Perilous Waters

“Love to.” She hooked her arm through Jake’s. “Do you mind if we zigzag through the middle decks? Check out where everything is?”

“Sounds good.” Jake reached for Tommy’s hand.

Cassandra paled as her gaze dropped to the boy she clearly hadn’t connected to them.

“It’s okay. I’ve got him,” Sam reassured. When Jake hesitated, as he always did since losing his wife, Sam added, “He’s safe with me.” His mind flashed to Jimmy, and he strained to swallow the lump that rose to his throat.

But Jake nodded as if he had no doubts, then led the way with Cassandra on his arm, leaving Sam and Tommy to trail behind. At least the woman was dressed in something more modest than the outfit she had on the other night.

The main lobby atrium, with its four-story ceiling and glass elevator, was even more crowded than when they’d boarded an hour ago. They took the spiral staircase to the next level, admiring the opulent crystal and brass fixtures, then rode the glass-walled elevator up another level to the promenade deck.

Tommy pressed his nose to the glass, entranced by the glittering lights.

“Ooh, I hear music. Let’s go this way.” Cassandra led them to an open lounge where a gifted musician played nostalgic tunes on a shiny baby grand.

Tommy tugged Sam toward brightly colored paintings lining the next hall. “Tommy and I are going to check out the art gallery.” He’d already scoped it earlier, but another look wouldn’t hurt.

“Sure, be right there. Be good for Uncle Sam, okay?” Jake called after them.

Sam wasn’t convinced his brother had actually registered his own words. Not that Sam begrudged him the flattering attention of a beautiful woman. It’d been almost five years since Jake’s wife had died. Sam just wished the woman wasn’t one of his suspects.

Tommy tugged free of Sam’s hold and veered toward the biggest and brightest painting—rainbow-colored air balloons floating in a pure blue sky—propped at floor level outside the gallery door. Along the way his foot caught the easel of another painting. Sam lunged to stop it from teetering over as Tommy skidded to a halt in front of the air balloons. “Look, Uncle Sam, there’s a dog riding in the balloon!”

“Oh, we can’t touch them,” a kind voice singsonged. Jennifer Robbins. She squatted beside his nephew, her pleasant smile tempering the swiftness with which she’d caught his arm before he danced his grubby finger over the canvas. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Tommy bobbed his head up and down.

“Makes me wish I could ride in such a beautiful balloon.”

The balloons weren’t the only thing that looked beautiful. Sam almost hadn’t recognized Jennifer with her blond curls spilling over her slender shoulders and wearing a casual, earthy-looking skirt and blouse that reminded him of commercials for romantic beach getaways.

“Do you like to draw?” she asked, and Tommy’s head-bobbing grew more exaggerated.

Sam stepped behind him.

Jennifer glanced up, her warm smile turning to surprise. “Sam, hi!”

He placed a cautioning hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Sorry about that. He got away from me.”

Her glance skittered to his left hand and back to his face. “This adorable little boy belongs to you?”

“He’s my nephew, Tommy. Jake’s son.” The ease with which she interacted with Tommy stirred an unwelcome appreciation for the woman. Her sister had scarcely looked at the boy—a fact that would eventually cool Jake’s interest, he was sure. “We were heading up to the buffet to meet my folks.”

“Well, hi, Tommy! I’m Jen,” she said then turned to Sam. “Let me see if the gallery has any coloring books and then I’ll walk with you. I told my sister I’d meet her there.”

“Yeah, we ran into her on deck.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “She and Jake stopped to listen to the piano player.”

Jennifer frowned. “Tommy’s mother isn’t here?”

“She died when Tommy was an infant.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sadness shadowed her eyes as she rose. “Let me get that coloring book.”

As Jennifer spoke to the balding middle-aged man behind the counter, Sam took the opportunity to scan the gallery for the two contributions the Robbins sisters were to bring aboard for auction. Contributions that might also prove to be pivotal to his case. Cruise lines normally auctioned prints, not originals, and would ship a comparable one from their warehouse to the winning bidder, rather than the actual item displayed. The fact that the cruise line had agreed to ship the Robbins Gallery’s actual contributions to the winning bidders, suggested they were originals, or if not, begged the question—was there more to the items than there appeared?

