Free A Cruise to Die For (An Alix London Mystery) by Aaron Elkins, Charlotte Elkins Page A

held them went into his shoulder pack along with the usual square green Jägermeister bottle and a mug from Heidelberg University. When he got to Grand Ferry, he was happy to find that “his” rocks were unoccupied, but not so pleased to see that a nearby bench was occupied by a bum in a hooded parka, talking to himself, hunched over and staring at the water. Weisskopf could smell his boozy breath and the moldy odor of his parka from ten feet away as he passed behind the bench, and he very loudly cleared his throat. He carried fifteen dollars in his pocket, a dollar or two of which were to be used if he were approached by a panhandler (which had happened a few times) and the rest to be held in reserve to placate a mugger who might choose him for prey (which had never happened, but this was New York, and you never knew).
    The throat clearing was to alert the drunk to his presence so that the money transfer, if there was going to be one, could be gotten over with early and he could eat in peace. The only response, however, was a slight start and a grunt, as if the man had been sleeping, not staring, after which he lay down on the bench with a groaning sigh and settled on his side, facing away from Weisskopf’s rocks. Fine. Even if he himself fell asleep after dinner, he’d be up and gone before this one awakened.
    Weisskopf wriggled out of his backpack and arranged himself on the boulders. Out came the Jägermeister and the mug. He settled contentedly back with his feet up, embraced and supported by smooth hollows of rock, and with a sigh of his own, had his first long swallow of the bittersweet liqueur. This was the first night since Panos Papadakis’s raving call four days ago that Weisskopf was truly able to relax. If what he’d been told today was true, and he thought it was, the problem was solved, over. He dipped one of the spring rolls in the tiny tub of sweet, vinegary sauce that had come with them, bit off half of it, and slowly, happily chewed.
    An hour later, with his dinner leavings in the plastic bag for proper disposal and his third cup of Jägermeister warming him along with the previous two, he set the cup on the flat rock, turned up his collar and buttoned the coat to the top, stretched out just a little more, folded his hands across his belly, closed his eyes, and let the cool, gentle breeze carry sleep to him.
    Five minutes passed. Ten. By the time the slumping figure on the bench unhunched and arose to move noiselessly toward him, Weisskopf was gently snoring. At one point, as if sensing something through the wall of sleep, he stirred. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t part. He never saw the first flash, let alone the second and third, never heard the
pop pop pop
.

8

    B y hour nine of a sixteen-hour journey, unless one is lucky enough to be able to sleep on airplanes, one’s mind more or less comes loose from its moorings and begins to wander. Thus, at a little past the halfway point between Seattle and Athens, Alix suddenly realized that she had no idea what was going on in the forgettable movie—the second forgettable movie—she’d been watching on the back of the seat in front of her, and very little idea where her mind had been for the last hour. Maybe she’d dozed without knowing it, but she was wide-awake now. She looked at her watch. It was 1:30 a.m. Seattle time, not a great time to be wide-awake, a little queasy, and restless, but with no place to go. The bright midmorning European sunlight that was streaming in under the drawn shades only made things seem weirder, made her stomach more unsettled.
    She turned off the video, tucked her earphones into the seat pocket, thought about pressing the button that would extend her seat into a reasonable approximation of a bed but, having tried it earlier, decided against it and turned on the call button. The French attendant was at her side in seconds.
    “Madame?”
    “Could I have some coffee, please? And perhaps a croissant?”
    “At once,