in the room with the stained mattress. He held it high.
“LaShelle Shearing. Someone pried the bars from her window…”
“You’re sandbagging me, you bastard.”
“…found burned beyond recognition in an abandoned house—”
Sandhill grabbed a napkin dispenser and fired it over Ryder’s head into the wall, napkins spilling across the floor. Ryder pulled a third photo from his jacket and held it high.
“Darla Dumont, disappeared one year ago without a tra—”
A timer bell rang from the kitchen. Sandhill said, “That means it’s time for you to leave, Ryder.” Sandhill strode to the kitchen and the swinging doors closed behind him.
When they didn’t re-open, Ryder sighed, tucked the photos in his pocket, and left.
13
Walter Hutchinson Mattoon stood at the prow of the Petite Angel and watched the sun rise over the glassy morning sea, the sparse clouds bright as hammered copper. The only sounds were a low rumble of the ship’s engine and the hull cleaving water five stories below. Though his suit was dark and the day equatorially hot, Mattoon showed no sign of sweating. He ran a hand over his spearpointed widow’s peak, patted down a wind-blown lock of black hair, and clasped his hands behind his slender back.
He heard a muffled ahem a dozen paces behind and turned to a diminutive man in a captain’s suit. The man pulled his five-foot-two toward five-three and snapped a crisp salute.
“Yes, Captain Sampanong?” Mattoon enquired.
“I think we have solved a mystery, Mr Mattoon.”
Mattoon followed Captain Trili Sampanong into the body of the ship and down two flights of stairs,finding a tucked-away space between two towering containers. An overturned wooden chair was on the floor, beside it several pornographic magazines and an upended ashtray.
Mattoon looked to the corner to find his steward, Pierre Valvane, in a crumpled heap, his mouth a smear of blood. The man was moaning. Above the steward stood a tall man with a shaved head, shirtless, his muscles like iron cords and his rotten-tooth mouth a festering parody of a grin.
Most of the crew had been drawn to the commotion, and Mattoon saw the world in his employees’ faces: Asian, European, Slavic, African, Middle Eastern. All were silent and impassive, more curious than anything.
“What is this?” Mattoon said.
“I find him in here drinking,” the bald man said, jabbing a finger toward the steward at his feet.
Mattoon raised a dark eyebrow. “Drinking is not prohibited, Tenzel. Not if done on the first shift of a double shift off duty.”
“I find him drinking this.”
The bald man reached beneath the steward and produced an empty bottle of Mattoon’s Château d’Yquem, part of a case that an inventory had revealed either missing or miscounted.
The steward moaned again. The bald man kicked him in the knee.
“Steady, Tenzel,” Mattoon said. “Don’t render him useless.”
Mattoon stepped closer and considered the situation. On the one hand, he hated thievery and could not in any way countenance its appearance on his ship; on the other hand, he employed thieves. Mattoon approached the steward, setting the toes of his sleek black loafers a meter from the man’s nose.
“Mr Valvane, do you hear me?”
“ Oui , yes,” the man said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, it won’t hap—”
The bald man stepped on to the steward’s ankle. “You don’t talk. You listen.”
“Tenzel, please.”
The bald man reluctantly stepped from the steward’s leg. Mattoon lowered to a crouch. “Are you upset with me, Mr Valvane? Do you not find the accommodations pleasing? The working conditions satisfactory? Has the food not been to your liking?”
“I make a terrible mistake. I’m sorry.”
“It’s good that you recognize your error, Mr Valvane. Redemptive. Am I to understand that it won’t happen again?”
“ Oui . I mean, non .”
Mattoon patted the man’s shoulder. “Very good. You are to return to your cabin, and I
“LaShelle Shearing. Someone pried the bars from her window…”
“You’re sandbagging me, you bastard.”
“…found burned beyond recognition in an abandoned house—”
Sandhill grabbed a napkin dispenser and fired it over Ryder’s head into the wall, napkins spilling across the floor. Ryder pulled a third photo from his jacket and held it high.
“Darla Dumont, disappeared one year ago without a tra—”
A timer bell rang from the kitchen. Sandhill said, “That means it’s time for you to leave, Ryder.” Sandhill strode to the kitchen and the swinging doors closed behind him.
When they didn’t re-open, Ryder sighed, tucked the photos in his pocket, and left.
13
Walter Hutchinson Mattoon stood at the prow of the Petite Angel and watched the sun rise over the glassy morning sea, the sparse clouds bright as hammered copper. The only sounds were a low rumble of the ship’s engine and the hull cleaving water five stories below. Though his suit was dark and the day equatorially hot, Mattoon showed no sign of sweating. He ran a hand over his spearpointed widow’s peak, patted down a wind-blown lock of black hair, and clasped his hands behind his slender back.
He heard a muffled ahem a dozen paces behind and turned to a diminutive man in a captain’s suit. The man pulled his five-foot-two toward five-three and snapped a crisp salute.
“Yes, Captain Sampanong?” Mattoon enquired.
“I think we have solved a mystery, Mr Mattoon.”
Mattoon followed Captain Trili Sampanong into the body of the ship and down two flights of stairs,finding a tucked-away space between two towering containers. An overturned wooden chair was on the floor, beside it several pornographic magazines and an upended ashtray.
Mattoon looked to the corner to find his steward, Pierre Valvane, in a crumpled heap, his mouth a smear of blood. The man was moaning. Above the steward stood a tall man with a shaved head, shirtless, his muscles like iron cords and his rotten-tooth mouth a festering parody of a grin.
Most of the crew had been drawn to the commotion, and Mattoon saw the world in his employees’ faces: Asian, European, Slavic, African, Middle Eastern. All were silent and impassive, more curious than anything.
“What is this?” Mattoon said.
“I find him in here drinking,” the bald man said, jabbing a finger toward the steward at his feet.
Mattoon raised a dark eyebrow. “Drinking is not prohibited, Tenzel. Not if done on the first shift of a double shift off duty.”
“I find him drinking this.”
The bald man reached beneath the steward and produced an empty bottle of Mattoon’s Château d’Yquem, part of a case that an inventory had revealed either missing or miscounted.
The steward moaned again. The bald man kicked him in the knee.
“Steady, Tenzel,” Mattoon said. “Don’t render him useless.”
Mattoon stepped closer and considered the situation. On the one hand, he hated thievery and could not in any way countenance its appearance on his ship; on the other hand, he employed thieves. Mattoon approached the steward, setting the toes of his sleek black loafers a meter from the man’s nose.
“Mr Valvane, do you hear me?”
“ Oui , yes,” the man said, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, it won’t hap—”
The bald man stepped on to the steward’s ankle. “You don’t talk. You listen.”
“Tenzel, please.”
The bald man reluctantly stepped from the steward’s leg. Mattoon lowered to a crouch. “Are you upset with me, Mr Valvane? Do you not find the accommodations pleasing? The working conditions satisfactory? Has the food not been to your liking?”
“I make a terrible mistake. I’m sorry.”
“It’s good that you recognize your error, Mr Valvane. Redemptive. Am I to understand that it won’t happen again?”
“ Oui . I mean, non .”
Mattoon patted the man’s shoulder. “Very good. You are to return to your cabin, and I
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