new and those who'd returned to the
Destiny
or had switched from other ships.

In her cabin, Alexi sank down on the bed and closed her eyes, wishing she could sleep. She found herself thinking about Blake and Minnie.

Their deaths had been tragic. Minnie, a star of stage and screen, had fallen in love with Blake when he'd played Romeo to her Juliet in a touring company in the thirties. The fact that she was taking the
Destiny
for a transatlantic voyage had been huge news at the time; reporters and fans alike had booked onto the voyage.

The fans had included a deranged former lover, convinced that if he removed Blake from the picture, he would have his Minnie back.

Minnie had been singing an impromptu number in the piano bar. Also known as the Algiers Saloon, it was located exactly where it was now. Her previous lover, Allan Snow, had leaped to his feet after one of her numbers and declared his devotion. Minnie had claimed her eternal devotion, as well—to Blake.

So Allan Snow had pulled out a gun and shot Blake, who'd jumped in front of Minnie to be her protector. Then he'd shot Minnie and himself.

The ghost of Allan Snow didn't seem to be aboard. Minnie told Alexi that she'd never seen him and she'd figured that God had been good, allowing her and Blake a different way to be together. She'd smiled and said their love was eternal.

Alexi figured it was natural that they'd haunt the piano bar.

She turned and hugged her pillow. Since Zach had been in the service and deployed overseas, they'd talked about the possibility of his death. She'd promised that if it happened, she'd always remember him—and she'd go on with her life, be happy.

She wasn't suicidal, never had been. She was willing to find a new purpose, a new role, a new way of being. Just as she'd promised.
Happy
was more difficult.

What worried her now was the fact that he was slipping away. She thought about him often, with love. Sometimes she was happy now. She laughed at the antics of passengers and enjoyed meeting them. She'd even roamed various ports with friends she made aboard. She knew she shouldn't feel guilty, and yet she did.

She reached into the gloomy air of her cabin, as if she could touch him.

“I just wish I could've said goodbye,” she murmured aloud.

Then she was startled out of her reflections when it seemed that something slammed against her door.

She jumped up and hurried to open it.

A man stood there, tall, dark-haired and...
bizarre.

He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans and strange prosthetic makeup. The man who'd raced through the piano bar!

He looked at her with beseeching eyes.

“I must speak with you. I must!” he said.

She frowned. Was he new in the entertainment department?

There was a commotion at the aft end of the hallway, and Alexi peered in that direction.

More men were coming along the hallway, men she'd never seen down in the entertainment area before, but they were accompanied by Nolan Perkins, one of the stewards.

“Sir,” she began, turning back to the man who had knocked at her door.

He was gone. She thought she saw him disappear around a corner that led to midship. She looked in the other direction.

“Hey, Alexi,” Nolan said.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“I'm just showing these gentlemen the ship,” Nolan said. He lowered his voice. “They're bigwigs with Celtic American,” he told her, then cleared his throat. “Alexi Cromwell, meet Jackson Crow and Jude McCoy.”

“How do you do?” the first man said, smiling as he reached for her hand. He was tall, good-looking and obviously had Native American ancestry. His dark hair and light eyes made for a striking contrast.

“Ms. Cromwell,” said the other. He was equally tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-haired. His eyes were unusual—blue and green with flecks of brown. His features were clean-cut, his jaw hard and square. Very attractive, in a rugged, austere manner.

He looked at her oddly.

As if he knew her? Or thought he did?

Or worse
—
thought she was guilty of something!

Both men wore tailored shirts and pants, not the usual tourist apparel. But then, they weren't tourists. They were bigwigs with Celtic American.

“Nice to meet you,” Alexi said.

“Have you seen a man?” Nolan asked her.

That made her laugh. “A man? Nolan, I've seen hundreds of men. It's a cruise ship.”

She understood exactly what he meant. And yet, for some reason, she was loath to tell him that yes, a man—a strange-looking man—had just gone by. She wondered why company VIPs were so interested in him.

“He's tall, bizarre makeup of some kind, sweat shirt and jeans,” Jude McCoy said.

She lifted her shoulders. “I believe I did see him earlier,” she admitted, “running through the piano bar when the passengers were boarding.”

She
had
seen that same man again, just minutes ago. And she wasn't telling these men. Why? Instinct? Pity?

