All At Sea

Part One: Prelude

By Jeb

Crab dip. Yum.

Police Captain Cynthia Crane finished the last bite of cracker, savoring the mingled flavors of genuine crab—with a “c”, not a “k”—and fresh cream. She sighed… back at the station house, if she wanted anything more than greasy Subway sandwiches, she’d have to fetch it herself… no doubt about it, undercover assignments have their perks!

Of course, Cynthia thought, I’m not supposed to be TOO undercover. She glanced at her reflection in a shining silver platter, a few lonesome strawberries dotting it here and there: jade-green eyes glowing deep in a face of porcelain perfection, the neck of a swan, and a mane of long, russet hair that shone flame, even in the artificial lighting of the huge dining room.

After all, Cynthia, she told herself, they’re supposed to notice you. She smoothed the gold designer dress—the department must have spent the equivalent of a month's worth of her salary on the thing—over her hips, giving them just the right swing, noting the eyes shifting in her direction. Now, the question is—which set of eyes should I be watching for?

***

“Cynthia, this one could be tricky.” Deputy Commissioner Margaret Niles had looked over the tops of her glasses at the statuesque redhead in the regulation blue Police Captain’s uniform.

“Nothing I like better than a challenge,” Cynthia Crane responded with the chin-up hair-tossing pose that the Deputy Commissioner knew all too well.

“Captain Crane, this is not one of those situations where you kick down doors and storm in while the bad guys gawp at your guns and tits. This is going to call for some craft, and some subtlety.” And how the hell did the Mayor decide on Crane for this assignment?, Niles mulled. Captain Crane was well-known as probably the bravest and toughest policewoman in the department—and the best-looking, no “probably” about it—but she was as headstrong as she was hard-nosed, and her reckless “bull in a china shop” approach seemed desperately wrong for this assignment. Still, orders were orders.

If Cynthia had noticed the reference to her breasts, she ignored it. She sat down, and leaned forward on her boss’ desk with an almost distressing intensity.

“Tell me all about it.”

Niles rubbed her eyes under her glasses, and settled back.

“Tell me, Cynthia… have you heard of a criminal organization that goes by the name of the Diamond Lady gang?”

Cynthia snorted. “Sounds right out of an episode of Batman!”

Margaret Niles gave a wry smile. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? And in a way, that’s not a bad way of looking at it, for they are certainly unlike any criminal organization I’ve encountered in all my years in law enforcement.”

“How so?” the green eyes twinkled, intrigued.

“Well, they are a group of men and women, whose identities are ‘shrouded in mystery’, as they say. They’re rich, we know that--- and they keep themselves that way by means of blackmail, kidnapping, extortion, grand theft… you name it. And they seem to take a real delight in it—as though the money is secondary to the chance to terrify or humiliate their victims.”

“Have they never been caught?”

“They’re smart, and they choose their victims carefully…” her face reddened. “I’ll give you an example: last year, one of New York’s brightest socialites disappeared for a few weeks. She finally resurfaced, but had no contact with her old friends. Well, one thing led to another, and it was finally discovered that the Diamond Lady gang had kidnapped her, taken some—um—‘compromising’ pictures of her, and used them to blackmail her husband. After she was returned unharmed, they were both too mortified to go to the police: people in their station don’t want that sort of publicity. By the time the story came out, the trail was cold.”

“And the Diamond Lady?”

”Their leader. Again, no one knows who she actually is, but she’s reputed to be ruthless, beautiful, and depraved… not necessarily in that order.”

“And where do I fit into this?”

Niles sat forward. “You’ve heard of the new ship the Silicon Star?”

Cynthia nodded. “The one owned by that big dot-com?”

”Right. Supposedly the largest passenger craft ever to sail. Having its maiden voyage next week. Lots of folks there—rich, famous… and exactly the sort of people this group preys on.” She lowered her voice, as though afraid of being overheard. “And we have reason to believe that the Diamond Lady herself will be onboard with her henchmen.”

“How can I arrest her if I don’t know who she is?”

“You’re getting ahead of me, there… you don’t know her, but SHE will know you. Or, rather, she will know who she THINKS you to be.”

“Thinks?”

