Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

I heard Julie whimpering in the background, the voice of Maria Teresa, her funny nanny, talking as the baby bawled.

“Call you back,” said Joe.

When Joe was with Homeland Security, one of his areas of responsibility was port security. If anyone was connected, it was my husband.

I found a day-old jelly doughnut in the break room, took one bite, and delivered the rest of it to Conklin. Then I maniacally hit news links while across the desk Conklin took calls from frantic cops, asking if we’d gotten any word from Brady.

When Joe called back, I grabbed my cell, fumbled it, and recovered it just before it hit the floor.

“Talk to me,” I said tersely into the p

hone.

Joe said, “The first mate got out a distress call to the Coast Guard just before the radio room was breached. A man, self-identified as Jackhammer, warned that if anyone approached the ship, people would be shot. The crew is detained in the hold. Passengers have been rousted out of their cabins and corralled under guard to various lounges. There’s a Coast Guard vessel in contact with this Jackhammer. I guess some kind of negotiation is in progress.”

“That’s it?”

“No. That’s the good news. A passenger got out a phone call saying two passengers were dead, but they weren’t named. I’ll keep checking.”

I called Jacobi to tell him what I knew.

He said, “Brady will take care of Yuki. If you were a hostage, Boxer, who would you pick to break you out? Brady, right?”

That was true. But where was Brady?

I forwarded Yuki’s video to Jacobi, then sent it to Cindy and Claire, both of whom had e-mailed me after they’d caught bulletins about the FinStar on the news.

Cindy had uncut video, just in, of helicopters in the air above the beleaguered ship. It was a haunting fifteen seconds, during which time sections of the ship went dark until the entire ship had been blacked out. Then shots were fired into the air. A lot of shots. Long bursts of them. These hostage takers, whoever they were, had no shortage of ammunition.

I organized a conference call, and Cindy, Claire, and I gibbered anxiously, helplessly. We sounded panicky because we were in a three-alarm panic. We were all accustomed to making things happen, getting things done—but this time we had no moves, no action plan, nothing.

My skull felt as hollow as a drum, empty except for the bad thoughts ricocheting around inside. How could this be happening off the coast of Alaska? Where was Brady? Was Yuki okay? Was she still alive? Was Brady?

When I looked up, Conklin was watching me with a steady brown-eyed gaze.

He said, “Can we do anything to help them?”

“You know that we can’t do one damned thing.”

“Then we’ve got a meeting with Donna Timko.”

The name rang a distant bell.

“Who?”

“Timko. Donna. Head of product development. At Chuck’s,” my partner said distinctly. As if he were talking to a child.

“Right. When are we supposed to see her?”

“You told her ten-thirty.”

It was 10:15 right now.

“I called her. Told her an emergency came up,” Conklin said. “She said, ‘It’s your meeting.’”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Let’s hit the road.”

CHAPTER 51