Left to Fear (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Ten)

by Blake Pierce

"In my experience," Adele said, quietly, "serial killers don't usually stop at two."

  "A coincidence," Mr. Larsen said, quickly. "Don't say otherwise too loudly. Please." He added this last word as an afterthought.

  "Well, if you want my recommendation, sir, you should speak with your employers and get them to dock all their ships."

  Mr. Larsen actually coughed as if choking on air. He paused, then stared at her, his face turning white. "Wait, you're serious? No, Agent Sharp, that's entirely impossible. Not a chance."

  "If I'm right,” Adele said, quietly, "whoever this is, they're not done. You might be worried about losing a day or two of ticket fees, but if we find out this killer is somehow tied to you, you could be facing serious liability."

  The man narrowed his eyes. "Don't speak to me of liability. Do you have a court order?"

  Adele held up her hands. "No order. Just some friendly advice."

  "I'm afraid, Agent Sharp, if that's all we have to go on, I'm not going to be able to communicate your suggestion to my employers. They'd laugh me out of the room. There's no way we're docking all their boats."

  "If someone dies—"

  “That's your job," he snapped. "Don't put that on me. My job is to make sure these boats run, and our passengers get to their destinations. Your job is to catch lawbreakers. Don't confuse us. I'll say where the boats go, and you figure out who's doing this."

  Adele felt her temper flare, and her eyes narrowed. "I thought you said it was just a coincidence."

  Mr. Larsen just snorted, turning and brushing past John angrily, moving back up the deck. Once he was gone, Adele shared a long look with her partner, and slowly pushed out of the chair. She joined Renee by the rail, facing the stairs, and returned to French. "Financial trouble?"

  "Who? Mr. Larsen?"

  "Maybe the company. He seems pretty antsy about the idea of docking their ships for a couple of days."

  John shrugged. "They're a new company. Maybe they just don't have the leeway."

  "We could get a court order."

  "Think that'll help?"

  Adele sighed, her hand trailing against the railing as she began to take the stairs with soft clanging sounds. "Maybe not. At least not yet. We should go check out that other ship. The one with the first murder scene.”

  “I already checked the schedule. It's now in Regensburg," John said, grimly. "Let's take a taxi. I'm already seasick."

  The tall Frenchman glanced over the railing at the water, his eyes narrowed in suspicion—John had never much liked water—and Adele moved in front of him, guiding the way back towards the first level and to the gangplank.

  Perhaps they'd get luckier at the first crime scene. Though, if news had leaked, trying to investigate the death of Zeynep Akbulut, without raising eyebrows, was going to prove difficult.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He thought of himself as little more than a vapor. A breeze, or a tumbling leaf. He saw himself as ineluctable.

  He saw them as far less.

  The man leaned against the railing of the ship, humming softly to himself, and looking out over the water. He watched as the other passengers joined him, following up the gangplank. He'd boarded bright and early in Gremheim. Another boat. His third in the last few days. Another coastal town.

  Also his third.

  He watched as other passengers above him, who'd boarded earlier, chuckled or moved about, some of them moving inside to the small little restaurant on the second level. He already detected the odor of sesame seeds and some sort of honey.

  He inhaled slowly, and pushed off the rail, watching the new passengers arrive. His eyes traced from one unknown face to another, darting along the row of arrivals.

  And then, his eyes flicked back. He paused, staring down at the young woman in the bright red dress.

  Almost as if she'd adorned herself to attract his attention. Red marking the target.

  The young woman had curled brown hair and wore two earrings so bright he could even see them twinkling from where he leaned on the second level. For a moment, the young woman paused, standing on the gangplank and meeting his gaze. She hesitated, frowning briefly. She did a doubletake, as if wondering if she recognized him.

  He smiled at her for a moment, giving a little fluttering wave with his fingers.

  The woman in the red dress hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, but then back at him. She gave a hesitant, confused little wave in return, but then quickly ducked her head, breaking eye contact and moving with the passengers onto the first level.

