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

by Blake Pierce

  A couple of employees were sitting at the felt table he'd been sleeping at earlier. They looked up in surprise as he neared, staring.

  John fixated his eyes on a silver-haired man wearing glasses and a black suit with golden buttons. “You,” John said, pointing. “What's your name, sir?”

  The man shared a look with his coworker. A younger, blonde woman, with a very plain face, but a fidgety mouth, her lips bunched up on one side, creased with dimples.

  The man paused, then, hesitantly, spoke in German, wincing and tapping his ear. John sighed in frustration but tried English now. “English? Either of you?”

  The young woman cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said. “My father doesn't, but I do.”

  John looked at the girl now, eyes up. “Your father? You both work here?”

  The dimpled girl nodded quickly. “Yes. You—you're with the police, no?”

  “Mhmm. Look,” John said, crossing his arms and frowning. “I need to know if there might be any way to get on this boat without paying a fare. Any friends of employees, or relatives,” he said, slowly, glancing knowingly at her father.

  The girl's eyes went wide, though, and she instantly shook her head. “No!” she protested. “Definitely not. Never.”

  Her father frowned, speaking in German, and she replied quickly, translating. Her father's silver eyebrows dipped now, low, and he scowled at John.

  “Come on,” John pressed, crossing his arms. “I won't mention it to the higher-ups. We all know how they can get,” he gave a nonchalant shrug in a would-be commiserating way.

  The daughter and father duo didn't bite. Instead, they just stared at him, still frowning, and beginning to look uncomfortable.

  John sighed. “Alright, I'm sure neither of you do any of that. Of course not! But... but... maybe you know someone. Another employee, someone on the crew—someone who likes to just occasionally sneak a friend or two on board free of charge. Couldn't blame them, could you? It's a really nice boat.”

  He ended by trying to flash a schmoozing smile.

  The girl looked mildly indigested, and she winced as if contemplating his words. “No, sir,” she said quickly. “Mr. Larsen would never allow it. We need this job. My father—he has bills. Please, don't say to anyone we do this.”

  “I wasn't saying you did; I was asking—”

  “No!” she protested. “Sorry, but our break is over. Goodbye.” Quickly, the young girl tugged at her father's arm and hastily beat a retreat, tugging him past John and towards the break room door.

  A second later, the door clicked shut, leaving John alone across from the vending machine.

  He massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed, slamming one fist into the felt of the table. “Damn it,” he muttered. He'd never been much of the schmoozing sort. People didn't tend to lower their guard when he was around. Adele had once told him he looked like a James Bond villain. He'd objected to the characterization, but others didn't seem to.

  Where was that stupid Italian agent of Adele's when needed? Lenny? Loni? Whatever his name was. People always seemed to like Leonard.

  Focus, John thought to himself. He waited for a moment, considering his options.

  Anonymous. That's what Adele thought. Someone was on the boat anonymously. But the way the crew reacted made it clear that Mr. Larsen and his company ran a tight ship. Would an employee really risk it, just to smuggle a friend or acquaintance on board? It would have to be more than one employee, since the only connection between the three boats was already accounted for.

  It didn't seem likely...

  So if not one of the porters or crew...

  What about someone higher up?

  John's eyebrows inched up in the break room, and he could feel the warmth of sunlight through the port hole window against the back of his neck.

  Someone influential might not be so worried about Larsen's heavy-handed tactics. On top of that, someone higher up wouldn't have nearly as hard a time riding fare-free. No ticket, no paper trail.

  But who would know of someone like that? John wasn't familiar with all the positions of authority on a boat, or all the people involved in keeping such things floating.

  He considered his next move for a moment, and then a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

  Perhaps...

  Yes.

  He needed someone who'd speak. Someone who was antsy enough, worried enough about their own skin, they might gab just to deflect.

  John had just the candidate in mind.