But there'd been something even more peculiar about him than the prosthetic makeup or whatever it was he had on his face. A sense of anguish, perhaps.

She hesitated. She shouldn't lie to these people. But the young man had seemed so desperate. In her heart, she felt that he'd come to her for help.

Still...

“Actually,” she said, “I think he was in this hallway. He ran in that direction. But where he is right now, I couldn't say.”

That was mostly the truth. She didn't know where he was. He'd run.

“Well, thank you, Ms. Cromwell. If you should see him again, can you report him to us, please? We're in staterooms 312 and 314,” Jackson Crow said. “It's imperative that we find him,” he added quietly. “But I'm not at liberty to discuss the details.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

As they walked down the hall, she was more suspicious than ever.

Why were company bigwigs staying down in the bowels of the ship with the crew? The larger rooms—staterooms with balconies, the suites—were on the upper decks.

She was about to return to her cabin when Clara came running down the hallway, leaning against the wall, gasping for breath. “Alexi! Did you have the news on?”

“The news? No, why?”

“Thank God we're leaving! That guy, that horrible killer!” She gasped for more breath. “The Archangel—he murdered a woman in New Orleans!”

2

I
t wasn't until the
Destiny
was far out into the Gulf of Mexico that Jackson Crow and Jude had a chance to meet with Captain Xavier Thorne and his head of security, David Beach. Their first business on board after walking every deck, including the holds and areas passengers never saw, was to go through the ship's passenger and crew screening. There was a page for every passenger and crew member on board, including a photograph and information regarding citizenship and means of identification. A ship-issued ID was required anytime anyone, passenger or employee, boarded or left the
Destiny
.

In other words,
no one
, including crew, could get on or off the ship without that ID.

Jude and Jackson hadn't seen their man in the thousands of passenger screening documents—but then, even if they'd seen him, they might not have known him.

This suspect could have ditched his makeup anytime after he'd boarded. Or certainly, after he'd been seen by Alexi Cromwell.

It was time to explain to Thorne and Beach just what they were doing there.

Xavier Thorne was fifty-five, according to the information they had, a veteran of many sailings. He'd served in the United States Navy before becoming a civilian employee in the pleasure business; he'd worked as a captain for smaller yachts doing private charters and for a number of the major lines before he'd settled in at Celtic American fifteen years ago. He was a serious man, but still capable of smiling.

Jude had wanted to stop the ship from going out, which had proved to be impossible. Not even the powers that existed behind Jackson Crow had been able to make that happen. Neither he nor Crow knew for sure if the man they'd chased was a killer. And, despite Ms. Cromwell's sighting, they couldn't
verify
that he was on the ship. At least his new partner/supervisor seemed to believe him. He'd not only put Jude on the ship, he'd also accompanied him. So now, at five that afternoon, they met with the captain and Beach.

David Beach was an ox of a man, almost six and a half feet tall. Jude, at six-three, felt dwarfed by him. Beach also had stellar credentials, having served with the NYPD and Homeland Security before retiring at fifty to enter the civilian sector and take the job with the Celtic American line.

They knew all this because they'd accessed Jackson Crow's home office to receive dossiers on every member of the crew.

Now they sat in the captain's office to speak and while the space was large enough, it felt small. David Beach, Jude thought, could make just about anyone—short of Shaquille O'Neal, no pun intended—seem small and any space seem close and crowded.

Beach remained quiet after Jackson had spoken, and Captain Thorne frowned as he weighed his response.

“You believe you've chased a serial killer onto my ship?” he finally asked.

“Yes, Captain,” Jude replied. “We believe that the killer's been using cruise ports and ships to track and murder his victims—and that we followed him onto the
Destiny
.”

The captain shook his head. “I don't see how you could know this. I heard about that terrible business at the church in the Treme district and I don't think anyone, anywhere in the world, has missed the news about the fear this man is creating, but...this was the killer's first strike in New Orleans.”

“You don't really even know if the man you followed onto the ship was responsible for the heinous act at the church,” David Beach added.

“Captain, we followed a man who behaved suspiciously at the crime scene. I'm aware of both your backgrounds,” Crow told them. “Mr. Beach, you've certainly been through seminars on the psychology of killers like this. The man's behavior was the kind we consider exceptionally suspicious.”