  The man turned, rolling his shoulders, and stretching his arms. He glanced down at one finger, frowning. He'd bruised it on the last boat. She'd tried to bite him.

  He'd have to be more careful this time. What a pretty package she'd make in that little red dress. Of course, he'd keep his word to the first two.

  And this one as well.

  He'd tell their parents they missed them. He'd tell them just how much.

  It was only fair, after all.

  He glanced down at the little postcard he now held between his fingers, looking over it once more. He pulled out a pen from behind his ear, wetting it on his tongue, and then returned his attention to the little note.

  It had taken him some time to think through what he might say. But now... he felt he'd mastered it. He'd handwritten it, of course. Such things needed a personal touch. There, in tight cursive, it read:

  Mr. and Mrs. Akbulut. I am very sorry for your loss. We all feel it greatly. I'm sure Zeynep misses you just as much as you miss her. My sincerest condolences. Some things just can't be avoided, I suppose. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

  -M-

  P.S. Mr. and Mrs. Blythe. Your daughter, Anika, was a real gem. She misses you too.

  He finished the postscript, then gave a little nod of satisfaction. It seemed fitting, somehow, that Anika's parents were only notified as an afterthought. Some people had a spotlight on them. Others tried to hide from it.

  He moved, still whistling, down the walkway, already preparing in his mind for what came next. This would be the best one yet. He could feel it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They'd nearly missed the riverboat in Regensburg, and Adele and John had been forced to purchase tickets on the fly, racing up the gangplank before the passenger boat left the dock and floated back out into the blue current.

  Now, Adele's brow was slicked with sweat, and she breathed heavily from their subsequent pace up to the second level. Above, she could hear the sound of footsteps, and milling passengers. John had been forced to turn sideways, making way for a young couple heading down the stairs in the opposite direction, their footsteps clanging against the metal.

  Adele frowned towards a portion of rail by which a young man in a black suit was standing. He had an easy air about him, smoking on a cigarette and puffing the acrid cloud up, watching it carried away by the breeze.

  The moment his eyes landed on them, though, he flicked the cigarette over the edge of the rail and cleared his throat.

  “Police?” the man asked, quietly in German.

  Adele glanced from John to the man. “That obvious?”

  “Mr. Larsen called ahead,” the man said, softly. “My name is Pierre Gaston, I am one of the managers of the River Metro Two, this lovely vessel you now find yourselves acquainted with.”

  “Pierre Gaston? Do you speak French, for the sake of my companion here?”

  The man shook his head. “Not conversationally, no. Don't let my name fool you, I was born in Berlin. Now, Mr. Larsen said you had some questions for me.”

  Adele crossed her arms, frowning. “You found Ms. Akbulut's body?”

  Again, the man didn't seem put out at all. He gave a little shrug. “Indeed. Right here, in fact.” He nodded towards his feet, next to the railing. “I spotted her arm dangling over from the lower deck. Just lying there.” He gave a little shudder and coughed delicately. “A very upsetting sight, to be sure.”

  Adele frowned as a young
couple moved down a staircase, chatting to each other, and stepping past the self-proclaimed manager and the patch of floor where he'd been standing.

  “Where are the police?” she said.

  The main raised an eyebrow. “You are? No?”

  “We are DGSI task-forced with Interpol,” Adele replied reflexively. “But why is the crime scene not contained?” She looked at John now, switching back to French and filling him in. “This is the man who found the body.”

  John wrinkled his nose. “Doesn't seem too broken up about it.”

  “He says he's standing where they found her.”

  John returned Adele's dark look. “Why isn't the crime scene cordoned?” He leaned over the railing, scanning the lower deck for a moment.

  “Excuse me,” the manager said, clearing his throat and holding up a finger. “Might I say, Mr. Larsen talked with some of the local law enforcement, and after photographing the scene, they decided it was in everyone's best interest to simply move on.”

