Masquerade (37 page)

"That's right. I'm writing a follow-up piece on the
Crescent Dragon,
a retrospective story from the viewpoint of various people like yourself who had some involvement with what turned out to be her last voyage." Remy thought the cover was a good one—one that would arouse the least possible amount of suspicion about her interest in the tanker. "So tell me, Mr. Trudeau, what do you remember of her? Were there any problems? Did anything unusual happen?"

"No, it was pretty routine. When I took over from Pete Hoskins, the Baton Rouge pilot, I remember he told me that she answered pretty sluggish, so I kept that in mind on the trip down to Pilot Town. And I talked briefly with the captain, too, about the storm brewing in the Gulf."

"Then there weren't any stops—any delays along the way?"

"None."

"That was almost six months ago, Mr. Trudeau." Remy eyed him curiously. "How can you be so sure about that?"

"Like I told those other two who came around asking—

"Other two?" She frowned. "What other two?"

"I don't remember their names, but one was a heavyset guy with a beard who came around asking questions about the tanker—musta been two weeks ago. Then a couple days before that, I talked to another guy. He was younger, probably in his thirties, tall, brown hair."

Gabe. She should have known her brother would do some checking of his own. "I'm sorry. I interrupted you. What was it that you told them?"

"Just that when a ship goes down in a storm three days after you've been on her, you remember that ship
and
that trip—
well.
You go over the trip in your mind, compare notes with the other pilots, and try to remember if there was something— anything—that might have indicated the vessel wasn't really seaworthy."

"And you did that. You talked with the other two pilots," Remy guessed.

"I did. And it was routine all the way."

"Did they have any stops or delays?"

"None. And I know that for a fact, because I saw copies of their log sheets."

She took a small sip of the still-hot coffee and wondered whether she should take his word for it or talk to the other pilots herself. "You don't happen to know where the tanker was docked, do you?" she asked curiously.

"Pete told me he picked her up at the old Claymore docks." He hesitated, then nodded. "That's right. She was berthed in the upper one. I remember Pete told me the current takes a funny twist there and can sometimes be a problem when you're pulling away from the dock. That's when he discovered how slow the tanker was to maneuver."

"Where are the Claymore docks?"

"Let's see." He leaned against the booth's red-vinyl back, a thoughtful, searching frown claiming his expression. "What mile marker are they located on?"

Remy immediately guessed that he was talking "river" miles. "No, I was wondering how I could reach them from land."

"I don't know if I can tell you how to get there by land," he said, absently scratching his head. "They're on the east bank, north of Kenner a ways. I'm sure you could get to 'em by the River Road."

She realized that she must have been close to them earlier that day. "How far are they from the tank farm and docks owned by Gulf Coast Petroleum?"

"Those
are
the old Claymore docks."
 

"What?"

"Those
are
the Claymore docks," he repeated.

She'd been there—at the very place where the
Dragon
had been berthed—and not known it, not recognized it, not remembered. "Wait. There are three docks there." And she'd been on the middle one. "Which one did you say the tanker was at?"

"The upper one."

She shook her head in confusion. "Which one's that?"

"The upriver one—that's why it's called the 'upper' dock."

She hadn't been on the right dock. Was that why nothing had seemed familiar to her? She didn't dare go back and risk running into that Carl Maitland again. And she doubted that "Bulldog" Mac would be any more cooperative the second time around. Then she remembered Charlie— dear, wonderful Charlie Aikens, so friendly and free with information. Was he one of the men who had loaded the
Dragon?
Had he seen her there that night? Wouldn't he have recognized her if he had? His number was in the phone book, he'd said. All she had to do was call and ask. And if he hadn't worked that shift, maybe she could persuade him to find out who had.

With an effort, she brought her attention back to the booth. "You said the trip downriver was routine, but—was there anything about the
Dragon's
voyage that raised questions in your mind? In other words, when it went down, was it way off course? Or had it not traveled as far as you thought it would? Anything like that?" Even though the pilot had eliminated the possibility of the tanker off-loading its shipment of crude oil onto river barges or a pipeline downstream, there was still a chance it had hooked onto an offshore pipeline.

