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

by Blake Pierce

For a moment, in the background, Adele thought she heard the sound of voices. Of course, her father didn't have friends. So she assumed he was now watching TV while eating soup. Again, predictable. Professional. And unceasingly frustrating.

  "Dad, do they at least have a police car outside?"

  "I told them not to. But they wouldn't listen." He sounded angry.

  But his frustration brought her some relief. At least the German police force was keeping an eye on one of their own. She sighed, shaking her head. "And you're feeling okay?"

  "I thought you weren't calling to check up on me."

  She gritted her teeth, biting back a retort. But then, she sighed, swallowing her pride, and, still standing on the dock, facing the water, and occasionally glancing back towards the white sports car, she said, "I need your help."

  "My help?" Her father made a slurping sound, suggesting he'd taken a spoonful of soup. "I'm not leaving Germany."

  "Well, I happen to be on the Danube. But I'm not asking you to come here. Look, I'm just trying to figure out my next step. I'm stuck." It was a vulnerable thing to say to her father. He was the sort of man who gauged someone's character based on their success. And yet, instead of jumping on the admission, there was a long pause, and then her father said, "What's the problem?"

  Adele felt a little flutter of relief. She wasn't sure why, but those words, from this source, cut through the layers of defense, frustration, habits, and allowed her to feel a small weight lift from her shoulders.

  "I have a killer. He's on a river, moving from boat to boat, taking out wealthy young women."

  "Sounds awful. You catch him?"

  "If I caught him, I wouldn't be calling you."

  "Well, you should catch him."

  "Thanks Dad. I'll write that one down."

  "No need to be sarcastic. What's the problem? Why can't you find this guy?"

  "Because I don't understand how he's tracking these women."

  "You said they're rich?"

  "Definitely."

  "Was he targeting them specifically?"

  "It looks like it."

  "What's the timeframe between the kills?"

  "Three days," Adele replied. He's killing one every night. And we haven't found anything conclusive."

  "So you're telling me, over a period of three days, this killers' targets just so happened to all decide to take a river cruise?"

  Adele blinked. She hadn't been thinking of it from this angle. But when she considered it, she realized her father was right. It was one thing if he was targeting them randomly. But there was something personal about this case. Something intentional. It wasn't random. But then how on earth had all three of the victims managed to end up on the same cruise line in the same week?

  "You're right," she said, slowly. "Maybe it is random then."

  "How would he have known they were on those boats?"

  She considered it, but then frowned. "He wouldn't have. It took me nearly a day to get those manifests. And that's after three murders, and a lot of pressure. There's no way he would've had the access to that, unless he worked with the cruise line."

  "Well, you can't rule that out."

  "But if the targets aren't random," she said, trailing off, "there's no way. It would've been a million to one odds that all three of these heiresses would've chosen to be on these boats within days of each other. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

  "Maybe it is random then."

  Adele thought to the rose, thought to the postcard, thought to the personal, intimate way of murder, having them choke on their own items. All of them symbols of wealth. A necklace, a wallet, and an expensive, designer dress. The killer was lashing out, and it was personal. He been taunting the parents with that note. So it wasn't random. She didn't believe it. Which meant he'd chosen, handpicking these victims.

  "Dad, you're a genius. You should go back to the hospital."

  "If I'm a genius, then I know best."

  "You always did," she said with a sigh. "Look, thanks. I'm going to talk to someone really quick. Let me know if you need anything."

  "Goodbye, Adele."

  Adele hung up first and began stalking towards where the white car waited in the parking lot outside the dock.

  It wasn't random. He'd chosen those victims intentionally. So how on earth had the killer managed to get all three of these wealthy, young women onto the boats within the time frame he needed? She picked up her pace, marching towards the parked vehicle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Adele's knuckles rapped against the window of the white sports car. There was a pause, the sound of music fading as a volume knob was adjusted, and then the window rolled down. She stared into the car, and Mr. Havertz looked up at her, tears in his eyes, which he hastily wiped away with the back of his sweater sleeve.

  "Agent," the man said quickly, "can I help you? Did you find him?"

  Adele considered her next words carefully, watching the man. Slowly, she shook her head and said, "Sorry. Not yet. But maybe you can help with that. I have a question. I wish I'd thought to ask it sooner." She paused, considering the angles, but then nodded, cementing her determination. She said, "What made your wife decide to take this boat trip? Without you."

  "Oh... well, the ticket was only for one."

  Adele blinked.

  He hesitated, and then said, "We didn't have enough to afford a second one. They didn't comp both."

  "Excuse me? What do you mean comp?"

  He frowned. "I-I thought you knew. The company, the ones that own these boats, some sort of Sights corporation or something...”

  "Sightseeing Incorporated?" Adele said, stiffly.

  "Yes, them." Mr. Havertz gripped his steering wheel, though the car was motionless, and the engine was off. "They comped the ticket. She was under stress at work and frustrated with her family cutting her off. She was looking into getting a real job. We didn't have the money for things like that. We probably wouldn't have for a long time after. We both thought it was a good idea."

