The Methuselah Gene (43 page)

For further information, the brochure advised, simply contact on-board sales representative Ray Strickland.

Restaurant chatter is particularly festive on a cruise ship, I soon discovered, although I felt even more distant from it than usual here in the Jupiter room on the Promenade deck.
 
A sustained high decibel level to the surrounding banter allowed me to selectively tune my ear much like a radio telescope dish does to background radiation emanating from all points of deep space.
 
Turning my head slowly and focusing on the signals, then, I soon identified and deciphered many snippets of supposedly intelligent communication between the life forms out there huddled around their saucer shaped tables.
 
What came to me included mumblings about Intel, imported beer, the Tour De France, senior pro golf, whale sightings, interior decorating for the colorblind, Leonardo as a name choice for a non Italian baby, premature liver spots, and the concept of Time itself.

There was that cursed word again.
 
How much of it did I have left?

Unhappily, I didn't know, and as I ate my Fettuccini Alfredo with roasted mushrooms, and sipped my lime flavored sparkling water, I heard or saw no sign of Carson Jeffers amid the many other mysteries of the universe.
 
Even when my dinner guest finally joined me, and I was forced to contemplate a honey glazed hazelnut sherbet, I still hadn't made any rational connections, and was becoming increasingly agitated.
 
Because there remained several urgent phone calls I had to make before time ran out, and I needed to have something to say for myself when I called.

Ray Strickland had something to say, for sure.
 
His clarity and motivation was not in question, at least.
 
He even made sense, at least if I was who I claimed to be and not an amateur sleuth on a quest for the Holy Grail of absolution and justice.
 
When his spiel was finished, I tried to ease into my questions as nonchalantly as one-armed man utilizing a can opener.

“So you're saying I'd have complete privacy if I wished, with room service and catering.
 
A special passkey is required, too?”

A light came on in Strickland's eyes, like a reflection from the light he saw—or thought he saw—at the end of the tunnel.
 
I remembered seeing the light when I bought my last lemon several years previously.
 
Used car salesmen or upscale real estate salesmen, it made no difference.
 
When they anticipated The Close, they moved toward it inexorably.
 
But I wouldn't be walking into the light this time.

“Electronic key,” he corrected me.
 
“The code is changed monthly.
 
And you can change your suite code as often as you wish.”

He practically beamed at me.

“So can I examine rooms on both decks?” I asked.

Ray blinked.
 
Had he heard this request before, recently?
 
The lines in his forehead perceptibly lengthened.
 
Now he looked like a human being again, neurosis revealed—a fortyish man with graying temples who had finally been promoted out of the antiseptic fluorescent light of some office high-rise, determined to survive the high seas.
 
“I'm afraid not,” he said, with studied empathy, “but we do have a model exactly like the suite you're interested in.”

I felt like Carson or Kevin might have felt, looking for a way into my Alexandria apartment.
 
“How about if I talk to someone already living in a similar suite?
 
Do you have a list?”

“A list?”
 
The lines in his forehead became chasms.
 
“I'm afraid—”

“Okay,” I conceded, interrupting.
 
I gestured defeat with a shrug.

“This is not the way to do it, sir,” he told me.

“You're right, of course.”

“Our residents do not like to be disturbed.”

“I understand.”

“If it were you on the list, I'm sure you would not like your name given to some . . . to another prospect.”

I yawned.
 
“So the yearly maintenance fee is what, again?”

He froze for a moment before answering politely.
 
“Fifteen thousand.”

“Sounds a bit steep, just for laundry and room service.”

“It covers more than that, Mr. Mills.
 
It really is quite reasonable, considering.”

“Considering I just popped for two million?
 
And considering food could be another twenty grand, to say nothing of drinks?”
 
I chuckled.

He gestured broadly with his right hand, confident of his logic.
 
“Look where you are, sir.
 
On a floating palace, with the whole world coming to you, and with the scenery from your terrace always changing.”

“Mostly ocean, though.
 
Makes me seasick just thinking about it.”

He was genuinely surprised.
 
“What?” he whispered.

“I don't know,” I replied.
 
“Guess I've had enough changing scenery in the last few years.
 
Think it's time for me to settle down, and feel the earth under my feet.
 
The wide open spaces, without so many people popping pills when they're not popping or bopping each other.”

The light died in his eyes, as if a switch had been clicked.
 
He looked at my bandaged hand, then slumped a bit, put his elbow on the table, and finally shielded his face as if to hide shame.

“Tell me something, though,” I asked.

He looked up at me from between his fingers.
 
As a newer recruit, he hadn't seen this coming.
 
He'd been so certain of victory that my reaction was a shocker and an embarrassment.
 
Recovery took time, but I waited patiently.
 
“Yes?” he said finally.

“Have you got any retired mafia types hidden away on board here?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like ex hit men.
 
Maybe a mob boss who squealed and wants to hide out.
 
Or maybe he just wants to give up the rackets and enjoy the good life in a place where there aren't any drive-by shooters named Vinnie or Butch.”

Ray Strickland at first seemed offended, then impatient.
 
His final transformation took less than five seconds.
 