“You will be going aboard the ship, undercover, as an extremely wealthy heiress… you will appear to be alone, and vulnerable.”

“Will I be?”

Nile snorted. “Hah! The day you’re vulnerable. No, and you won’t be alone, either. Interpol will have a pair of agents aboard. They will take charge of the investigation once they contact you.”

“What do I do while I wait?”

“Get noticed. They’re certain to have dossiers on potential victims, but you must present yourself as an inviting target.”

“And after I invite them, what then?”

Welll…” Niles pursed her lips. “When they make their move on you, you must have your Interpol contacts in place, ready to catch them in the act.”

“In the act of what?”

“Who knows? You might be robbed, kidnapped—“

“Kidnapped? On a boat?”

“It’s a big place. Thousands of rooms… you’d be surprised what these people can do with a woman once they get their hands on her.”

“Like me, for instance.”

“You’re a professional. Danger is your job, isn’t it?,” Niles said wryly.

Cynthia’s face grew thoughtful. “Why, yes… yes, I suppose it is!” She stood up. “So when do I meet the Interpol contacts?”

”Once you’re aboard, they’ll find you. This is extremely hush-hush. Lady Diamond has agents in many high places, and while I trust the people in this department, it only takes one careless remark in the wrong ear to scuttle the whole operation.” She smiled at the nautical pun, but since it seemed lost on Cynthia, she went on. “Now, here are the details…"

***

Crab dip. Yuck.

Alexandra Anderson looked glumly down at the tray of hors d'oeurves. The fresh fruit seemed to have gone first, and she'd always hated seafood. Functions like this were supposed to be one of the perks of being a reporter, but the rule still seemed to be "you snooze-- you lose."

And functions like this were rare enough for Alexandra-- the Society page wasn't her beat, and the maiden voyage of the Silicon Star was sure to bring out all the usual art patrons and captains of industry. Her editor had certainly been surprised when Alexandra requested the assignment.

"You're an investigative reporter, Anderson," Tammy Allen had growled. "This is a floating Charity Ball, for God's sake."

"Floating in money." Alexandra grinned. "There will be more money represented on that tub than you'd see in an entire season of Opera galas. And with that much money in one place, well… I just have one of those 'feelings'."

The editor rolled her eyes. "Oh, Geez… you and your feelings."

Alexandra pulled herself up to her full five feet four. "My 'feelings' won this paper a National Journalism Foundation award last year."

"And you almost got killed in the process, and we had to find a new insurance carrier!"

"Make up your mind-- first the story's too dull for me, then it's too dangerous."

"I never said--"

"Anyway, given all the politicians and bigwigs that will be there, do you really want to have to rely on Jeanette Humphries for the story?"

Allen grimaced; Jeanette Humphries might have connections with dozens of key players in the community, but the copy she turned in was next to unreadable. The editor's choice was clear: devote an evening of her life to deciphering and rewriting whatever Jeanette turned in, or…

"All right," she sighed. "But I want something meaty. With all those rich idiots aboard, SOMETHING interesting has got to happen."

"My thoughts exactly," Alexandra grinned.

Alexandra had slipped out of the office before Tammy could remember to engage in their usual debate: she wanted Alexandra there as an accredited reporter, wearing her "press" pass. Alexandra, on the other hand, had always preferred to keep a low profile. It might skirt the limits of journalistic propriety, but she honestly believed she got closer to the heart of a story when people didn't realize they were speaking to a reporter; besides, if she intended to quote someone, she always let them know before she did..

Fortunately, one person she had convinced of the value of working that way was the Daily Telegram's accounts manager, who was expert at making attendance arrangements without revealing that the paper was involved. As a result, Alexandra was here, in a designer outfit borrowed from a fashion model who owed her a favor, mixing with the rich and the beautiful, and trying to decide which of them was trying to become a little too rich too fast, or whose intentions might be less than beautiful.

