Birds of Prey by J. A. Jance Page A

some time to relax and think things over. Naturally, that turned out to be an unachievable goal. There’s a little clear Plexiglas mailbox on the wall next to the door for each cabin on the Starfire Breeze. Mine was stuffed full of messages. When I opened the various envelopes, the messages were pretty similar. In steadily increasing levels of urgency I was told to contact the purser’s office ASAP.
          The message light on my phone was blinking furiously as well. I listened to the messages, but they turned out to be the same thing — see the purser. Obviously, whoever wanted me to contact the purser wasn’t taking any chances on my not getting the word.
          “This is Mr. Beaumont,” I said, as soon as someone answered the phone. “I have several messages saying I should contact the purser’s office at once. Do you have any idea what this might be concerning?”
          “Of course, Mr. Beaumont. If you’ll just stay on the line, I’ll put your call right through.”
          To where? I wanted to ask, but naturally whoever had answered left me hanging without giving me a clue. I wondered if maybe I was next on the list to have a door-pounding visit from Dr. Harrison Featherman and his traveling henchman, the first officer.
          “Dulles here,” a cool female voice announced in my ear.
          “Would that be Ms. Dulles, Mrs. Dulles, or Miss Dulles?” I asked.
          “That would be Agent Dulles,” she responded even more coolly. “Agent Rachel Dulles.”
          Agent Dulles didn’t bother to add “of the FBI.” She didn’t have to because I’d already figured that out. Typical fed, I thought. No sense of humor. But then, I supposed, if you’re posted as agent in charge of an end-of-the-earth outpost like Juneau, maybe your sense of humor disappears right along with the transfer papers to your new territory.
          “Is this Mr. Beaumont?” she asked.
          I find that humorless FBI agents always bring out the worst in me. I had to rattle her chain just a little. “Any relation to John Foster?” I asked.
          If there was a hint of a smile at that, no trace of it leaked into her strictly business telephone voice. “We’re distant relations,” she said icily. “My grandfather and John Foster were second cousins.”
          Great, I thought. If her grandfather and John Foster Dulles were second cousins, that meant I was dealing with a young and humorless female FBI agent.
          “The purser’s office said this was Mr. Beaumont,” Agent Dulles continued. “Is that correct?”
          “Yes,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”
          “As in Jonas Piedmont, retired Seattle homicide detective? How kind of you to call me so promptly.”
          I didn’t point out that I was responding to a whole series of urgent messages, but it did cross my mind that even though Agent Dulles might be young, if she knew that much about me, she had done her homework.
          “I understand you left the ship today in the company of one Naomi Cullen Pepper,” Agent Dulles resumed. “Is that also correct?”
          “Yes,” I replied. “Ms. Pepper and I, along with a number of other passengers, took a shore excursion and rode the cable car in Juneau.”
          “Two of those other passengers would be your grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Lars Jenssen, I believe.”
          I could feel my hackles rising. “That’s also correct,” I told her curtly, “although I can’t imagine why you’d be interested in involving my grandparents in all of this.”
          “In all of what?”
          I wasn’t about to be sucked into playing that kind of game. “In whatever it is you want to talk to me about,” I growled back at her. “My grandparents are on their honeymoon. I expect them to be left undisturbed.”
          “That remains to be seen,” Agent Dulles responded. “I’d like to speak to you in