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

by Blake Pierce

  Adele winced, nodding sympathetically, but at the same time, like the sun rising above, the heat against her cheeks, she felt a slow, dawning sense of realization.

  It was so simple. Obvious even.

  Fake names. These were boats, not airplanes. Entry was little better than concert tickets—the killer was using a fake name to travel from boat to boat. He had to be. She shook her head slowly, gave another apologetic nod towards the widower, and turned, walking away, mulling this over.

  Mr. Havertz wouldn't benefit by her staying. He wouldn't benefit by her going. There was really nothing that she could do to help. But maybe, just maybe, if she caught this guy, it could give some measure of peace.

  As she moved, she quickened, picking up her pace, heading back towards the boat.

  The killer was using fake names. That would explain why she couldn't find a commonality on the manifest. But not only that, this was the second victim who wouldn't have inherited their family fortune. Anika had been cut off. And now, it turned out, so had Abigail. Did the killer know that? Was this envy over status and wealth? Over beauty?

  Or was something else going on here?

  Adele felt a little shiver. She thought back to that rose, that note taped to the stem.

  This was personal, but clinical.

  Deeply connected, and yet sanitized.

  Something was going on here that she wasn't picking up on. Something that was costing young women their lives. She needed to go back and look over the evidence once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  He reclined lazily at the café table, overlooking the swishing blue-grey waters beneath the dawning sunlight. He'd already been up for a while, listening, watching, like a gargoyle perched on a cathedral, keeping track off all within its domain.

  He watched the police cars around the dock, and also watched the two agents—one of them tall, the other shorter, with blonde hair. The woman seemed to be in charge, though the tall agent, with a scar under the side of his chin, seemed a mulish, stubborn fellow.

  Just his luck they had locked the boat down before he could get off. He'd tried to leave with some of the short-term passengers, but they'd been checking identifications against ticket names, and so he'd been forced to double back and remain behind with the overnighters and the crew.

  Now, sitting at the café table, feeling the cool metal slowly warming in the sunlight where his fingers tapped, he simply watched and waited.

  He also listened.

  Two tables over, a group of young friends—likely college-aged—were muttering to each other. One of the young men was saying, “They can't keep us here, can they?” He spoke in English, with a London accent. “It's not right! Hear me!” the young man's voice rose, and he directed the shout towards where a police officer was stationed by the café window, keeping an eye on the passengers.

  The officer cleared his throat and glanced uncomfortably off to the side.

  Another one of the college-aged tourists was shaking her head firmly. She had short-cut, purple-dyed hair, and sniffed in frustration. She spoke to the officer in German, her accent quite heavy, but decipherable. “When can we leave?” she demanded, growling.

  A couple of other passengers, sitting at another table, nursing small coffees and teas were frowning as well, wagging their heads in agreement—a sure sign things had grown serious when locals and tourists agreed on anything.

  The police officer shifted uncomfortably again, but the girl yelled at him in German once more and he shrugged his shoulders, adjusting his uniform once. The officer in question had salt-and-pepper hair, and bags under his eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept well the previous night.

  The man at the café table, on the other hand, had slept like a babe. Three down. One to go. Everything had to end at some point. He'd thought by starting this all, some of the rage, the pent-up fury would have dissipated, like pus leaving a wound.

  But the more he killed, he'd found his anger only to rise. The memories came too. The gagging, choking sounds reminded him of... her. He frowned now, his fingers no longer drumming against the metal table, his eyes narrowed beneath the rising sun over the boat. The stirring of the morning had prompted vehicles and pedestrians to begin moving along the river walks. A small group of looky-loos had gathered at the entrance to the dock, watching the ship. He'd spotted cameras and reporters among them. He'd even seen a couple of reporters try to sneak over one of the chain-link fences before being caught by the police and dragged off.

  Now, though, as he watched the college tourists lambaste the police officer, he felt a flicker of frustration.

  The officer was just trying to do his job. No sleep, poor pay, little appreciation, and no respect. That's how it often went with such folk.

  “I'm sorry,” the officer said, shaking his head helplessly. “Nothing I can do until I'm given the word. It shouldn't be much longer.”

  This only prompted a further outcry from the two other tables with customers. The overnight passengers were now scowling in synchronization, all trying to express their displeasure at once. The officer now clammed up, shrugging and staring off over the heads of the gathered onlookers.

  The man at the café table just watched, quietly, silently. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't shake his fist. If anything, his only annoyed glance was spared for the disrespectful children. They didn't understand the way of the world. Didn't understand the amount of shit an officer like that, a beat cop, had to go through. If he'd been so unfortunate as to have been stuck babysitting the passengers, it meant he was a low man on the totem pole.

  Fingers started tapping on the metal surface once more. The man sighed, watching the scene through hooded eyes, his expression docile, careful, calm. No reason to fear. Not now. Not yet.