Jennifer knelt in front of Tommy and offered him a booklet of ship-themed coloring pictures and a package of four crayons. “For you.”

Tommy grinned. Sam gave his shoulder a squeeze. “What do you say?”

“Thank you!” He threw his arms around Jennifer, who toppled back onto her behind then laughed at his exuberance.

Sam’s heart squeezed uncomfortably at how good she was with the boy. He scooped Tommy into his arms then offered Jennifer a hand. “Sorry about that.”

Laughter continued to brim in her eyes. “No need to apologize. That’s the best hug I’ve had in a long time.”

“How have you been? Did the police catch the jerk who vandalized your car?” Sam knew they hadn’t, but he hoped his concern would win her confidence.

“No, but thankfully there haven’t been any more incidents.” She fussed with the delicate gold cross resting on a fine chain at her throat, and Sam wondered if the symbol actually meant something to her. She bit her bottom lip, looking way too vulnerable for his comfort.

She’s a suspect, he reminded himself. Just because she got threatened didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty. Criminals threatened other criminals all the time. For all he knew, she was aware of who was behind the attack and couldn’t identify him without revealing her own crimes.

“Except...” She let out a breath. “Last night someone kept calling my apartment and not saying anything.”

That wasn’t good. “You tell the police? Try getting the number from the phone company?”

Her rejected grant applicant hadn’t had an airtight alibi for the night of the attack, but without fingerprints or security video to connect him to the scene, the local PD hadn’t been able to charge him.

“No, I just unplugged the phone.” She offered a self-deprecating smile.

“That works, too.” He didn’t want to examine too closely why seeing that smile made him happy. She’d confided in him. It was a good start. His job was to gain her trust. Pure and simple. He set Tommy down as they stepped out of the gallery.

“Hold up a sec.” The clerk hurried over and pressed a small note into Jennifer’s hand. “The information you wanted.”

“Thank you.” She quickly tucked the note into her pocket before turning back to Sam.

Instinctively he knew the exchange had to be connected to his case. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place. So why did he feel so disappointed?

* * *

Jennifer fingered the paper in her pocket, debating how to get away from Sam for a few minutes to make the call in private. She’d recognized the ship’s curator from the Seattle gallery where he used to work—one that had had a scandal he’d exposed, much to the owner’s dismay. He’d seen right though her veiled questions about his experience and offered her the number of the PI he’d used.

Sam steered his nephew a wide berth around the art displays lining the hall. “I guess the art world’s tight-knit?”

Reflexively Jen’s hand crumpled the paper with the PI’s number. “Pardon me?”

Sam motioned to the ship’s gallery curator. “You all know each other.”

“Oh, yes, he used to be at a Seattle gallery, but I’m not actually all that involved with the gallery, aside from attending the odd opening night for special exhibits.” She glanced around at the ship’s eclectic collection. There were few pastoral scenes like her mother’s beloved early works. “My uncle insists I put in an appearance. Says it’s bad for business if the owners don’t show.” Why was she telling Sam all this?

“Your uncle?”

“The gallery’s curator. He’s not really an uncle. He was our guardian after our parents died, so we call him Uncle.” She bit her lip to stop her nervous rambling. She wasn’t sure what had her more rattled—the idea of hiring a PI to spy on him while they were away, or the thought of what other illegal activities he might be up to. “Um... could you excuse me a minute? I need to make a phone call before I catch up with my sister.”

“Go ahead. Tommy and I will browse for a few minutes.”

Jennifer moved to the groupings of couches and chairs on the other side of the wide hall opposite the specialty dining room next to the gallery and, turning toward the ship’s windows, pulled out her cell phone.

The same sense of being watched that she’d felt outside the gallery last week shivered down her spine. Surreptitiously she scanned the wide hall and dining area beyond. A waiter in a crisp white shirt and black pants and vest approached. A linen napkin lay draped over his arm, and a glass of amber liquid on ice sat on his small round tray. He presented it to her with a slight bow.

“You have the wrong person. I didn’t order a drink.”

“It is complimentary,” he said in broken English.

Jen glanced toward the bar, wondering if he meant someone had bought it for her, but she didn’t see anyone looking her way. Her gaze skittered down the hall to the gallery where Sam stood with a cell phone pressed to his ear, frowning at the waiter. His attention jerked back to Tommy.