  ***

  “I don't know anything!” The tall, bony chef protested from where John had cornered him in the walk-in refrigerator. “I swear.” The man shook his head, trembling, no longer sweating in the cold of the refrigerator compartment. A row of vegetables and pre-cut meats rested on metal shelves behind the man. A plastic, dangling curtain, cut into strips blocked the entryway behind them, along with a large metal door which was now ajar.

  John crossed his arms, not quite blocking the exit, but standing in such a way that it would make it difficult for the chef to leave without brushing past him.

  “Is that how you want to play it?” John replied, in equally accented English. “Hmm? You might have an alibi, but that doesn't mean we won't reconsider you as a suspect. The best way to help yourself is to help me.”

  The chef's sharp cheekbones stood out against his pale skin, which had taken on a sickly sheen the moment John had followed him into the fridge. The small basket of bread rolls, which he'd been carrying, now hung drooping from one hand, one of the rolls having fallen and landed on the ground, unnoticed near the chef's foot.

  The nervous man adjusted his overalls, glanced past John for a moment, and then puffed a breath, a plume of fog rising from his lips in the cold compartment.

  “I can't,” he said, his voice nearly a whimper.

  “Come on,” John pressed, frowning and crossing his arms in a way that made his biceps bulge. “Prison wouldn't suit you, sir. The food is horrible.”

  The tall chef squeaked, but then, after shooting another look past John to make sure no one was looking, he said, quietly, “It's nothing—not really... But, you want to know who would be able to get a guest on without a fare?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The captain, of course.”

  John nodded, slowly. “Makes sense. But do you have anything besides conjecture?”

  The chef sighed, and his arms seemed to go even more slack under the weight of the stress. Another bread roll went tumbling, rolling beneath the metal shelves next to a plastic container of sliced peppers.

  “Look,” he said, in such a soft whisper, John had to lean in to hear. “We had to prepare a special meal two evenings ago.”

  “The night before this most recent murder?”

  The chef shuddered and wagged his head. “Yes, yes. Then. The captain has a special diet. But this time, he requested food he couldn't eat. Enough food for two.”

  John frowned. “I-I see.”

  “The captain was dining with someone. It doesn't mean anything, but Captain Schultz doesn't normally associate with the guests.”

  John's eyebrows ratcheted up. “Ah—so you think he has a special invitee on board with him?”

  “No, I don't think that. I'm just saying what I know. Look, I—I need to get back to work. Are we done here?” The man's fingers tightened nervously around the handle of the bread-basket, but John was already moving, turning towards the plastic strands of curtain, and the metal door.

  “Don't worry, I won't bring your name up,” John said, over his shoulder. “You've been a big help.”

  The chef waited, watching John leave, but as the door began to swing shut to the fridge, as an afterthought, chef called, “Be careful. Captain Schultz is not a gentle man. He used to serve in the navy.”

  John looked back, frowning through the slowly closing gap in the door. The chef just stood there, wincing and waiting, more bread rolls at his feet, unnoticed.

  John pa
used, wondering if the chef had anything more to add, but the man didn't follow him, preferring, it seemed, the frigid refrigerator as opposed to John's company.

  He wasn't sure what that said about his charm.

  But that didn't matter now.

  He had a lead.

  The captain, of all people, a navy man apparently, had a guest for dinner two nights ago. One day before the murder of the third victim. The captain clearly couldn't have been the guest smuggler on all the boats. What sort of person could have a connection with the captain, and enough of a connection with other employees at the other victim-sites to gain access there as well? Someone with influence, no doubt. Another employee? A woman?

  If anyone could invite an anonymous person on board with no paper trail, it would be the captain of the boat itself. Perhaps the other captains on the other boats had done the same.

  John picked up his pace, moving from the kitchen and heading directly towards the bridge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Captain Schultz was standing by the controls with a scowl to match even the most frightening sculptures of stone. The man was shorter than John, but had taught muscles from labor rather than barbells, and a chin the size of a concrete block.

