Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) Jack Lively (important of reading books TXT) 📖

the middle frequencies. I pictured Gretchen as a woman in a room surrounded by security camera monitors. On duty. Whatever she had said, the guy understood it. He said, “Need you to send someone down.” Gretchen hissed and crackled again. The guy said, “Okay thanks.” He turned back to me. “Someone will be down to get you in a minute.”

I pushed past him. “Thanks. I’ll meet them on the boat.”

The guy said something, which I didn’t catch, because I was already moving up the gangway. Which was a passenger tunnel, like those coming off an airplane. Airless, but thankfully short. The gangway thumped under my feet. I dodged one of the wheelchairs. It contained a man. At first glance, an old person. But closer in I saw that he wasn’t old so much as sickly, paper-white skin and sunglasses. He was breathing through a gummy mouth, making quite an effort. The windows were Perspex and badly scratched. I looked up and over at the breadth of the boat. Going to the window and peering down below I could make out the short stretch of blue water between the dock and the ship.

Then I stepped into an entrance area. Like a fancy hotel lobby, but on a boat.

One side was taken up by a concierge desk. The colors were muted beige. A reassuring tone the shade of coffee with too much milk in it. Recessed lighting was built into contoured wall paneling. There were four or five stations manned by slickly outfitted men and women, busy with problems. Pecking into computer screens and speaking softly into phones. The passengers milled around waiting, heavy with logistical annoyances and preference issues. Off that was a space designed to impress. A vast hall that rose up almost as high as the Emerald Allure herself. The centerpiece was a gigantic chandelier, which looked less like a chandelier as I knew it, more like a projectile vomit of mirrored squares.

I pushed through and entered what looked like the sports area. There were two tennis courts on my left, and an indoor swimming pool on my right. The pool was generous. The windows were steamed up some, so I didn’t have a clear view. But I could make out figures cavorting in the turquoise waters. And it didn’t look like they were elderly people, or middle-aged mothers of adolescent children. Looked more like a half-dozen swimsuit models taking turns doing flips off the diving board.

The ceiling of the pool area was all glass panels. Sun loungers were lined up either side of the blue rectangle. At the back was a smoothie juice bar that took up the width of the space. A pale blonde woman stepped up and executed a perfect back double twist. Through the steamed glass she was a dead ringer for Amber Chapman. Tall, and slim, a body that I recognized. I froze at the window. The figure emerged from the water like someone born to it. The woman did five strokes freestyle, then smoothly bobbed under again.

There was no entrance door from the corridor where I stood, just the wall of foggy windows looking in. The entrance was on the other side. I kept my eye on the blonde as I walked around, trying to find a way in. She came out of the water, lifting smoothly off the tiles with toned arms. Definitely moved like Chapman. I came around as she was drying herself off, chatting with a slim dark-haired woman. The other three or four were gathering close, wrapping towels around themselves. I saw the entrance, tucked behind the bar at the far end. I would have to go all the way around.

There was no direct route into the swimming pool.

First there was a concierge to bypass. I flashed Ellie’s badge and he let me through. Next I had to negotiate a maze of dressing rooms and foot-rinsing basins and body-rinsing showers. They wanted me to take my boots off. By the time I found the way into the pool, I was holding my boots and my socks in one hand and there were no more cavorting swimsuit models. Only a clutch of silver-haired and bald men belly-deep in the shallow end.

The entrance to the women’s showers and changing room was through a tropical forest of potted palms. I put my shoes on and started moving through the fronds, when a hand gripped my elbow. I turned to face a small woman, maybe thirty years old. Maybe Filipina. She was in uniform with a badge. She said, “The arboretum on board contains half a football field of tropical plants and trees. It’s called Paradise Valley and people find it very romantic.”

The badge at her breast read, ‘Hospitality Princess.’

I said, “I saw someone I knew, she went through there.”

“I’m afraid that is the women’s changing rooms and showers, sir, men are not allowed. You are the policeman?” I grunted, affirmative. She said, “Would you like to come with me, sir?”

The Hospitality Princess walked me back to the big area with the chandelier, and over to a bank of glass elevators. She pressed the button and stood patiently. Her hair was shiny, black, and straight, sculpted into a wave over her head. I said, “Where are we going?”

She glanced at me politely, eyes diverted to my chin. “I’m taking you down to the hospitality offices sir.”

“I want to speak to the head of security.”

“I’m afraid the chief officers have not yet boarded, sir. We pick them up in Juneau, the day after tomorrow, with the main body of passengers. You know that Juneau is the capital of Alaska, sir.”

“You’re running the boat without officers?”

She chuckled. “Of course not. We have approximately 1,300 personnel on board. A quarter of those are officers. Believe me, sir, there is plenty of expertise aboard the Emerald Allure.” Then she whispered conspiratorially. “We could actually do just fine without the chief officers, but people like to see them. The boats are mostly computerized these days.”

I said, “The deputy