“All our residents are legitimate, I assure you,” he announced with marginally disguised disdain.

No ‘sir' this time, I noted.
 
And already Ray was looking around for some means of escape.
 
I shoveled a spoon of sherbet into my mouth, nodding.
 
“What about Carson Jeffers?
 
Name ring a bell?”

I watched him closely for some reaction.
 
There was only a second involved in it, but it was enough.
 
The Adam's apple didn't bob, the eyes didn't freeze, and the jaw muscles didn't clench.
 
“Who?” he said, and then looked at his watch.

“Never mind,” I told him, and hooked my thumb.
 
“Some guy said he overheard that you had a guy on board hiding out from the law.
 
That's all.”

“Who said that?” Strickland demanded, trying to follow the direction of my thumb.
 
“That's preposterous.”

I turned my head slightly.
 
“Oh . . . oh, well, he's gone now.
 
Hey, you heard about that town went berserk in the Midwest . . . and the pharmaceutical executive who's missing?
 
They haven't found his body.
 
I hear he was a big cruise ship fan.”

“I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Mills, but I need to go now, if you'll excuse me.”

“Sure, nice talking to you.
 
Guess you been too busy to catch the news.
 
Good food, by the way, my compliments to the chef.”

His smile was a plastic one, with dismissive overtones.
 
But on the way out of the restaurant he sneaked himself another glance in the direction where I'd fanned my thumb all the same.

I finished my sherbet and ordered a coffee.
 
Strong black Colombian.
 
I needed the caffeine to figure this out.
 
If Carson was hiding on Deck A or D, it was under an assumed name.
 
Either Frank Fisher knew the name, or he was hoping to get as lucky as me in going for a hit, using the same stumblebum hit man once again as a patsy.
 
Perhaps in case he needed a red herring to slip away himself?
 
Whatever the reason, obviously Frank was pissed because of Carson's apparent double-cross.
 
Kevin was dead, and Frank suspected Jeffers of that too.
 
And now Jeffers was getting away with secret project money, as well as his own.
 
A rat deserting to the ship.

I thought about the CIA, and whether they had really just walked away.
 
I didn't think they could afford to, now that the backgrounds of some of the dead soldiers of fortune on Jeffers' hired film crew would be investigated by the FBI.
 
And it didn't seem likely the Agency or the Studio wouldn't care if Carson just sailed away, knowing what he knew, when things had gone so very wrong.

I sipped at my dark elixir, distracted by new fears for Julie's safety.
 
Then three words floated up to me from my cup, as though from my inner Magic 8-Ball: Witness Protection Program.

What if Jeffers was on the program too?
 
A special program, run by the CIA.
 
A program the FBI didn't even know about, or anyone else.
 
A new identity for Jeffers, with plastic surgery in the event that he was implicated for Zion?
 
Maybe Frank Fisher would be eliminated as part of the plan, too.
 
Maybe Frank suspected what was coming, and wanted to do unto others before they could do unto him . . .

As I made my way up to the deck, another disturbing thought struck me.
 
What if Fisher was just guessing that Jeffers was on board the SS Seven Seas, as I had been hoping?
 
And what if I didn't find Carson soon?
 
How long could I afford to wait before calling
Winsdon
or the editor of the
Washington Post
?

I didn't know anything for sure, except that my coffee had been good to the last drop.

I took a deck chair near the pool, and scanned the passengers for a familiar face.
 
There was precious little time, but until I formulated a plan for exploring the off limits decks, my options were limited, and it looked good to appear normal.
 
Suspecting I was being watched, I already regretted mentioning Carson's name to the ship's real estate rep.
 
That had been reckless.

While wondering whether dialing 911 on a satellite phone would work, I was approached by a man in a blue blazer, tan slacks, and new boat shoes.
 
He was in his late thirties, wore sunglasses, and had sunburn on his left arm and along the left side of his neck, as if he'd driven a long time along A1A, headed south.
 
He turned a chair around to face me, sat, and then studied me carefully before speaking.

“You a detective?” he asked me.
 
He looked away, just like they do in the movies.

“Not me,” I said with a laugh.
 
“And you would be . . .”

“Mr. Strickland's boss.”
 
His lips spread in a slow smile that had some bite to it.
 
“Would you mind showing me some ID, Mr. Mills?”

“Yes, I would mind.”
 
I frowned.
 
“I'm here on vacation.
 
What's this all about?”

“This?” he asked the mild ocean breeze, gesturing expansively past the three couples and two kids in the pool.
 
“Oh, you mean your identity?
 
I'm afraid we'll need to confirm it.
 
You see, we've done some checking after your bizarre conversation with our representative, and it turns out a Mr. Walter Mills is somewhat older than you, and may actually be a retired mafia man like those you were asking about.
 
He has an extensive rap sheet, it turns out.
 
He's not a fugitive at this point, as there was plea bargaining in his past.
 
As to his present whereabouts, only you know that.”
 
He slipped his hand into his coat, and kept it there, causing me to revise my opinion of cruise ship security.
 
“Won't you join me on the bridge to discuss this, please?”