"Scout's honor. Local residents in the Hudson River valley swear to seeing a phantom train as it turns from the shore and heads up the grade of the old bridge before it vanishes. Naturally, the apparition only appears after dark."
"Naturally," Pitt replied sarcastically. "You forgot the full moon and the howling of banshees."
Epstein shrugged and then laughed. "I thought you'd appreciate a touch of the macabre."
"You have copies of all this?"
"Sure. I figured you'd want them. There's five pounds of material on the sinking of the Empress and the investigation following the Hudson River bridge failure. I also scrounged up the names and addresses of a few people who make a hobby out of researching old ship and train disasters. It's all neatly packaged in an envelope out in the car." Epstein motioned toward the parking lot of the shooting range. "I'll get it for you."
"I appreciate your time and effort," said Pitt.
Epstein stared at him steadily. "One question, Dirk, you owe me that."
"Yes, I owe you that," Pitt acquiesced.
"Is this a NUMA project or are you on your own?"
"Strictly a personal show."
"I see." Epstein looked down on the ground and idly kicked a loose rock. "Did you know that a descendant of Richard Essex was recently found dead?"
"John Essex. Yes, I know."
"One of our reporters covered the story." Epstein paused and nodded in the direction of Pitt's Cobra. "A man matching your description, driving a red sports car, and asking directions to Essex's house was seen by a neighbor an hour before an anonymous phone call to the police tipped them off about his death."
"Coincidence," Pitt shrugged.
"Coincidence your ass," said Epstein. "What in hell are you up to?"
Pitt took a few steps in silence, his face set in a grim expression. Then he smiled slightly, and Epstein could have sworn the smile was tinged with foreboding.
"Believe me, my friend, when I say you don't want to know."
Graham Humberly's house sprawled over the top of a hill in Palos Verdes, a posh bedroom community of Los Angeles. The architecture was a blend of contemporary and California Spanish with rough coated plaster walls and ceilings, laced with massive weathered beams covered by a roof of curved red tile.
A large fountain splashed on the main terrace and spilled into a circular swimming pool. A spectacular panoramic view overlooked a vast carpet of city lights to the east, while the rear faced down on the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island to the west.
Music from a mariachi band and the tidal current of babble from a hundred voices greeted Shaw as he entered Humberty's home. Bartenders were feverishly mixing gallons of tequila margaritas while the caterers busily replenished spicy Mexican dishes on a buffet table that seemed to stretch into infinity.
A small man with a head too large for his shoulders approached. He was wearing a black dinner jacket with an oriental dragon embroidered on the back.
"Hello, I'm Graham Humberly," he said with a glossy smile. "Welcome to the party."
"Brian Shaw."
The smile remained glossy. "Ah, yes, Mr. Shaw. Sorry for not recognizing you, but our mutual friends didn't send me a photograph."
"You have a most impressive home. Nothing quite like it in England."
"Thank you. But the credit belongs to my wife. I preferred something more provincial. Fortunately, her taste surpassed mine."
Humberly's accent, Shaw guessed, hinted of Cornwall. "Is Commander Milligan present?"
Humberly took his arm and led him away from the crowd. "Yes, she's here," he said softly. "I had to invite every officer of the ship to make sure she'd come. Come along, I'll introduce you around."
"I'm not much for social dribble," said Shaw. "Suppose you point her out and I'll handle things on my own."
"As you wish." Humberly studied the mass of bodies milling around the terrace. Then his gaze stopped and he -nodded toward the bar. "The tall, rather attractive woman with blond hair in the blue dress."