“So they sent the troops out on a ship because of a man behaving suspiciously at a crime scene?” Captain Thorne asked. “Seems to me it would've made more sense to prowl the streets of New Orleans, tracing hard evidence.”

“Trust me, Captain, there are many law enforcement officers doing just that,” Jude said.

“Of course. I assume every law enforcement officer in the States is on the lookout, but—”

“We don't intend to be intrusive,” Crow assured him.

“Frankly, whether you are or not, I have no real power over this.” Thorne glanced over at Beach. “Word's come down from on high at Celtic American. We are to give you every assistance you require. However, I'd hate to put an entire ship full of people into a state of panic because you chased a man for behaving in a manner you describe as suspicious and you
think
he's on this ship.”

“We don't want a panic, either,” Jude said. “What we
do
want is to advise you that this man may be on board and may be dangerous. I would imagine,” he went on, and he could hear his voice harden as he spoke, “that you'd be concerned. You have several thousand passengers, not to mention a large crew, any of whom could be in danger. Granted, most of the so-called Archangel's victims have been women but he's killed at least one man. We'd like you to make a speech warning
everyone
to take extreme care, to lock their cabins and watch out for their personal safety.”

“Every cruise company in the world has guidelines warning passengers that while all precautions are taken, crime can still happen,” Beach told them.

“I don't usually make announcements like that,” Thorne murmured.

“You can make it friendly,” Crow said. “As well as serious.”

“And of course, you need to alert your crew, and, most important, Mr. Beach, every one of your security officers,” Jude put in. “I doubt this man is still dressed the same. He'd have his own clothing or he'd have stolen a change of clothing by now.”

“Can you give me a description of his face?” Beach asked.

“Tragedy,” Jude said, recalling the strange prosthetic makeup he'd seen on the man.

“What?”

“He was wearing theatrical makeup when we saw him,” Jude explained. “He's probably gotten rid of it, cleaned up, by now.”

Thorne raised his salt-and-pepper brows beneath his captain's hat and looked over at Beach. Then he stared hard from Jackson Crow to Jude.

“Gentlemen—”

“Assistant Director Jackson Crow and Special Agent Jude McCoy,” Crow interrupted. He smiled, appearing polite, ready to be friendly and helpful, while ensuring that their purpose was noted.

Captain Thorne nodded. “But you need to realize that you're asking me to put a security crew and every one of almost a thousand crew members on guard
and
warn over two thousand passengers—many on the vacation of a lifetime—that there may be a killer on board. ‘Enjoy the crystal beauty of the Caribbean! Ah, but be aware. The FBI believes there might be a homicidal maniac on board. Apparently, he was wearing makeup and God knows what he's wearing now. Watch out for him, though!'” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Agents. But on this ship I'm like the president, the grand high master, the great pooh-bah, what have you. I can't scare them all half to death.”

“We haven't asked you to do that,” Jude said flatly. “Captain, don't you want this man caught? Don't you want your passengers safe?”

“Of course!” Thorne replied indignantly.

“Just remind them of safety-precaution tips—and even mention the horror in NOLA without suggesting the killer could be on board,” Crow said. “Make sure your officers are advised. Make sure they patrol the bars and clubs and watch out for men who seem to be stalking women.”

Beach muttered something under his breath. They all looked at him.

He sighed. “I'd say at least some of the people on this ship are out for more than fun and sun—a chance to get lucky outside their real world. How can I watch everyone in the middle of that kind of behavior?”

“You've been a cop. You know how to observe people, how to judge their moods, how to tell when something's out of whack,” Jude said.

Beach nodded grimly. Jude was glad that he'd brought up the man's past; it seemed to remind him of his own sense of self-respect and ability.

“We also have almost limitless resources working on this. Within a few hours, we'll have cleared the majority of people on this vessel. Investigators in our main office will soon learn who has and who hasn't been in the areas of the country where the murders were committed. That will eliminate the majority of people on the ship,” Jude said.

Captain Thorne was obviously relieved. “The killer had to have traveled, right? Miami? Fort Lauderdale?”

“And Mobile,” Crow said.

“Assuming it's one killer, which we believe it to be,” Jude added.

The captain rose. “I must be getting back to my duties,” he said. “You'll keep me apprised of what you discover? When do you expect your reports?”

