There were some thirty-odd berths on each side of the canal, occupied at any time of the year because docking space was scarce anywhere in this city. The General Roy Edwin Dean was in berth number twenty-seven on the eastern side of the canal. A sturdy, responsible-looking vessel that had weathered many a storm and always found its way back to safe harbor, it sat squarely on the water, bobbing on a mild chop that rolled in off the River Dix and the open water beyond.
Meyer and Carella had not called ahead; the truth was, they didn't know how to make a phone call to a ship. Lieutenant Forbes had given Carella the number of the berth, and he and Meyer simply showed up at five minutes past one that Wednesday afternoon. A fierce wind was blowing in off the water. Whitecaps crested as far as the eye could see. Carella wondered why some men felt they had to go down to the seas again, the lonely sea and the sky. Meyer was wondering why he'd forgotten to wear his hat on a day like today. There was a gangplank. Carella looked at Meyer. Meyer shrugged. They climbed to the deck of the ship.
Not a soul in sight.
'Hello?' Carella shouted.
Not a soul, not a sound.
Except for the wind banging something metallic against something else metallic.
A door beckoned. Well, a hatchway, Carella guessed you called it.
Darkness beyond it.
Carella poked his head inside.
'Hello?' he said again.
There was a staircase going up. Well, a ladder.
They climbed it. Kept climbing till they reached a small house on top of the ship. Well, a cabin. There was a man in the cabin. He was sitting on a stool behind a counter, looking at a map. A chart. Listen, the hell with it, Carella thought.
'Yes?' the man said.
'Detective Carella, my partner Detective Meyer,' Carella said, and showed his shield.
The man nodded.
'We're investigating a double homicide . . .'
The man whistled.
He was, Carella guessed, in his late fifties, wearing a heavy black jacket and a peaked black cap. His sideburns were brown, but his beard had come in white, and he sat on his stool like a salty-dog Santa Claus, dark eyebrows raised now as his low whistle trailed and expired.
'May I ask who we're talking to, sir?' Carella said.
'Stewart Webster,' he said, 'captain of the Dean.'
The men shook hands. Webster had a firm grip. His eyes were brown, sharp with intelligence. 'How can I help you?' he asked.
'Well, we're not sure you can,' Carella said. 'But we figured it was worth a shot. We're looking for a ship we have as the General Putnam or the General Putney . . .'
'That's a long way from Dean,' Webster said.
'Yeah,' Carella said, and nodded. 'Supposed to have departed for the Persian Gulf on the eighteenth of October, a year and three months ago.'
'Well, I'm pretty sure we were in these parts around then . . .'
'But didn't you leave on that day?'
'I'd have to check the log. It would have been on or near that date. But, gentlemen…'
'We know,' Meyer said. 'You went to Australia.'
'Haven't been anywhere near the Middle East since Reagan got those marines killed in Beirut. We were there when it happened. The owner cabled us to load our cargo and haul ass out. Afraid he'd lose his ship.'
'We've also got a seaman named Mike,' Carella said.
Webster looked at him.
'If that's his name,' Meyer said.
Webster looked at him.
'We know,' Carella said. 'It's not much to go on.'
'But it's all we have,' Meyer said.
'Mike,' Webster said.
'No last name,' Carella said.
'Presumably on the Dean,' Webster said.
'Or a ship with a General in its name.'
'Well, let's take a look at the roster, see if we've got any Mikes,' Webster said.
'Michael, I guess it would be,' Meyer said.
There were no Michaels in the crew.
There was, however, a Michel.
Michel Fournier.
'Is he French?' Carella asked.
'I have no idea,' Webster said. 'Do you want me to pull his file?'
'If it's no trouble.'
'We'll have to go down to the purser's office,' Webster said.
They followed him down a different ladder from the one they'd climbed earlier, walked through several dark passageways, and came to a door that Webster opened with a key. The compartment resembled Alf Miscolo's clerical office back at the Eight-Seven. There was even the aroma of coffee on the air. Webster went to a row of filing cabinets - gray rather than the green in Miscolo's space - found the one he wanted, opened the drawer, began thumbing through folders, and then yanked one of them out.
'Here he is,' he said, and handed the folder to Carella.
Michel Fournier.
Born in Canada, the province of Quebec.
When he'd shipped on, three years ago, he'd given his address as Portland, Maine.
No address here in the city.
'Was he with you in that time period we're talking about?' Carella asked.
'If he shipped on three years ago and his folder's still here in the active file, then yes, he was with us fifteen months ago, and he's still with us now.'
'You mean he's aboard ship now?'
'No, no. The crew went ashore the moment we docked.'
'Which was when?'
'Two days ago.'
'When are they due back?'
'We won't be sailing again till early next month.'
'Any idea where Fournier might be?'
'I'm sorry. I don't even know the man.'
'Where does he sleep aboard ship?'
'Well, let's see, there ought to be a quarters-assignment chart someplace around here,' Webster said, and began opening drawers in his purser's desk.
Fournier's quarters were in the forward compartment on B deck. His bunk was in a tier of three, folded up against the bulkhead now. Foot lockers ran along the deck under the bunks. All of the lockers were padlocked.
'This one is Fournier's,' Webster said.
'What do we do?' Meyer asked. 'Another goddamn court order?'
'If we want to see what's in there,' Carella said.
'Think we'll even get it?'
Webster was standing there, but the men were thinking out loud.