Haunted Destiny (7 page)

He had tried to consign Al to the far reaches of memory, although the man had continued to haunt his soul. Especially when they'd lost Lily, and he'd sat with her lifeless body for hours, praying that he would hear her whisper a single word.

The truth was that he'd spoken with a ghost before. He'd spoken with Al.

He was so lost in his thoughts that at first he didn't hear the buzz of his cell phone. He snapped out of his trance and answered.

Good agents did not become lost in the fog of the past, he reminded himself.

It was Jackson Crow, of course.

“I've met with Beach and his men,” Jackson told him. “They're on high alert, although it would be nice if they really believed me about a killer being on board. What about Alexi Cromwell?”

“I've talked to her,” Jude said. “And Byron Grant.”

“Byron Grant?” Jackson Crow's voice was controlled and even. “Byron Grant was the second-last victim of the Archangel—that we know about, at any rate.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that,” Jude said.

Krewe of Hunters, huh?

“Meet me back at her cabin. With any luck, she's still in,” Jackson said, not skipping a beat.

* * *

When the ship was first built, tiny peepholes had been set in each cabin door, including those in the crew quarters. No unwary cabin girl or waitress would be taken by surprise on the
Destiny.

Alexi had never been more grateful for that—even as she realized she'd seldom used it before.

She'd half expected Clara, since she knew how nervous her friend was feeling.

But it was Jude McCoy. He was back, this time with his partner.

She opened the door for them and waited. This man—Jackson Crow—might believe that she was more illusionist or charlatan than pianist and entertainer. She was afraid he'd come to confront her.

He hadn't. He smiled and merely asked if she minded talking to them again. She agreed.

Her cabin seemed entirely too cramped. Jackson Crow sat at the dressing table; Jude McCoy was next to her on the bunk. For a few minutes she found it hard to breathe and wondered if she was having a panic attack. It was impossible not to be aware of the man sitting beside her, of his intensity, which seemed to burn around her—almost as if it held her in a strange grip. She tried to concentrate on Crow, but she was acutely conscious of Jude McCoy. He sat so close to her they were almost touching.

“You've met this man Byron Grant?” Crow asked her. He smiled; he had an intriguing face, his smile both gentle and enigmatic.

She looked at Jude, whose face was impassive. He studied her in return, but she saw no mockery in his eyes. Not anymore.

Because he'd stood there just an hour ago, talking to the ghost himself.

“His fiancée was killed. He came home, and he was killed, as well. He was attacked from behind, so he couldn't tell me much.”

Agent Crow nodded. “He and his fiancée, Elizabeth Williams, were murdered in Mobile, a week ago.”

“The medallion around her neck was that of St. Bernardino—patron saint of advertising. Elizabeth was a graphic designer with an advertising company.”

Alexi hadn't known that.

“The young woman found at the New Orleans church had a St. Luke's medallion around her neck. Patron saint of physicians, among other similar vocations and careers,” Jackson said. “But Byron, the only male victim, was left in a Dumpster in an alley. No medal.”

Alexi nodded. “He...he hasn't reappeared,” she said, and caught herself looking at Jude again. She could tell from his speech that he'd grown up near her, somewhere around New Orleans. Had Jude absorbed enough of the city's mysticism to accept the realities that were beyond anything science had yet acknowledged?

Was Crow humoring her? Or had McCoy convinced him?
“The thing is,” Jackson was saying, “Mr. Grant found you. He saw in you an ability to help him. Helping the dead is necessary and commendable, but it can be dangerous, too.”

Alexi almost felt as if something cold and sharp was at her throat.

“I intend to be very careful,” she said.

“I just want you to come to us whenever you see the ghost, with any information the ghost can give you.”

Alexi nodded toward Jude. “Mr. Grant has spoken with Agent McCoy. He knows you two are FBI and that you're on board.”