“Thank you,” she said to the waiter without reaching for the glass. “But I don’t drink.”

“Not alcohol. Ginger ale,” the waiter assured.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

She scanned the bar area again, but no one seemed ready to take credit for the offering. “Did someone buy this for me?” she enunciated each word slowly, hoping the waiter would understand.

He shook his head. “First day. First drink free.”

The ice tinkling in the glass sure looked tempting. Everyone else sitting along the window seats held similar glasses. “Thank you.” She accepted the drink and took a sip.

After a slight bow, the waiter withdrew.

Jennifer dialed the PI’s number, but the call rolled immediately to voice mail. She waited a minute and tried again. Then a third time. She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. They had two and a half hours before the ship left port and perhaps another hour after that before she lost cell phone reception. She’d try again later.

She stuffed her phone back in her purse and rejoined Sam and Tommy, who’d plopped himself on the floor and started coloring.

“Get ahold of who you were after?” Sam asked.

“Busy. I’ll try again later. Ready to go?”

“First, what do you think of this piece?” Sam pointed to a Native American sculpture. “I’ve heard the artist’s work is internationally sought after.”

She shrugged. “Not really my taste.”

“But for what it is, do you think it’s a good value or overpriced?”

She eyed him speculatively. Men—the kind who were guaranteed to be wrong for her—inevitably tried to gain her attention by feigning an interest in art. That or they really were connoisseurs. Yet the curious sparkle in Sam’s eyes didn’t give away any hidden agenda. Then again, her track record for spotting them wasn’t the best. She glanced at the four-figure ticket price. “I don’t know what its market value is. Sorry.”

He studied her intently then chuckled. “But you’d never pay that much for it.”

She let a smile slip. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Fair enough.”

“Hey, you found her.” Jake’s voice boomed from behind them.

“Dad-eee,” Tommy snatched up his coloring book and scurried into Jake’s waiting arms.

Jake scooped him up in one smooth sweep, his face glowing with fatherly pride.

Cassie’s complexion went pasty, but to her credit she didn’t give away her discomfort in any other way. Jen hadn’t been surprised that Cass had attached herself to someone aboard. She never could stand to be alone. Of course, now she’d probably want to hunt down someone more her type—not a man tied down by a child but someone wild and daring...a playboy. Definitely not the kind of guy Jen wanted to spend ten days around. And if Cass spent all her time flirting, Jen would never get the chance to broach the subject of selling the gallery.

“Can we eat now?” Tommy squealed.

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam and Jake said in unison.

As they made their way down the hall, Jen admired the view through the ship’s windows—clear blue skies, sunlight dancing on the choppy water, the odd sailboat gliding by. She misstepped, feeling as if the ship had dipped over a wave, but the ship wasn’t moving yet.

Sam caught her elbow. “You okay?”

“Yes. I—” She swayed, and not just from the tingle skittering up her arm at Sam’s touch. “Whoa. Um, I guess I got a little dizzy looking at the water.”

He held her steady. “Do you get seasick?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been on a ship. I put on a patch, just to be on the safe side.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and pointed to the seasickness patch she’d put on last night—twenty-four hours before setting sail, like the directions had said.

Sam moved to her other side, between her and the window. “Maybe just focus on the hall for now, until you get your sea legs.”

“Good idea.” She tried not to think about how sweet Sam was being. Her sole mission this trip was to convince Cass to agree to sell her half of the gallery. Maybe one day, after their names stopped being synonymous with wealthy heiresses, she could trust a man’s attention again.

They soon reached a bank of elevators and Cass hit the up button. The numbers above each door all hovered around fourteen. “Looks like everyone has the same idea about hitting the buffet,” Jake said.

A group jostled past them, glanced up at the numbers and then climbed the spacious stairs. Jen hoped the men wouldn’t suggest they do the same. She suddenly didn’t feel so good.

They stepped on the first elevator that opened. It stopped one deck up, where a waiter stepped on—the waiter who’d served her the drink. He nodded then turned to the front. The elevator’s movement made her brain feel like Jell-O jiggling in a bowl. She pressed her palm to her temple.

“You getting a migraine?” Cass’s face swam in front of Jen’s eyes.