Forsaking the emptying trays of canapés, Alexandra resumed scouting the crowd. She recognized many of the men and women she saw, but too many of them were faces that appeared on the Society page every week. With all the new "dot-com" money floating around, there just had to be an opportunity for something more. She ran a hand through her thick, shining blond hair, and resolved to try moving to one of the other rooms.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a back colliding with her own, and Alexandra stumbled forward, nearly spilling warm champagne down her blouse. A muttered curse came from behind her, and she spun to get a look at the woman she'd bumped into. Her mouth opened, and for a moment no sound came out.

Then, there was a duet:

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Cynthia Crane goggled at the sight of her least-favorite newshound. Of all the snoops that had made her job difficult over the years, none had stuck her nose in farther where it was less wanted than had Alexandra Anderson.

"Anderson, I… well you see…" Cynthia desperately tried to come up with some explanation of her presence here that wouldn't pique Alexandra's reporter's instincts.

"I see that you're undercover," Alexandra grinned.

"No, I'm not," Cynthia stammered, "I--"

"Would rather do police work than almost anything in the world, and you'd certainly never take a week's cruise if business wasn't involved."

"Look, Anderson, I don't need this grief. Why don't you just forget you saw me--"

"Oh, Captain Crane, how can you say that? We have so many good memories between us."

"Shhhhh!" Cynthia hissed; she then whispered one word: "Elsie."

"Elsie? What's Elsie? Really, Captain--"

"I told you-- Elsie! It's my name!"

"What?!?"

"Elsie Van Tuffet." The captain's china-doll complexion was nearly as red as her hair. "She's an heiress who agreed to let me use her identity for this assignment."

Alexandra stifled a giggle. "So there is an assignment! I knew it!"

"Shhhhhh!!! Keep your voice down." Cynthia growled. "And what about you? Where's your press pass? Or are you trying to pull one of your fast ones?"

Alexandra reddedned. "Well... I may have allowed a few people to believe that--"

"Save it. You're here under false pretenses. We're still not out in the open sea yet… I'm going to have the captain put you on a boat bound for shore."

"You do and I'll make sure that everyone on board knows who you are."

Cynthia goggled at the threat. "You wouldn't--"

"Imagine telling your boss that whatever little operation you’re running had to be called off because your cover was blown."

Cynthia drew breath in through her nose, slowly, gauging the effectiveness of simply cold-cocking the blond reporter and tossing her into a boat. She sighed. No, that would only mean a front-page story about "police brutality" in next day's paper.

"Look, Anderson… we're each in a position to make a lot of trouble for the other; and that won't do either of us any good. I won't have you thrown out of here, IF you agree to do as I say and not do anything to compromise my assignment."

"Compromise it? Come on, Cap-- uh-- Elsie. I can help you! Fill me in-- are we after jewel thieves, or what?"

"WE are not after anything, blondie. I am going back to work, and YOU are going to forget you saw me and go on about your prying into people's private lives-- OTHER people. Far away from me." Cynthia paused, turning away… then swung back to face Alexandra.

"Be careful, Anderson." And before Alexandra could respond, Captain Crane had moved off into the crowd.

***

Long, elegant fingernails tapped in a desultory fashion on a polished table top.

"What have you learned?" The woman's voice was a thoaty purr.

"The information was correct," a man answered in the cultured tones of a diplomat. "Interpol has placed two agents aboard the ship. They are doubtless watching for us"

"Doubtless. Identities?"

"We don't have those, as yet. We are working on it."

"Work quickly."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And, now," the tapping ceased. "Now, it is time to choose our next 'clients'. I've had the ship's roster cross-checked in the computers, and matched up with photographs taken since we departed." There was a rustling of paper. "I have selected three 'candidates'." A manila folder hit the table; clipped to the outside was a picture of a young woman, evidently Hawaiian, posing with her long hair draped provocatively over a bare shoulder. Tossed down on top of the first, the next folder was adorned with a classically Nordic blonde, all teeth and golden mane.

"We will begin tonight." A third folder landed atop the other two. Smiling up from it was the porcelain-doll complexion of Captain Cynthia Crane.

That's the end of my contribution to the story (so far). At this point, I turned the story over to a few other authors, and as time permits, I'll share the fruits of their efforts with you. And if I come up with an idea or two, maybe I'll add to it again myself.

To begin, here's "Lady Shade" creator, Curt, with his chapter called Topaz.

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