Crow's smile grew wider. “But he sought
you
out. It's important that you be extremely careful, especially at night. We don't have proof, but the coroners in the different cities where this man has struck believe he kills at night. That doesn't mean you're safe by day. It's just that he's never killed in front of witnesses before.”

“Don't worry,” Jude McCoy said, and she saw the flicker of a smile on his lips. “I'll be ‘haunting' your piano bar. I'll see that you're safely back in your cabin every night.”

“We're in Cozumel tomorrow,” she reminded them.

“Don't get off the ship without one of us,” Crow warned.

“I don't always get off the ship,” she told them. “But sometimes a group of us heads over to have lunch at Three Amigos
or Señor Frogs.”

“Let us know what you're doing,” Jackson said. “And let us know anytime Byron Grant is near.”

Jackson got to his feet; Jude did the same.

Naturally, she rose, as well.

“You...you both seem to believe me. This is strange. It's almost as if I'm becoming friends with a stowaway, but one you happen to know about,” she said.

The two men glanced at each other and then back at her. And once again, she thought that Jude McCoy gave her a rueful smile, as if he'd discovered that there'd been a sad joke at his expense.

“He is sort of a stowaway,” Jude said. “His name won't be on the passenger manifest.”

“But...you... Agent Crow, you believe me, too?”

“I do, Ms. Cromwell. Completely. And we're going to do our best to enlist your help—and see that you don't end up in any danger. We need your cooperation on that, too. Let us protect you and don't take any unnecessary risks.”

“I'm all for that,” she murmured.

Jackson left the cabin and Jude followed him, but turned back at the door. “Stay with friends, at all times. You and Ms. Avery—Clara?—stay close, please.”

She nodded.

“We'll be watching over you,” he promised.

Then they were both gone.

Alexi sat back on her bed. It was lunchtime; she was hungry.

And she was too unnerved to eat.

* * *

Their working conditions were hardly ideal, Jude thought, although David Beach had given them a cabin near his office for meetings, as well as computers, videoconference capability and a printer.

Back in their makeshift office, they sat at the table and stared at each other for a minute. “You haven't blinked an eye,” Jude said. “You believe we chased a dead man onto the ship, and that this dead man meant to bring us here. You have no problem accepting that other people might have seen him—without knowing he was dead.”

“Correct,” Crow told him.

“And it doesn't surprise you that I seem to have accepted this, too?” he asked.

“McCoy,” Crow said, “did you think I randomly asked that you be assigned to me in the Quarter yesterday morning?”

Jude felt that sense of creeping frost again.

“You looked me up and, naturally, you have access to all my records. Even the ones with the therapist, which should have been sealed.”

“Yes—and those records were sealed. But your history of solving unusual cases was noticed by others. Including Adam Harrison, who established the Krewe.”

“I see,” Jude said. He wasn't sure he did, not completely. But...yes, he did. He was still fighting all of this.

“My service records. You know about them?”

“Yes. I know that you saw your friend, Al Bellingham. According to medical personnel, he was dead at the time. Although you may not have
seen
the dead since then—or at least you believe you haven't—you've got certain abilities...”

“I've never been able to explain it,” he mumbled, “but sometimes I just
know
things.”

“You've been with the bureau for five years, so you must have heard of the Krewe of Hunters,” Crow said flatly.

“Yes, of course. But everything on the Krewe is either quiet or speculation.”

“We're good at spin,” Crow told him, smiling.

Jude digested that. “All right, then, do we have anything more? According to Byron Grant, we can eliminate David Beach, which we'd already guessed.”

“Angela is still on the trail of credit card usage and traffic cams.”

Jude nodded. As he did, a soft beeping sound came from Jackson's computer. He hit a key, and Jude moved around to watch the screen.

A woman in a powder blue shirt and black jacket appeared, exceptionally pretty with long blond hair and elegant features. “Hey,” she said. “Good connection. I see you perfectly, Jackson.”