  Here, his voice shook, and he let out a little sob. "In fact, I encouraged her to do it. I told her it would help her unwind, to remove some stress. Three days paid vacation, moving up and down the Danube River? It sounded perfect. But if I'd known—" his voice cracked.

  "You didn't know," Adele said, sternly. "This isn't your fault. But please, you're telling me that the company that owns the boats paid for your wife's ticket?"

  "Yes. We got the ticket in the post. Along with a note welcoming her to try the tour." He shrugged. "It's not unusual for someone from my wife's family. A lot of times companies will approach to try to get the wealthy and influential to use their product or business. It helps to raise their own notoriety."

  Adele shook her head. "But I thought your wife was cut off."

  "It's not exactly public information."

  Adele stared, her mind spinning. "Do you happen to have that letter?"

  Here, his face fell. "No, I'm sorry." He pressed his head back against the seat rest, staring at the felt ceiling of his luxurious car interior. "I wish I'd kept it. But we didn't think to at the time. All we needed was the ticket according to the letter."

  "You threw it away?"

  "Nearly a week ago. I'm sorry. Is that important?" Before Adele could reply, feeling her stomach plummet, Mr. Havertz suddenly snapped his fingers against the steering wheel. His eyes were wide, and his other hand darted to his pocket, fishing around. He pulled out his phone, tapping his finger in a sort of excited motion against the wheel. "Hang on," he said, quickly. "I don't have the original envelope, but my wife was the one who got the letter. She was so excited that she sent me a screenshot when I was at work."

  Adele felt her mouth go dry as the phone was turned towards her. Mr. Havertz cycled through the images on his phone until he ended up at one. He clicked it, and the image blew to full size. A hand was holding an open letter. Adele leaned in, practically in the cabin of the car now, staring at the small screen.

/>   The logo on top of the letter in the image was for Sightseeing Inc. It had the company's name in the masthead. The type was simple. Only two lines.

  Congratulations, you've been chosen for a free trip on the Danube River. Tickets are enclosed, and further information can be found at www.sightseeinginc.co.uk.

  Adele stared. "Can you go to that site?"

  Mr. Havertz nodded quickly, seemingly grateful to have a role to play besides that of grieving husband. He opened his browser and tried to cycle to the website, but then frowned. "It doesn't go to anything. It's just a dead page."

  Adele pulled her own phone out, and tried the same address, twice. Both times she went to a dead page.

  "Dammit," she said, firmly. "That's not the company's website. They don't operate in the UK. It's a fake, I'd bet anything."

  The man stared at her, stunned.

  "You've been more than helpful, but could you text that picture to me, please?"

  Mr. Havertz hesitated, but then nodded quickly. "What do you mean it's fake? Are you saying someone else sent those tickets?" His eyes widened. "Are you saying it was the killer?"

  "I'm saying that I need you to send that to me. Please. Here's my number. Hurry."

  ***

  Adele studied her phone as she marched to the second level where most of the overnight rooms on the boat were located. She zeroed in on the first door, closest to the prow and raised a hand, knocking loudly, and said, "Mr. Larsen, we need to speak!”

  It took a moment, and she knocked again, even more loudly. For a moment, there was no answer. A sudden anxiety swarmed Adele's mind, and she began to reach for her holster, but just then, the door swung open with a creak. A man, wincing, his face practically bruised on one side as if he'd been sleeping against a hard pillow stared out at her. Sleepy, and wearing pajamas, Mr. Larsen didn't seem so much like a toady lawyer, but more like a supply teacher who'd slept in. He blinked against the light over Adele's shoulder.

  "Yes?" He said, gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry, Agent Sharp, but I've already spoken with the board. We're not willing to ground the ships. You should've heard from a judge by now."

  She replied, tight-lipped and rapid. "Not here about that. Though you should ground the ships. Look, tell me, what's this?"

  She rotated the phone, shoving it up and close to Mr. Larsen's face. He winced, then with a resigned sigh stared as he read the screenshot of the letter. Then he frowned. "That's not from us."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive. I'm involved with all promotional efforts. We don't send out things like that. Our market research showed that people found it manipulative."

  "You wouldn't want to be manipulative."

  If he caught the note of sarcasm, he ignored it. "What is that? Some sort of joke?"

  "No, Mr. Larsen. A counterfeit. It was used to lure Abigail to this boat. And I suspect our other two victims were given them as well."

  Adele turned as Mr. Larsen spluttered in his doorway, still half asleep. She began to march down the stairs, ignoring his calls after her. Dawn was beginning to reach morning, and she needed to speak with John. She felt a jolt of frustration, remembering Foucault's comments about his report.

  "I got you," she muttered beneath her breath.

  This letter was from the killer. It wasn't the company. It couldn't be. They wouldn't have any interest in the second victim. Anika didn't have money anymore. She'd been cut off from her family and wasn't even using their last name. No, the killer had sent these letters. Would the other two have them as well? There was no time to check, but she assumed so. Her father was right; how else would all three of the targets have been on the boats within the same three days? Who else, then, had received a similar letter?"

  "Adele," a voice suddenly called out.

  She spun around, and spotted John standing on a portion of the deck near the café at the front of the lowest level. He was looking up at her, where her hand trailed along the railing.