"No. According to the Coast Guard report I read, it went down about where you'd expect, given its course and speed and the strength of the storm. It sunk just a mile or two off the sea-lane. Fortunately, it's a well-traveled route, and the crew was able to signal a passing ship. And before you ask, no, we didn't run into much barge traffic."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The bearded guy asked a lot of questions about the barges that ply the Delta waters south of the city. But like I told him, about the only barges you meet downriver are the ones hauling trash and garbage out into the ocean."

"I see," she said, and went back to something he'd said just before that. "The Coast Guard issued a report on the sinking?"

"Yes"

She wondered why she hadn't found a copy of it in the company files. Had it been there, and had she somehow overlooked it?

She was still bothered by the question when she arrived home. She walked into the house and immediately caught the distinctive aroma of bay leaves and spices stewing in a gumbo pot. Her father was in the entrance hall, holding the telephone receiver to his ear. He hung up when he saw her.

"I was just dialing the stables to see if you'd left."

Remy faltered an instant in midstride, then recovered and smiled at him in mock reproof, trying not to think how close she'd come to getting caught in a lie. "Why would you be doing that? I told you Pd be home in time for lunch, and here I am," she said, then chided him as she paused to pull off her gloves. "I have the distinct feeling you're keeping closer track of me now than you did when I was a teenager."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" she challenged lightly.

"If it is, it's only because it's natural for us to worry after the way you disappeared before."

"I promise I'm not going to disappear again, so stop worrying."

"Remy." Her mother came out of the dining room. "I thought I heard your voice. I was just telling Nattie I didn't think you were going to make it back for lunch. How was your ride?" She inspected her daughter's appearance with a slightly puzzled expression. "I expected you to come back chilled to the bone, with your nose and cheeks all rosy-pink from the cold, but you look . . . fine."

"The Jaguar
does
have a heater. I warmed up on the way home." Remy glanced toward the dining room and deliberately sniffed the air. "Is that shrimp gumbo I smell?"

"Yes. I'll let Nattie know you're here. You'll want to change out of those riding clothes—"

"I'll do that later. Right now I'm starved."

Food was actually the furthest thing from her mind, but exercise was supposed to make a person hungry, and if she wanted to maintain the pretense that she'd spent the morning horseback riding, she had to feign an appetite.

 

An hour later, fresh from the shower, Remy sat in the middle of her bed, swathed in her satin robe, a towel wrapped turban-style around her wet head, and the folder containing copies of the documents from the company files lying open in front of her. Her first rifling search through the stack had failed to turn up a copy of the Coast Guard report. She started to go through the papers again, one at a time.

Two quick raps were the only warning she had. Frantically, she pulled the towel off her head and dropped it over the files to conceal them as the bedroom door swung open.

"Nattie," she declared in relief when the tall, spare black woman walked in. "You startled me." She laughed self-consciously and nervously combed her wet hair away from her forehead with her fingers.

"I knocked first."

"I know."

"Where're your boots?"

"In the closet. Why?" Frowning, Remy slid off the bed when Nattie immediately walked in that direction.

" 'Cause I'd better get 'em cleaned before they stink up the place," she said, opening the closet door and walking inside.

"You don't need to." Remy took a quick step after her, then stopped as Nattie emerged from the closet, boots in hand. Except for some white dust from the levee road's oyster-shell surface, the soles and heels of her riding boots were dry and unstained—as Nattie quickly saw. "I already cleaned them," Remy asserted.

Nattie shot her a skeptical look, then walked over and picked up the dark-brown corduroy riding jacket that Remy had laid over the back of the loveseat. "Just like you already brushed all the horse hairs off this jacket, I suppose."