“We've got you, too,” Jackson said. “Meet Jude McCoy, Angela. Jude, thanks to the mysteries of the internet and satellites, meet Special Agent Angela Hawkins.”

“Hey, Jude!” Angela said, and then winced. “Hmm. Do you get that often? Purely accidental, I swear.”

“My folks did love the Beatles,” Jude told her. “So do I, for that matter.”

She smiled, but then the niceties were over. “I think the killer's been far too smart to leave a credit card trail, so I'm not finding what I'd hoped,” she began. “But I can eliminate another suspect for you.”

“Which one?” Jude asked.

“The entertainment director. Bradley Wilcox. He was caught by a traffic cam. Yes, he drove out from Texas, but he was west of NOLA at the time the last victim was killed. Not just his car—the cameras got a clear picture of his face.”

“One less suspect,” Jude said.

“We're researching cameras, hotels, restaurants, you name it. We'll find out more. Sadly, even with computers, it's slow and tedious work.” Angela sighed. “Anyway, I'll let you go until I have something else for you. Good to meet you, Jude.”

“Good to meet you, too. Virtually, at any rate.” He was surprised when Crow said, “Thanks, Angela. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she responded.

The connection went dead. Jude couldn't help looking at Jackson, who shrugged. “I told you. She's my wife.”

“Okay.”

“And a brilliant agent,” Jackson assured him, not for the first time.

“I believe you,” Jude said, and he did. Turning back to his own screen, he added, “The medallions have to be the key.”

Crow frowned. “We know that each medallion was associated with the victim's line of work. For our last victim, Jean Wilson, it was St. Luke—and she was in med school.”

“Yes, and St. Luke is the patron saint of doctors. Byron Grant's fiancée, Elizabeth Williams, was found with a medallion of St. Bernardino, patron saint of those in advertising. Have any of our forensic or technical people been able to discover where the medallions came from?” Jude asked.

Crow had geared up his computer. He nodded as he looked at his notes. “It took a while, but we finally have that information. Italy,” he said. “An ancient church near the Vatican. These particular medallions could only be bought there.”

“And we have people tracing the movements of our suspects—so we'll know who's been in Italy?”

“There's a problem there,” Jackson said.

“What's that?”

“The medallions were all manufactured in the 1940s.”

Jude shook his head. “So they came down from a friend, parent or grandparent, to the killer,” he said. He leaned forward. “What if they were sold in a collection?”

He swung around, booting into the computer he'd been allotted. He quickly asked Crow the name of the church.

The medallions might not have been created out of gold or silver, but they were historical artifacts and eminently collectible now. There were thirteen in every set; apparently, very few complete sets remained.

“The sets contained medallions for St. Catherine, patron saint of artists. St. Michael, patron saint of police officers. St. Matthew, accountants. St. Barbara, architects and builders. St. Christopher, drivers, travelers and pilots. All of those were found on the previous victims, according to their occupations. With the more recent murders, we have St. Bernardino, advertising, and that was found on Elizabeth Williams. St. Luke, physicians. Jean Wilson.” Jude studied the computer screen. “Then we have St. Francis, patron saint of animals. That was left on Debra Harvey, who was a veterinarian, Miami, Florida. St. Joan of Arc—on the second Miami victim, Lauren Macaby, United States Air Force. And St. Thomas Aquinas, teachers, found on Delores Ramirez, teacher, Fort Lauderdale.”

“And the final three medallions,” Jackson Crow said, studying his own computer, “are St. Genesius, patron saint of actors. St. Lawrence, patron saint of cooks. And last...”

“St. Cecilia,” Jude said, his gut tightening. “The patron saint of singers and musicians.”

5

“T
his is all terrifying!” Minnie shivered and cuddled closer to her beloved Blake. “A dastardly killer on this ship!”

“Minnie,” Blake said a little awkwardly. “We're already dead. He can't hurt us.”

“No, not us! But what about Alexi?”

“I plan to stay safe,” Alexi assured her.