  Another crew member was standing next to John, wincing and trying to keep himself between Renee and the captain. “Sorry, sir,” the small crew member was saying, shaking his head. “He wouldn't take no for an answer. Says he's police.”

  The captain finally looked over from his grey and blue console of controls, buttons, dials, and gauges.

  Captain Schultz examined John with a long look, then the very upper corner of his lip twitched in a sort of sneer.

  “You're not police,” Schultz said, returning his attention to the control panel, and frowning towards a flashing orange light. He adjusted something and then shook his head, muttering darkly beneath his breath in German, but switching back to English, likely for John's sake. “Damn thing isn't meant to just linger like this,” the captain said. “Not with the way we were running her last week. Needed maintenance six hours ago.” He scowled now. “And you say you're police? You're one of the people keeping us stuck here, hmm?”

  John blinked at this reversal of terms. Normally, when confronted by a law enforcement officer, people put on their best behavior, or went defensive.

  This man chose aggression instead. It might have just been John's imagination, but the captain was even doing Renee's own patented crossed-arm-and-bicep trick.

  John frowned and, reflexively, crossed his own arms.

  “I'm not police. I'm DGSI.”

  “French?”

  “Yes.”

  “You're not only that, though, are you?” The captain, with the wild, jetting eyebrows said. Despite his white hair, and stark features, and wrinkles like dried mud, his physique was that of a twenty-year-old athlete.

  “No, sir,” John replied. “I served too.”

  “Not navy. Special forces, right? You all have the same look.”

  “Could say the same thing about you sea monsters,” John returned, feeling an old sensation of nausea swirl through his stomach. Partly due to the memories of time at sea on more than one mission, and also due to his interactions with most navy crew. He'd never much gotten along with them. Not enough time with their legs on solid ground, in John's assessment.

  The captain's sneer only became more pronounced.

  “You're big. Too big. Liability on a boat. Might tip the thing.”

  John blinked at the direct insult. “You are Captain Schultz, yes?”

  “That's what they call me, Goliath.”

  “My name is Agent Renee.”

  “Goliath it is. What do you want, Goliath?”

  John wasn't sure which direction to take the conversation now. Chef Vierra had warned him the captain would be aggressive, but John hadn't realized how much. The man was scowling full, making no effort to hide his obvious disgruntlement. Granted, they had docked the man's boat and sequestered him for nearly a day, now.

  Still, Schultz didn't seem interested in making it easy for anyone involved.

  “I'm here about a guest of yours,” John said, deciding to keep his cool. The last time he'd lost it, cameras had been tossed. He didn't need Adele to have another mess of his to clean up. So, he bit back any scathing retort and pressed on, calmly. “You had dinner with them two nights ago.”

  The captain's eyes narrowed. He glanced towards the crew member behind John, but the smaller man just winced and shook his head rapidly.

  “He didn't tell me,” John said, quickly. “I have eyes and ears everywhere. Something you navy folk wouldn't understand.”

  “Alright—so what? I had dinner. What about it? You're not asking me out, are you, Goliath?”

  John felt a finger twitch. He felt a pulsing in his temple and gritted his teeth against the simmering anger rising in his chest. For a moment, he paused, considering how much trouble he might get in if he punched a boat captain. Navy once, Schultz was a civilian now, after all. Not a very good captain, John thought, bitterly, if the man had left the service only to end up a commercial vessel.

  Focus! He thought to himself. Anger, rudeness could be tells. Distractions attempting to camouflage the truth. Stay on point.

  “So you admit you had dinner with someone two evenings ago?”

  “Yes, but like I said. So what?”

  “So, I'd like you to tell me who it was.”

  The captain shot another look towards the crew member behind John. This time, though, it wasn't an accusing, or suspicious glare. Rather, it seemed... if anything... nervous.