  Adele crossed her arms. “Move on? What do you mean move on? This boat shouldn't even have been in use again—not until we cleared it. Who authorized this?”

  The manager winced, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I wish I knew how to help. I do believe, though, you must speak to the company's liaison for such things.”

  “Let me guess,” Adele sighed softly. “Mr. Larsen?”

  “Exactly. I can answer any questions you like. The scene wasn't much of a scene once they took the body. I just found her here. Dead.”

  Adele turned back to the man, her eyes tracing the cold metal deck beneath his feet and the rigid railing at his back. The wind brushed through, fluffing the young man's dark hair only mildly, suggesting he'd made use of some sort of hair product.

  “You don't seem too upset about it,” Adele said, softly. She considered the situation. Someone had authorized the boat to return to use within the forty-eight-hour window. Hardly protocol. But as she thought about it, she supposed it made some sense, given who the victim was. Foucault had made it clear that reporters would be swarming over the scene. The last thing they needed was to help the vultures with the gossip columns to find the location of the murder. She could picture now: tabloids, running visuals of caution tape or police photographers around the rail ad nauseam. Still, none of it sat well with her.

  “It was quite alarming to find Ms. Akbulut like that,” the manager murmured, still calm. He gave a little shrug. “But I'm afraid I wasn't very fond of her.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “She was a bit of a... how do I say it delicately... A brat.”

  Adele tucked a tongue inside her cheek. For a moment, from above, she thought she heard movement, followed by a couple of whispered voices. When she glanced up, though, she spotted nothing from the railing above. Adele glanced towards John, shooting him a significant look then moving her eyes upwards.

  The tall Frenchman nodded slowly, and quietly began to move away, towards the circling metal stairwell that led to the top level of the vessel.

  Adele returned her attention to the manager who watched John's lumbering form with mild interest.

  “And noting her as a brat,” Adele said, quietly, “you had first-hand experience with her?”

  He sighed. “I'm afraid so. She yelled at one of my employees, making her cry, and then yelled at me when I tried to carry her luggage.”

  “Do you remember why she was so upset?”

  “She didn't like the room she had. It was comped, too, I might say. She wanted to switch with a better room, also free, I imagine.” He muttered beneath his breath, spitting over the edge of the rail and then reaching into his inside chest pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and maneuvering with deft fingers for another one.

  He lifted it to his lips, pulling a green lighter from another pocket. Before he lit, though, he said, “I do believe Ms. Akbulut was quite comfortable cashing in on her name. Not only that, she was wealthy in her own right. Media appearances, sponsorships. And...” he shrugged, “What with her mother's ill health, the tabloids suggest she was due for quite a nice inheritance too.”

  Adele's ears perked at this suggestion. She wasn't one to keep track of the celebrity gossip. But the word “inheritance” to a crime-solver's ears, often sounded much more like “motive.”

  Still, it was hard to piece it together. She gave another long look at the manager who was busy lighting his cigarette. He seemed distant, indifferent really. But callousness was hardly a motive. He was standing on the crime scene, but again, whoever had approved the departure of this riverboat was to blame for the unprofessional nature of the crime scene.

  It was all quite puzzling. For one, Zeynep Akbulut was a German who came from wealth. Whereas Anika Blythe, judging by her quarters and possessions had been a poor Austrian. Though they were still struggling to locate Anika's information, which also raised some flags.

  What was the connection between these two women besides the boats? Were they simply crimes of opportunity?

  Adele glanced at the sky, watching the sun behind the clouds continue its descent from afternoon towards evening, and also, eventually, towards another murder.

  “We need manifests,” Adele said at last. “For both this boat and the River Metro Three.”

  The manager shrugged. “I can ask Mr. Larsen about that. He'd be the one to do it.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Adele said, frowning and crossing her arms. “Ask him. I'll wait.”