“I don’t know.” Jen’s muscles turned as jiggly as her brain. “I suddenly feel weird.” Her head seemed to be floating. She felt her legs give way in a kind of detached, surreal way. As she was sinking, the lights went out. Strong arms came around her—solid, unwavering.

Cass called her name as if she were far away. A male voice, too. Sam’s. But she kept sinking until she couldn’t hear anymore.

THREE

“What’s wrong with her?” Cass screamed.

Sam eased Jen gently to the elevator floor so he could check her airway, breathing and circulation. The ABCs of his first responder course spiraled through his mind like a CD on replay. “Jake, help me.” He was the firefighter. He knew what to do. Jake knelt beside him, Tommy clinging to his neck.

The elevator doors opened.

“Gran—” Tommy squealed and lunged for his grandparents, who were standing at the door waiting to board.

Sam’s mom quickly overcame her surprise at the sight of the slumped woman and wrapped Tommy in her arms.

“We’ve got to get this woman to sick bay,” Jake said. “We’ll meet you at the buffet when we can or back at the room.”

“What deck is sick bay?” Sam asked the ship employee standing in front of the elevator panel.

“Oh, uh, Deck Five, Plaza,” he said in a thick Eastern European accent.

“Well, hit it, will you?”

The man did as he was told, but the elevator stopped at the next deck down. “Excuse me. I get off here.”

Cass lunged at the control panel and slapped the five again. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Her respiration is good. Pulse is rapid,” Jake said. “Does she have any medical conditions or allergies?”

“No, not that I know of.”

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and Sam swept Jen into his arms. She was impossibly light, as if a strong nor’easter could sweep her off the deck. His chest crunched at the unwelcome image.

“Which way to sick bay?” he asked the startled passengers waiting to board the elevator.

“Deck Four—Gala, one down—turn left,” a woman spoke up.

Cass slapped the 4 button. “How could a ship employee not know where sick bay is? He told us five.”

A few seconds later the doors pulled open again, and Sam charged left with Jen in his arms, Cassandra and Jake following.

A middle-aged woman in green scrubs directed him to lay her down on a bed, then she immediately checked Jen’s vitals as they relayed what they knew.

The nurse pulled on reading glasses and jotted down Jen’s blood pressure reading. “What has she had to eat or drink in the past three hours?”

Cassandra perched on a chair beside the bed and clutched Jen’s hand. “Nothing that I know of.” Black tears streamed down her cheeks. “We were on our way to supper.”

“She had a glass of something a bit ago,” Sam interjected. “I didn’t see what.”

The nurse eyed him suspiciously as she felt Jen’s glands. Not that he blamed her. He was kicking himself for not intervening when he saw that waiter press a drink on Jen that she didn’t seem to want.

The nurse’s expression changed. She swept back Jen’s hair and pulled off the seasickness patch. “Not sure if this is a contributing factor to her blacking out. But we’ve seen a number of negative reactions to these.”

Cass gasped. “Is she going to be okay?”

The nurse patted Cass’s shoulder. “Her respiration is a bit slow, but her vitals are good. We’ll continue to monitor her until she comes to, unless you’d prefer we evacuate her to a hospital immediately.”

“Do you think we should?”

“The doctor will be here shortly. Let’s wait to see what he thinks.”

“But that’s what you think it is?” Sam asked. “Just the seasickness patch?”

“Did she take any recreational drugs? Alcohol?” The nurse’s gaze narrowed in on Cass. “It’s important you tell me everything so we can provide the best care to... This is your sister, right?”

“Yes. She doesn’t do drugs.” Fresh tears streamed down Cass’s cheeks. “Or drink.” Cass swiped at her damp face. “This is all my fault. She didn’t even want to come on the cruise.”

Jake rubbed Cass’s back. “It’s not your fault. She’s going to be okay.”

The nurse turned her attention to Sam. “You said she had a drink. What was it? Did she leave it unattended?”

“Can we speak outside a minute?” He cupped her elbow and steered her firmly out of the room. Once the door was closed he asked, “You think someone put a roofie in her drink?”

The nurse looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “And how do you know about Rohypnol?”

“C’mon, you just went through the list of what every woman shouldn’t do if she doesn’t want her drink spiked with a date rape drug.”