“I hear that this...this terrible man is attacking young women. And that means you're vulnerable,” Minnie said.

“So is every woman aboard this ship.” Alexi was a bit distracted, flipping through music sheets, trying to make sure she had a lot of show tunes ready. They tended to be the passenger preference, and the
Les Miz
actors often joined in, so she wanted to be prepared. She looked up; Minnie was staring at her with deep concern.

“Don't worry. No one's going to attack me when we're in one of the busiest bars on the ship.”

“By the time you close up, it's late, and most people have gone to bed,” Minnie pointed out.

“The dance lounges are still open then.” Alexi tried to sound cheerful. “And...well, there are people on board, watching over me.”

And yet...

This was scary as hell.

Was it better or worse that she knew Jackson Crow and Jude McCoy were on the ship? Would she be safer because of it, while others...

She hadn't seen Clara since that morning, in the employee cafeteria. She needed to talk to her.

She'd never told Clara that she saw the dead.

She didn't want her best friend on the
Destiny
thinking she was stark raving mad.

How could she tell Clara not to go anywhere alone, to watch herself every time she went to or from her cabin?

Somehow, she had to.

“Minnie, you and Blake will watch out for me, too, right?” They promised fervently that they would.

Alexi glanced at her watch, and then over at the bar. Servers were getting ready to open for the evening. She still had time; it was only eight, and she didn't start until nine.

She stood up, deciding she'd go and see if the cast was rehearsing. But before she could move, she saw that Agent Jude McCoy was approaching her at the piano bar. He nodded politely to Minnie and Blake, and she had to smile.

“You find something humorous, Ms. Cromwell?” he asked.

“Blake and Minnie,” she said. “I'd like to introduce you to FBI agent Jude McCoy.”

“We know who you are, of course,” Minnie said, smiling beautifully.

Always the flirt.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Jude McCoy said. Alexi saw that he took note of Minnie's elegant 1930s gown and Blake's tuxedo.

He winced as he looked at Alexi. “Dead?” he asked softly.

“How rude!” Minnie said.

“Darling, we
are
dead,” Blake told her.

“Yes, but what a terrible word! Passed, I think, is better. Ethereal, maybe. Or he could say spirits. We
are
on a ship, at a bar, so spirits could refer to more than one thing,” Minnie said with a tinkling laugh. “Anyway, sir, the pleasure is ours. As long as you intend to look after Alexi for us.”

“I definitely intend to do that,” Jude promised her.

“Well, then, we'll leave you two to chat. There's a bit of time before Alexi's on for the night. Blake, I do believe we should take a romantic stroll out on the deck. What say you, my love?”

“Anything, dearest,” Blake said.

The two departed.

Alexi saw that Jude McCoy had changed for the evening. He looked seriously masculine and striking in a dark blue suit.

“What can I do for you now, Agent?” she asked.

“I need to find out if these men come here,” he told her, producing his phone and showing her pictures. “Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey?”

She glanced at the photos on his iPhone and nodded. “Yes, I know them both. They're regulars on the Celtic American line. They were in here last night. In fact, I see them practically every night of a voyage. Roger was a TV network CEO and he's in his late fifties. He's married to Lorna, who is lovely. They're retired and they sail whenever they feel like it.” She paused. “You don't really consider him a suspect, do you? Like I said, he's
married
. And he's always in here with Lorna.”

“I'm sorry, but history's proven that
married
doesn't mean much in these situations. But I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I just want to hang around and see them for myself. Now what about Osprey?”

“Hank, as you can tell from his picture, is younger. A brilliant nerd in high school, from what I heard. He sold his first company when he was in his twenties. Very nice guy. You'd never know he was rolling in money.”

“Does he ever come in here with a woman?”

Alexi thought about that. “Yes, I've seen him with other people, including women. He brought a bunch of employees on a cruise once. And he was dating a major heiress for a while. Then a B-movie queen. Both of these guys—Hank and Roger—like the Caribbean. And of course, they can sail whenever they want. Honestly, though, you'll see. Neither of them is... Well, I can't imagine either of them as a serial killer.”

