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those ports at the relevant times.”
    â€œYou have someone really good on this?” Jude asked.
    Crow nodded, his smile growing. “The very best. Angela Hawkins. My wife.”
    * * *
    At seven Alexi joined Clara and some of the other performers and crew members in what they affectionately called “the bowels,” or the employee cafeteria area, far toward the stern on the second deck. They didn’t dine in any of the three main restaurants on the ship, but in a private space that didn’t sport linen napkins or elegant wineglasses. It was still fine; Alexi thought the food served belowdecks was just as good as that in the dining rooms and buffets above. She also liked the fact that the Celtic American line considered all “staff”—from prestigious guest performers to the catering and cleaning crews—to be equal. There were no elite employees. Bradley Wilcox was hard to take at times, but aside from that, they were all treated courteously and with respect.
    Alexi scooped up tuna and chips and got a salad from the buffet. She saw that Clara was seated with Ralph Martini and Simon Green. Ralph was shaking his head as she sat down with them. “Can’t figure it. Can’t figure how the police haven’t got this guy yet.” He shuddered. “Sorry. I’m obsessing. It’s just...he’s in New Orleans!”
    â€œHe struck in New Orleans,” Simon said. “Doesn’t mean he’s still in New Orleans. He may be moving north now. Or to Texas.”
    â€œHow can the cops not catch this bastard?” Ralph asked.
    â€œI’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” Clara said.
    â€œHey, there are fibers, fingerprints, blood... Forensic science has given the cops all kinds of tools for catching killers,” Ralph protested. “I watch all those crime-scene TV shows. This guy has to have left something behind.”
    â€œThe police use experts and technology and everything,” Alexi said, “but crimes aren’t always that easily solved. I mean, even if you do have a hair sample, you have to have a suspect to compare it with. And from what I’ve read, it sounds like the killer must watch all the shows, too—since he hasn’t left anything behind.”
    â€œNot that they’re telling us about, anyway!” Ralph said.
    Young, blond and sun-drenched handsome in shorts and a tank top, Larry Hepburn made an appearance with his tray, smiling and indicating that he’d like the seat next to Alexi. “You people are being morbid and depressing, and you need to stop,” he said as he took his chair. “It’s hot and humid, but we’re at sea and a breeze is coming in. We have to have faith and let the cops and agents and whoever else worry about it. Who knows? They may have him by the time we’re back to port.”
    â€œOr he’ll have moved on. To Texas, probably,” Simon said, obviously still worried. He looked around the table. “I have a sister. And I’m from Galveston. If he does head for Texas, terrible as it may seem, I hope he goes to Houston.”
    â€œThey’ll get him,” Larry said. He turned to Alexi. “We have a rehearsal tonight. After that we’ll come by the piano bar. Or at least, I’ll come by the piano bar. They say you’re always packed. You must be good.”
    â€œI’m good at getting people to sing,” Alexi said. “And that’s what they want to do at a piano bar.” She smiled at him, but suddenly wanted to escape. She was horrified by what had happened in New Orleans and disturbed by the men Nolan had introduced her to, the Celtic American line “bigwigs,” and the strange man she’d seen running by. Something was going on.
    â€œAnd that’s why they love you!” someone announced. Jensen Hardy, the cruise director, was beaming down at them from the end of the table.
    She’d sailed