“Gut feeling,” Jude told him, determined to be honest and equally determined to be convincing. “I have one hell of a gut feeling.”
Jackson Crow brought out his credentials and started a rapid-fire discussion with a Celtic American security guard. Within seconds another man came down; some senior person with the cruise line.
When they’d finished speaking, Jude and Jackson were each handed a boarding pass.
“Ever been to Cozumel?” Jackson asked drily.
“Spring break, a thousand years ago.”
Jackson shrugged. “Then you should remember it well enough. Anyway, let’s hope to hell we’re off by then—with him in cuffs. Because if we’re not...”
“He’ll kill again,” Jude said quietly. He looked up at the behemoth they were about to board.
The Destiny.
She wasn’t one of the largest ships sailing the seas by far. She was, Jude knew—thanks to the publicity at her most recent relaunch—the pride of the Celtic American line, owned by an Irish American who had come to the States as a college student and gone on to become a billionaire. The ship was old, commissioned in the late 1930s by an English lord who was hoping to give the Queen Mary a run for her money. The timing, for obvious reasons, had been bad. She wound up serving as a hospital ship during World War II, her cruising days curtailed by the devastation facing the world. Following the war, she’d gone through numerous hands until she’d been purchased and completely refurbished by Celtic American. The company specialized in historic ships, making that history part of their charm.
No, she wasn’t one of the largest. She still carried about seven hundred crew members.
And over 2,400 passengers.
She was, in essence, a small city.
Jude looked at Crow, then studied the ship again.
“What?” Crow asked.
“He might be feeling the heat’s on him now. And that means he just might kill again before we reach our next port.”
*
“I really think you should be playing more ballads.” Minnie Lawrence said, her painted red lips forming a pretty pout. “This is, after all, a piano bar.”
Minnie had draped herself on one of the velvet lounge chairs near the piano. She was beautifully clad in a slinky blue gown with a matching headband around her short blond hair. She managed to smile while maintaining her pout, behaving as the 1930s idol she’d once been. But she was truly sweet and very charming. Alexi could understand why she’d been so beloved in her day.
“I believe she means old ballads,” Blake Dalton said, coming behind Minnie to lean rakishly against the chair as they both stared at Alexi Cromwell with their most beguiling smiles. “Well, what you’d call old ballads, at any rate!”
Blake definitely had some Valentino mystery-charisma, as well.
“I do my best,” Alexi assured the two, sorting through the book she kept for the passengers who wanted to sing. She looked up at them and sighed. “Honestly. I do. But this is the twenty-first century. And I play our passengers’ requests. That’s my job.”
“I’m a passenger, and I’m requesting!” Minnie said.
But you’re a dead passenger! Alexi wanted to say.
She refrained.
“I do a smashing version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’” Minnie said. “And it was in The Wizard of Oz. Surely, everyone knows that.”
“Or ‘In the Mood’!” Blake said. “Minnie sings that very well indeed.”
“You do way too much of that new fellow, that Billy Joel man,” Minnie said. “I just can’t fix on a key with him.”
“Most people these days don’t consider Billy Joel to be a new fellow and I’m sorry, but I never go a night without someone wanting ‘Piano Man.’ But a number of people really enjoy older numbers and ask for them, too. How about this? I promise I’ll do ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ tonight. How’s that?” Alexi asked.
Before Blake or Minnie could reply, a man came tearing into the Algiers Saloon, racing through the bar area—for employees only—to leap over a neighboring sofa and continue running down the hallway of the St. Charles Deck.
He moved so swiftly that Alexi never saw his face. She had a fleeting impression of his height and appearance—and something a little ghastly. He looked as if he was wearing makeup for a Shakespearean play or a classic Greek drama.
Gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, about six feet, maybe around two hundred pounds.
“Well, I never!” Minnie sniffed.
“How incredibly rude,” Blake said, trembling with the indignity of it all.