“That's the thing,” Jude McCoy warned her. “We're not after a spree killer here. The Archangel spaces out his murders according to some schedule of his own. Going strictly by age, Hank is a more likely suspect, but...” He looked at her intently. “It's common knowledge that murderers can be the boy-next-door type. Nice as can be, polite, even charming. Don't trust
anyone
.”

That was a nearly impossible directive. She lived on the ship!

A couple entered the room and took a seat at one of the cocktail tables. A family group came in soon afterward, and Dixie, one of the cocktail waitresses, started toward them.

“I need to begin my show,” Alexi said.

“Yep, sorry. Your friends come in here, too, right? Fellow entertainers, from the shows and bands and all.”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever get any—vibes, I guess—from any of them? Particularly Larry Hepburn, Simon Green, Ralph Martini or the head guy, Bradley Wilcox?”

She shook her head. “No, but Ralph's the only one I really know. Wait—not true. Bradley Wilcox is a jerk. I already told you that, but please don't repeat it. He's just curt and rude and treats us all as if we're his personal servants. Ralph—I'd have a hard time believing he's guilty of anything.”

“Thanks. Okay. I'll be here. That chair over there okay?” He pointed to one of the comfortable wingback chairs set around some of the cocktail tables.

“Sure.” She'd been playing the piano and singing for as long as she could remember.

Yet she suddenly felt a little intimidated. She wished Minnie and Blake weren't still strolling...wherever. Minnie would have harassed her about playing a certain song or other, and she would've been busy trying to pretend a ghost wasn't whispering in her ear. All while she was speaking, playing and singing.

She decided to begin with a Carole King number—trying to ignore Agent McCoy. After that a woman wanted to sing another Carole King song and Alexi was happy to pass her the mic.

The lounge had filled up quickly, and she nearly missed a note when she saw that Roger Antrim had arrived with his wife, Lorna. They waved at her with wide smiles, taking a seat at one of the few empty tables left.

She greeted them by name, something she often did, and then teased a couple who'd just arrived, which made everyone laugh. Then she suggested that Roger come up and sing.

He agreed.

He loved anything by Billy Joel, and had a pleasant voice.

Alexi smiled as she played for him.

And wondered if he could be a brutal killer.

Thirty minutes later she'd almost forgotten that Agent McCoy was in the lounge. That was when Clara arrived with Simon Green.

Simon wouldn't be
just chorus
for long, Alexi thought, as the two began a duet from
Jekyll & Hyde
. He was very good. So, of course, was Clara.

Alexi did a Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow number with Simon.

Larry Hepburn—blond, beautiful beach boy—arrived next. He sang a few Beatles tunes. Every woman in the audience seemed to be breathing a little harder.

Then Ralph Martini showed up and graced them with a fantastic version of a Meat Loaf song. In the middle of it, she realized that McCoy had managed to drag his chair over to the table where Roger Antrim and his wife were sitting. In fact, he was engaged in conversation with them.

Hank Osprey didn't make an appearance until almost eleven. He was with a very pretty young woman in a skintight cocktail gown and five-inch heels. They made quite a pair.

He waved to Alexi as he entered, and she waved back.

When the Meat Loaf song had ended and the applause for Ralph subsided, she greeted Hank, introducing him as a regular who could croon out a great Tony Bennett. Hank flushed, excused himself to the young woman and came up to take the mic.

The night went on without incident. Blake and Minnie didn't reappear. She teased, she joked, kept the passengers singing, and when there was a lull, she sang a few favorite show tunes herself or called on a friend to do so. At one point she saw Bradley Wilcox looking into the room over the small carved wood banister that separated the lounge from the hallway.

Watching her.

Judging her.

Alexi didn't care. The audience was lively and her confidence soared back. She knew she was good at what she did.