Jake appeared at the doorway, listening in.

The nurse shrugged. “I can’t verify it without a urine sample.”

“But the symptoms fit?” His heart went back to racing a mile a minute. “Even if she only had the drink ten minutes before she passed out?” Sam knew why the nurse was being cagey. She wasn’t at liberty to discuss a person’s medical condition with a nonrelative. But if he was going to catch whoever did this to Jen, he needed answers.

The nurse perched her reading glasses on her head. “Depending on the dose, roofies can take effect within minutes. Symptoms typically peak at two hours.”

“How long before she wakes up?”

The nurse hesitated.

“How long is a patient typically out?” he rephrased impatiently.

“A few hours, at least.” She glanced toward a couple of other occupied rooms and lowered her voice. “If you think she ingested the stuff less than an hour ago, the doctor will give her activated charcoal. It’ll soak up the drug from her stomach and intestinal tract.”

Sam inhaled. “And if I’m wrong?”

“If it’s been longer than an hour since ingestion, or we’re wrong about the substance, it’ll be pretty useless, but it won’t hurt.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can track down the source.” He turned to Jake, still standing at the door to Jen’s room. “You mind staying with them?”

“No problem. You go on.”

Sam raced up the three flights to the lounge where Jen was given the drink. A balding, forty-something Caucasian man staffed the bar. The waitstaff was all female.

Sam stepped up to the bar.

“What can I get you?” the barkeep asked.

“I’m looking for the waiter who served the customers by the windows about forty-five minutes ago. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Him?” The bartender frowned and went back to polishing the glasses lining the bar. “Not sure who that’d be. My staff tonight are all women.” His bar phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, reaching for the phone.

Great. So someone impersonating a waiter brought her a drink. That made the elimination process a whole lot tougher. He hadn’t gotten a look at the guy’s face, and Jen wasn’t going to be in any condition to look at passenger photos any time soon.

Sam pictured the man he’d glimpsed from behind. As soon as the bartender finished his call, Sam said, “The guy I’m looking for was about five-ten, short dark hair, wore a black-and-white waitstaff uniform. Did a guy fitting the description order a soft drink from you?”

“You with the woman in sick bay?”

How’d he—? The phone call. The nurse must’ve notified security already. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry. No men dressed like that ordered a drink from me.” He waved over a waitress. “Hey, did a waiter-looking guy order a drink from you?”

“No, I would’ve remembered that.” The woman laid her empty tray on the bar, along with an electronic cruise-card reader.

Although food was included in the cruise price, drinks weren’t, which meant that if a passenger bought Kate the drink, his card would’ve been swiped. “Hey, can you get security back on the phone and ask them to look up everyone who paid for a soft drink—” Sam glanced at his watch “—between four and four-thirty? If they can line up the customers’ photos, my friend should be able to identify the guy.” And Sam wouldn’t have to reveal he was FBI or that his interest in finding the guy went beyond a drugged drink.

“Sure thing. They’ll be all over it.”

Sam scratched his arm, his finger catching on a fine gold chain that was snagged on his sleeve. He carefully freed it, and a tiny cross slipped into his palm. Jen’s. He stroked his thumb over the delicate etching, recalling how fragile she’d felt in his arms.

He clapped his hand closed and shoved the pendant into his pocket. “Jezebel” had pretended to believe in God to wile her way into his confidence. Wearing a cross didn’t mean anything.

What he needed to know was who would want to knock Miss Robbins out? And why? And did the reason have anything to do with his investigation?

He needed to talk to her sister. He rode the elevator up to the Lido deck to grab some pizza slices for everyone first, then headed back to sick bay.

Outside Jen’s room, Sam got an update on her condition The doctor felt certain she’d been drugged, but would be fine, and her sister had opted not to have her transported off the ship.

“Anything?” Jake asked as Sam rounded the corner.

Sam shook his head. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Jen could’ve been slipped the drug earlier because from what he’d seen, she’d only sipped whatever the waiter had brought her, and there’d been less than twenty minutes for it to take effect. Rohypnol was fast-acting, but...

He offered Cassandra a pizza slice. “I know the nurse asked you this before, but are you sure your sister didn’t eat or drink anything else? Maybe stop for a coffee before you boarded? Take any medicine?”