“Soon,” Crow assured him. “And thanks for the use of your computers.” They'd been given a cabin near the security offices, complete with high-end equipment and systems.

“I'd like the reports as soon as possible. Naturally, I expect you to be discreet. I don't want people in an uproar because they're afraid a killer could be on board—unless we find it to be true.” He paused. “You believe this man might be a frequent traveler or a ship employee? No murder has taken place on the
Destiny
. Well, except for the strictly historical ones,” he acknowledged with a grimace. “You might keep my passengers the safest by never indicating that you suspect this killer might be on board. You could cause an out-and-out panic. Some sort of mistaken vigilante justice, that kind of thing.”

“We've taken that into consideration, Captain,” Jude said.

“Which is why we want you to make your announcement very carefully,” Crow told him. “Just mention that, since the ship disembarked from New Orleans, we're all aware of the recent murder. Say that our hearts are with the family and friends of the young woman killed in New Orleans. Emphasize that they should take care at all times, even amidst the warmth and hospitality of the
Destiny
.”

“I'll give this some serious thought,” the captain said. “Now...” He smiled drily. “Enjoy your time aboard the
Destiny.
She's a splendid lady, created when sailing meant grandeur.”

They left the captain's office. “That didn't go badly.” Jackson Crow gave Jude an awkward half smile. “Not as badly as I expected.”

“Could've been worse,” Jude agreed. “How soon will we get those reports?”

“In an hour or two. Meanwhile, I'm going to suggest that since the shops on the Promenade Deck are open, we buy more appropriate attire. Once we've done that, I suspect we'll have our reports. Not just names and numbers, but in-depth intel on anyone who might've been in any of those ports at the relevant times.”

“You have someone really good on this?” Jude asked.

Crow nodded, his smile growing. “The very best. Angela Hawkins. My wife.”

* * *

At seven Alexi joined Clara and some of the other performers and crew members in what they affectionately called “the bowels,” or the employee cafeteria area, far toward the stern on the second deck. They didn't dine in any of the three main restaurants on the ship, but in a private space that didn't sport linen napkins or elegant wineglasses. It was still fine; Alexi thought the food served belowdecks was just as good as that in the dining rooms and buffets above. She also liked the fact that the Celtic American line considered all “staff”—from prestigious guest performers to the catering and cleaning crews—to be equal. There were no elite employees. Bradley Wilcox was hard to take at times, but aside from that, they were all treated courteously and with respect.

Alexi scooped up tuna and chips and got a salad from the buffet. She saw that Clara was seated with Ralph Martini and Simon Green. Ralph was shaking his head as she sat down with them. “Can't figure it. Can't figure how the police haven't got this guy yet.” He shuddered. “Sorry. I'm obsessing. It's just...he's in New Orleans!”

“He struck in New Orleans,” Simon said. “Doesn't mean he's still in New Orleans. He may be moving north now. Or to Texas.”

“How can the cops not catch this bastard?” Ralph asked.

“I'm sure they're doing everything they can,” Clara said.

“Hey, there are fibers, fingerprints, blood... Forensic science has given the cops all kinds of tools for catching killers,” Ralph protested. “I watch all those crime-scene TV shows. This guy has to have left something behind.”

“The police use experts and technology and everything,” Alexi said, “but crimes aren't always that easily solved. I mean, even if you do have a hair sample, you have to have a suspect to compare it with. And from what I've read, it sounds like the killer must watch all the shows, too—since he
hasn't
left anything behind.”

“Not that they're telling us about, anyway!” Ralph said.

Young, blond and sun-drenched handsome in shorts and a tank top, Larry Hepburn made an appearance with his tray, smiling and indicating that he'd like the seat next to Alexi. “You people are being morbid and depressing, and you need to stop,” he said as he took his chair. “It's hot and humid, but we're at sea and a breeze is coming in. We have to have faith and let the cops and agents and whoever else worry about it. Who knows? They may have him by the time we're back to port.”

“Or he'll have moved on. To Texas, probably,” Simon said, obviously still worried. He looked around the table. “I have a sister. And I'm from Galveston. If he does head for Texas, terrible as it may seem, I hope he goes to Houston.”

“They'll get him,” Larry said. He turned to Alexi. “We have a rehearsal tonight. After that we'll come by the piano bar. Or at least,
I'll
come by the piano bar. They say you're always packed. You must be good.”