  "John," she said, frowning. "I have something."

  He winced. "Erm, I hear you spoke with the executive." He gave a playful little chuckle, but it came across as more nervous than anything.

  She paused, frowning at his handsome features, down to the scar along his chin, down to the nervous, twitching way he shifted back and forth. "John, if we're going to go out, you can't involve me in your lies."

  He blinked, winced. "I thought it was sort of funny."

  "I know you did. I don't. I care about my career."

  He blinked. "And you're saying I don't?"

  Adele shrugged. "I'm not looking for a fight. I'm just telling you, if we're going to go out, you can't involve me in your lies. You need to tell the executive the truth. If you don't, I will."

  The words came quick and firm. For a moment, she thought John might lash out, or double down. But instead, the tall Frenchman scratched at his chin, then sighed, nodding once. "I panicked. I'm sorry."

  She blinked in surprise, but then reached out and patted the large Frenchman on his muscular arm.

  "You have to tell the executive the truth. Take back that report. Or I'm going to. I don't want to be involved." She spoke matter-of-factly, firmly, almost robotically. Perhaps she wasn't that different from her father after all. But then, as John sighed and began to nod in acquiescence, she said, excitement flaring again, "But not now. Look, I have a lead."

  John leaned against the wall nearest the café. Behind him, at two of the tables, passengers were sitting and muttering to each other. She saw a police officer near the café, looking uncomfortable, and staring in any direction except for the nearest table with a group of college students.

  Adele looked away now, pointing the phone towards John and tapping the picture Abigail's husband had sent her.

  "What is this?"

  "A counterfeit."

  "I don't understand."

  "This," Adele said, firmly, "was not sent by the company."

  A couple of the college kids were looking over now, watching. And Adele lowered her voice, and moved away now, heading down towards a cleared portion of the deck near the rail. John followed.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," she said, slowly, "our killer sent this to the third victim. That's how he was luring them onto the boats. He was representing himself as a member of the company. He even had a website set up and everything."

  "A website?"

  "It's down now. I checked. But yes, he had a website. He was trying to get them to get on board, thinking they were being comped because of their wealth and their family names."

  "I thought two of the victims were practically cut off."

  "Yes, that's right. Wait, how did you know about the second one?"

  "Anika?"

  "No, the third one. Sorry. Abigail?"

  "I talked to the officer that took you to her husband. He was listening to your conversation. Why? Is that an issue?"

  "No. But look, we don't have confirmation the other two had the same letters. But they must have. And so, if the website is down, that means he's already lured everyone he wants to. We don't know who's on these boats, or how many victims he has in mind."

  John winced but nodded in slow realization. "But if he has more, then he's already set them up."

  "Exactly. But look, he sent this letter anonymously. He pretended to be part of the company."

  "So?"

  "It got me thinking." Adele nodded, firmly, feeling her pulse quicken, her mind spinning. She'd been mulling this over and realized it had to be true. There were no other options. The manifests hadn't turned up anything. All the employees were accounted for, their names in the system. The overnight passengers had already been checked, and their names were tied to their rooms.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "What if our killer wasn't just anonymous on these letters to lure our victims. What if he was anonymous on the boats too?"

  "Come again?"

  "John, I'm saying what if the killer's name isn't on the man
ifest? What if he didn't even buy a ticket?"

  John stared. "Anonymous."

  "Anonymous," Adele said, “Exactly. We need to find out who is on this boat that shouldn't be."

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  After the two of them split up to cover more ground, John circled the spiral staircase towards the first level. “Stupid paparazzi,” John muttered to himself as he stomped down the stairs, doing his best not to look at the water. “Stupid Foucault,” he muttered... “stupid Ad—”

  He caught himself and frowned. No. Not Adele's fault. His own damn fault. And that temper of his. And now, he'd gone and pissed Adele off.

  She hadn't sounded angry; she'd simply drawn a boundary. But in a way, that was almost worse. And now she wanted him to come clean to Foucault. Embellishing a couple of details in a report about scumbag reporters—who cared?

  She did. Which was one of the reasons he liked her. Adele held herself to a higher standard than most. She seemed to think John was the only one who cut corners at the DGSI, but she wasn't paying close enough attention. It wasn't him who was different, it was her. And he admired her for it.

  He sighed... One way or another, he supposed he'd have to get back on her good side.

  He scowled at the thought, but then continued his march towards the crew break room. Adele seemed to think the killer was anonymous on the boat. What better way to get back in her graces than to catch the murderer?

  He could tell this case was starting to eat at her, especially given the distraction of what had happened to her father in his own home.

  John's hand clenched into a fist at his side, and his eyes narrowed.

  Maybe he had been behaving like a child. John hated the thought of Adele being further burdened by his own dumb actions.

  He rubbed a hand along his chin, tracing his scar, and then flexing his fingers. One thing at a time, though.

  He couldn't split his attention.

  Catch a killer—Adele would thank him then. John burst into the break room, inhaling the faint odor of cigarette smoke, apparent most near a haze by the porthole window in the back of the room, near the vending machine.