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near the back of the ballroom-sized room I came across Marc Alley huddled at a table for two with an early-forties blondish woman armed with a laptop computer as well as a small tape recorder.
    He was up and dressed—nattily coat-and-tie-dressed—but he looked more than a little worse for wear. His overused appearance reminded me of some of my nightly debaucheries back in the good old days when I was hell-bent on misspending my own youth. Since Marc was obviously busy with the scheduled interview he had mentioned the night before, I was prepared to walk past without interrupting them. To my surprise, he waved me over to the table.
    â€œHow’s it going, Beau?” he said.
    â€œFine,” I told him. “How about you?”
    He gestured toward the woman seated with him. “This is Christine Moran,” he said. “She’s a journalist. This is Beau Beaumont.”
    The blonde held out her hand and looked me up and down. “Beau Beaumont,” she said. “Isn’t that a little repetitive?”
    As a cop I’ve always had a natural aversion to journalists of any kind. Christine Moran’s greeting did nothing to make me want to change that position. I smiled back at her. “Let’s put it this way,” I said. “Given a choice between Beau Beaumont or Jonas Piedmont Beaumont, which one would you prefer?”
    She nodded. “You’re right. Glad to meet you, Beau.”
    â€œAre you with one of the papers?” I asked, thinking of Seattle’s two dailies.
    Christine shook her head. “I’m a freelancer,” she said. “Mostly medical stuff for various popular-science and health-type journals. I’m covering the neurology meeting on board. I’m also interviewing Mr. Renaissance Man here as a sidebar to a feature article I’m doing on Dr. Featherman.”
    â€œRenaissance?” I asked.
    Marc shrugged. “That’s how I feel,” he explained. “Once I had the brain surgery and my seizures stopped, I felt like I’d been reborn, like Dr. Featherman had taken a terrible monkey off my back and given me back my life. I could have called myself Lazarus, I suppose, but I prefer Renaissance.”
    I caught sight of the outer edge of a hickey peeking out from under the collar of Marc’s starched and pressed white shirt. If Harrison Featherman had dealt with one part of Marc’s being reborn, Dr. Featherman’s ex-wife had evidently made her own contribution to his sense of well-being, if not necessarily his health.
    I took another look around the dining room to ascertain that Beverly Jenssen wasn’t to be found among the other diners. “If you’re trying to do an interview, I’d better let you get on with it.”
    â€œWait,” Marc said. “Do you have plans for later on today?”
    â€œIt’s an at-sea day,” I told him. “Barring a helicopter ride, I don’t suppose I’m going anywhere.”
    â€œI’d like to talk to you for a little while,” he said. “I need your advice on something. What time would be convenient? I’m busy with the conference all morning. How about one o’clock?”
    I couldn’t imagine what kind of counsel Marc Alley would want from me. If it was some kind of advice to the lovelorn, I knew I was out of my league. “Sure,” I said. “Where should we meet?”
    I would have liked to suggest my stateroom, but I had no idea whether or not I’d still be dealing with Lars. “How about right here?” Marc returned. “We can have lunch.”
    â€œRight,” I said. “That’ll be fine.”
    Nodding to Christine Moran, I skedaddled out of the Crystal and took the atrium’s glass elevator two floors up to Regal. And that’s where I found Beverly Piedmont Jenssen, delicately slicing her way through a thick piece of syrup-drenched French toast.
    â€œWell,” she sniffed as