  John frowned at the characterization, but the captain recovered quick enough. His brow twitching back into a frown of annoyance, and he spoke quickly. “No one. Just a friend.”

  “What was this friend's name?”

  “Like I said, no one.” The captain turned away from the flashing orange light now, straight-backed, straight postured, as if he had a spine made from a titanium rod.

  John's frown deepened, and he found himself inhaling slowly, then exhaling. “I see,” he said. “And what if I were to tell you your secret dinner guest is a suspect in a murder investigation, hmm? Would you be so glib then? I wonder, as a man who has spent his life at sea, how much you'd enjoy the inside of a jail cell.”

  The captain stared at John now, his posture still motionless, like a statue's, but his eyes fixed as if frozen unblinking.

  “Your guest,” John continued, pressing his advantage. “Was his name on the manifest? Hmm? It was a him, wasn't it?”

  The captain coughed delicately, now, cracks appearing in his cold facade. The nerves from earlier returned, and the man shifted, tugging at one ear. “I can assure you,” he said, delicately, “my guest didn't have anything to do with—”

  “I'll decide that. And if you're wrong, and you keep holding out, that's going to make you an accomplice.” John's eyes narrowed.

  “Look, Agent Renee, this is a misunderstanding,” the captain said, his voice firm once more, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts. Gone was the teasing, gone was Goliath. Clearly, the man was spooked. But why was he holding out?

  John felt a flash of frustration. He wasn't sure how chain of command worked on a civilian's pleasure craft. He doubted the captain held anywhere near the same sway as one might on a military vessel. But even there, one could always find a bigger fish up the food chain.

  And the captain was acting like someone caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “Who was it?” John said, even more insistently. He began to reach for his handcuffs, still frowning until the captain finally relented with a sigh.

  “Look, I guarantee—and tell him I said it—he had nothing to do with the murders.”

  “Who?”

  “Eicke Rohm.”

  The crew member next to John shifted uncomfortably. The captain nodded once as if emphasizing the words. For his part, though, John just frowned. “Who?”

 
The captain's eyes flashed in frustration. He glanced over John's shoulder, eyes through the open door. But to his credit, he didn't lower his voice, or try and shrink back on his word. He stated the name, slowly, enunciating this time, “Eicke Rohm.”

  “Never heard of him. Who is that?”

  The captain passed a hand through his silver hair, closing his eyes in his leathery face for a moment, before turning with a grunt of disgust to face the console again. The blinking orange light reflected off his skin, illuminating the more shadowy portions of the bridge.

  “That,” the captain said, still enunciating, “is the CEO of Sightseeing Incorporated. He owns this bloody boat. So of course his name isn't on a damn manifest. He enjoys sailing on the ships—gets room and meals free. Is that all? I've got work to do.”

  John stared at the side of the captain's face. “The CEO?” he said, resisting the urge to stutter as he collected his thoughts.

  “That's what I said.”

  “Where is he?”

  The captain grunted. “Damn if I know. He was on the ship last night, though, when you locked down. Probably in his rooms.”

  Here, the crew member coughed, though, and raised a hand. “Actually,” the man said, quietly, “the rooms the boss was using are empty. I talked with one of the porters. Mr. Rohm wasn't there last night.”

  John felt a chill beginning to creep up his spine.

  For his part, though, the captain seemed indifferent all of a sudden. He grunted and shrugged again, now fixated on the glowing orange light, and tapping a calloused finger against one of the dials with a small, flicking red needle.

  “The CEO was here, but you don't know where he is now?” John said, turning to look the crew member dead in the eyes.

  The small man had a stiffer spine than John thought he might at first. Instead of quailing, or squeaking at the sudden attention, the man simply nodded once. “I'm afraid not. Truly, though, the captain is a busy man. If you don't mind...” He extended a hand towards the door.

  But John was already moving. “Show me to the room he was using,” John said. “And I'll get out of your hair. We need to find him. If he's still on the ship, I need to know where. Now.”