  Pierre coughed, and paused, puffing once more on his cigarette, before sighing and then reaching reluctantly into his suit to pull out a cellphone. He turned slightly, facing the other direction and shielding his mouth with his shoulder as he dialed a number and placed the phone to his ear.

  Adele listened for a moment. A long pause, and then, finally. “Yes, sir. Still here.”

  Adele leaned in.

  “Looking for manifests. Yes. For both boats, sir...”

  Adele cleared her throat, and the manager glanced back, wincing a bit. For a moment, Adele could hear the blaring sounds of someone shouting on the other end of the phone. The manager winced, holding the phone away from his ear and holding up a single finger as if to say, “one moment.”

  Then, at last, he returned the phone and cocked an eyebrow at Adele.

  “We need it within the hour,” Adele said, sternly. “Before evening falls.”

  “They need it in the hour, sir,” The manager parroted into his phone. He winced against another apparent tirade, holding the phone away again. He sighed, looked up at the sky as if praying for strength and then said, “Mr. Larsen does not think this is possible.”

  “Tell him it better be possible, or I'll ground the entire fleet with a court order this time,” Adele said, scowling.

  “I... would you like to speak? I have tinnitus already.” The German named Pierre began to hand his phone towards her.

  At that moment, though, a loud yelp echoed from the upper floor.

  Adele whirled, staring up as a man's head dangled over the railing. She heard a desperate series of shouting, followed by a cry of fear as the man tipped even further over the railing.

  For a moment, Adele just stared, stunned, trying to make sense of the scene. But then, she heard the deep, growling voice of Agent John Renee.

  Her eyebrows shot up, and she cursed, breaking into a sprint towards the stairwell, and taking the metal stairs three at a time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “John, what are you doing!” Adele yelled, emerging on the top of the boat. John, though, had one hand gripping a man by the collar, while dangling him over the railing, and the other pointed towards a woman standing off to the side with a camera in her hands, pointed at Renee.

  A couple of other passengers, on the far end of the rail were glancing over in curiosity, but John's attention seemed fixated on the woman with the camera, and the precariously balanced fellow who was still cursing and flailing his hands as if to catch his balance. The woman had a be
ak-like nose, like a bird of prey, and hair the color of crow feathers. The man was bald with a baby-face.

  “Give it here,” John growled. “Both of you.”

  “Let me go!” The man yelled in stuttered French. “Stop! Are you insane!”

  “Give it to me—now!” John howled.

  “This is public property! We are allowed, you giant thug!”

  The woman was still standing, edged against the side of the boat, aiming her camera at John and recording. Adele noted a second camera in the man's hand, which he kept up and out of reach of Renee, despite the large man's fingers tight around his collar.

  “John!” Adele yelled.

  He looked at her, and only frowned deeper. “Paparazzi,” John said. “They were videoing our conversation below. Eavesdropping.”

  “John—let him go,” Adele cautioned.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Wait—no. Hang on, John. Pull him back, then let him go.”

  Renee growled briefly. With a sigh, he brought the man back in and sent him stumbling towards the woman with the second camera. Before they could retreat, though, John moved in, hands outstretched. “Cameras. Give!”

  “No!” The woman howled. “How dare you!”

  “It's an active crime scene,” John retorted. “You two skulking about up here, whispering and hiding, recording people without them realizing. Skeevy pervs! Give it here!”

  “No!” The man yelped. “Freedom of press! You hound!”

  John, seeming to take the hound comment as a compliment, reached in, snagged the man's camera from his hand and ripped it away with a triumphant yell.

  Adele just watched in horror. John seemed to have a thing about reporters... Especially the more low brow sort. “John,” she said, desperately, “this isn't keeping a low profile. This isn't what Foucault meant! Don't do anything rash!”

  John gave another triumphant yell, though, as he snagged the second camera from the woman who had nowhere further to retreat.

  “You ape!” she screamed. “I'll have your job! You too, bitch!” she said, turning on Adele, and screaming shrilly.