She smiled at Jensen Hardy, the cruise director, coming down the hall. He loved the piano bar, loved dropping in. He had a pleasant singing voice, but neither his natural talent nor his training was quite up to par, not compared to performers like Ralph and Clara. In the “quickie” bits of music that were done on board, he was always the announcer.

She assumed he'd come to sing.

But he wasn't going to sing that night. Bradley Wilcox stopped him in the hallway, and although Wilcox didn't move and kept his voice low, Alexi could see that he was reprimanding Jensen Hardy for one thing or another.

Idiot!

At the moment there was nothing she could do to help Jensen. Besides, the eternally cheerful Jensen would probably just shake it off.

Clara sat at the piano bench by Alexi's side and when she could, she whispered, “I'll hang out with you until the bitter end, I promise. And don't tell me I'm being silly. The killer was in New Orleans.
New Orleans!
You're not walking to your cabin alone.”

“It's okay. You can leave when you're tired. Get Simon or one of the other guys to take you back, okay?”

“I don't want you alone.”

“I won't be alone.”

“Oh?” Clara asked.

Alexi indicated Jude McCoy. In his evening apparel, he was extremely presentable. He managed to look casual, and yet a little larger than life.

“Ohhh.” Clara grinned. “Hobnobbing with the higher-ups of the company, huh? I'm so glad. You need to hobnob. You haven't...hobnobbed in forever. Hobnobbing would be good for you. Hobnobbing is a basic instinct, you know.”

Alexi felt a flush cover not only her face, but also her whole body from head to toe.

“It's just business.”

Clara laughed at that and Alexi flinched. Yes, her words could have been construed in a different way.

“No, I mean I'm an entertainment liaison, that's all.”

Clara studied Jude McCoy and then turned back to Alexi. “It shouldn't be just business. Men like him don't come along every day. And,” she added, “I'm talking about more than his looks.”

“Hey! I'm working here!” Alexi reminded her. “Right now, as we speak.”

Clara smiled. “So is the little beauty on the arm of our billionaire, Hank Osprey.” The young woman was, indeed, working it; she leaned against Hank and seemed to be enchanted by his every word.

And despite the fact that Jude McCoy was engaged in conversation with Roger and Lorna, Alexi could tell that he was also aware of Hank and his young woman.

Finally, the crowd began to thin.

When Hank left with his lady friend, Alexi noted that Jude McCoy made a phone call.

Would Jackson Crow now be following the man?

Because it was evident that Jude McCoy meant to keep his word. He'd be seeing her back to her cabin.

Last call was announced.

Roger and Lorna Antrim thanked her for a great evening and left. Three young women traveling together departed arm in arm.

A retired couple, charming, older—and obviously still very much in love—came to the piano to tell her what a wonderful time they'd had. The bar was closed.

Ralph Martini yawned. “Gotta call it a night!” he said.

“We all need to call it a night,” Simon agreed. “Hey!” he said cheerfully to Jude. “You didn't sing.”

“I thought I'd spare you.” Jude gave them a self-deprecating grin, telling the
Les Miz
cast members that he was looking forward to their final night's performance.

He wound up talking theater with them for a while. And then suddenly, he and Ralph were involved in a discussion about sports and New Orleans, and Alexi realized that everyone else was gone, that she was there with Clara, Simon, Ralph—and Agent Jude McCoy.

“You're with the cruise line, right?” Ralph asked Jude.

Jude inclined his head.

“Why'd they stick you guys down in the dinky cabins?”

“If they're good enough for the entertainers, they're good enough for us. Besides, it's a full ship, and we came on at the last minute. I'm sure you know that the reputation this ship has for entertainment is stellar. We're really here to observe what makes it all work so well.”

“That's a relief,” Ralph said. “Where else would an old hack like me find acting jobs these days? Getting old in the theater is a bitch, you know? Unless you're Sean Connery or Alec Guinness. Which, sadly, I'm not.”