"That's right." Why was she lying? Nattie didn't believe her, not for one second. But she couldn't tell her the truth. She wasn't even sure what the truth was. "Nattie, I—"

Nattie held up a hand to stave off the rest of her words. "Lies and rabbits both have a way of multiplying. I'll just put these boots back in the closet and hang up this jacket and leave it go at that."

"Thanks." Remy smiled a little in relief.

"I just hope you know what you're doing," Nattie muttered as she walked back into the closet.

"So do I," she replied over the faint rustle of clothing and hangers.

As soon as Nattie left, Remy lifted the covering towel off the open folder and began going through the individual copies again. Suddenly a name leapt out at her—Maitland. She stared at the invoice from Maitland Oil Company for the tanker's shipment of crude. Maitland Oil Company—as in Carl Maitland, the well-dressed man in the white pickup who'd addressed her by name? They had to be one and the same. Which meant that not only did he know her family, he also did business with the Crescent Line.

What if he ran into her father or her uncle? What if he mentioned seeing her at the docks— and the research she was supposedly doing for a friend? But she couldn't worry about that now. She'd deal with it when and
if
it
happened. Maybe by then she would have found out something— or remembered something.

Right now she needed to look for that Coast Guard report. Later she'd call Charlie Aikens and see if he knew or could discover anything for her. She idly wondered what time he'd be home from work, then continued going through the sheaf of papers.

 

After the fourth ring, a familiar-sounding voice came on the line. "Yeah, Charlie here."

"Charlie." Remy glanced at the digital clock on her bedstand. Seven thirty-two. T was beginning to think you were going to work all night."

"I stopped by Grogan's for a couple of beers. Who's this?"

"Remy. Remy Cooper." With the Crescent Line and the Jardins virtually synonymous to anyone on the waterfront, she'd realized that she'd have to use a different name. "I'm the one Mac had you escort off the dock today."

"Oh, sure," he said, as it dawned on him. "I remember you. How're you doing?"

"Fine. Listen, I was wondering if you could help me with some more information my friend needs for her book."
 

"I'll try."

"Do you remember the tanker the
Crescent Dragon?
She was loaded with a shipment of crude from your docks last September, probably the fifth or sixth."

"Hell—excuse my language, but we service so many barges and ships off those docks, I lose track of the names of 'em all."

"Yes, but this one went down in the Gulf during a storm."

"Yeah, there was a tanker that sank last year," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "And now that you mention it, I think I do remember hearing some of the guys talking about how she'd loaded out from our docks. But I didn't work on her."

"Could you find out who did? My friend would like to talk to them."

"No problem. I'll ask around tomorrow when I go in. Somebody's bound to remember something. Ships don't take up residence in Davy Jones's locker every day. What's you're number? I'll give you a call tomorrow night and let you know what I've found out."

"I'd better call you. I'm not sure where I'll be."

"Carnival goes into full swing tomorrow, with wall-to-wall craziness, doesn't it? I steer clear of it myself these days. It's not like when I was young—not with all those gays strutting around dressed up like fancy showgirls. It used to be a wild time; now it's just plain crazy," he declared, then said, "You give me a call tomorrow night . . . 'bout this same time."

"I will." Remy said good-bye and hung up. With that in motion, the next thing on her agenda was to locate a copy of that Coast Guard report.

 

 

 

 

24

 

 

“She's started snooping around asking questions."

He gripped the telephone's black receiver a little tighter and sat down in the chair behind the desk. "I don't believe you."

"I'm telling you she is. I know it for a fact," came the low, accusing reply. "Right now she's asking the wrong people the right questions. It's got to stop there."

He frowned, stunned, confused, and troubled. "But she can't remember anything. I know she can't."

"Maybe not, but she's damned well trying to. That insurance investigator Hanks can't cause us half as much trouble as she can, and we both know it. The last thing we need is somebody else going around asking questions. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you," The room suddenly seemed very stuffy. He reached up, loosened the knot of his tie, and unfastened the top button of his dress shirt. "Just let me handle it."