  She would be with him soon.

  The fourth.

  It was all coming together. They didn't have a clue who he was. They didn't have a clue what he wanted.

  Perfect. He wondered what his next postcard would say. Should he tell them why? Should he tell them what he was going to do after?

  He smiled, faintly, but then erased the expression, folding his hands on the table in front of him. Such unusual things, hands. Interesting what they could accomplish. So many uses in those ten fingers.

  He studied his folded hands for a moment, his neat, expensive suit sleeves pressed against the table. The hands were his, calloused and rough. The hands of a menial worker—the hands of a man who knew an honest day's labor. The suit didn't match the hands. But his past didn't match his future, either.

  Some things simply couldn't be explained. Strange what fate would give and then subsequently take back.

  If he could trade it all... suits and everything for one more day with her...

  He swallowed now, glancing off over the railing and watching a seabird circle...

  He'd do it in a heartbeat.

  But alas, that wasn't an option.

  She was gone. And so they would pay. They had refused to before. Then, they'd paid later. But now, they'd pay the ultimate price.

  Just one left.

  He remained quiet, calm, listening to the grumblings, the mutterings, the protests. Little more than the bleating of a flock behind wooden fences. Bleating meant nothing.

  Action was everything.

  Soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  One dead, two dead, three, four? They needed to find a lead... Something clear, something certain and concrete. Adele gritted her teeth at the thought. She stood on the dock for a moment, watching the white sports car idle in the parking lot. Abigail's husband wasn't leaving, contenting himself, it seemed, to remained parked under police surveillance, staring up at the large boat where his wife had died.

  Adele hated leaving him there, untended, unaided. But there was nothing she could do.

  She glanced back, up towards the boat. Towards where the porter had been taken into custody. The locals would be booking him soon enough, no doubt. They'd keep him overnig
ht, at the very least—and he'd be serving time for the jewelry he'd stolen.

  But was he a killer?

  “Unlikely,” she murmured, softly, answering her own question.

  She stood on the dock, on the very edge, her toes practically poking over the dappled concrete, towards the waters below. The water was oddly still, today. No rising wind, no droplets of rain. The wake of boats and watercraft hadn't disturbed the flowing river, yet.

  Rather, it was like watching a trail of sheer glass extend beneath reflective sunlight.

  She sighed slowly, staring at where her feet jutted over the concrete edge. For a moment, she wondered how cool the water was. The sun was starting to bake, and the back of her neck often burned faster than the rest of her. She reached up, rubbing at her warm neck and then pushed her bangs out of her eyes, frowning to herself.

  The deadest of ends.

  The porter was in custody, but she knew it wasn't him. Knew it in her bones. Pierre Manet wasn't the sort of man to write a note, leave a rose. He was an unctuous, slimy weasel of a man. He wasn't a killer. He was a thief. He wasn't bold, he was someone who preferred the shadows. He didn't have the will to do this.

  She knew a coward when she saw one. And while killers were monsters, heinous, they weren't always cowards. They put action to their evil thoughts.

  Muttering to herself and choosing a few special insults, she felt her phone begin to buzz in her pocket. Adele swallowed, wincing, and then lifted the device. She stared at the number, and then went cold.

  Foucault.

  Damn it.

  She glanced over her shoulder, looking for John, but he was likely still napping in the break room on his bed made of protein bar wrappers.

  Double damn it.

  For one, wild moment, she considered letting it go to voicemail. At this point, though, they were bordering on insubordination. Besides, John had been the one to throw the equipment off the boat, not Adele. It wasn't her job to duck and hide. Her career wasn't in jeopardy. Besides, John's stint with the DGSI had nine lives. She was curious, like a cat, to wonder how on earth the tall Frenchman was going to escape punishment this time.

  So she answered.

  “Foucault?” Adele said, her voice sounding far too high-pitched to her own ears.

  “Adele?” The Executive's voice replied, just as stern and firm as she'd dreaded.

  “I... yes sir?”

  “You sent in a request for us to ground ten water boats.”

  She blinked. Not about John, then? “Oh, yes, sir.” She shifted uncomfortably, watching the white sports car absentmindedly, her own mind whirring. “I didn't want to bother you, so I didn't send it across your desk, sir.”

  “Yes, well, Paige sent it my way.”

  “Of course she did,” Adele said. “Sir,” she added.

  “I'm afraid it's bad news, Adele. Sightseeing Incorporated is putting up a fight. Judge Diel woke to six lawyers at his office first thing this morning. Ten missed phone calls, apparently. He called it harassment and blamed our department.”

  “I—I'm sorry, sir. Could Ms. Jayne, perhaps—”

  “No, you're Interpol correspondent is no help either, I'm afraid. Look, Adele, I'm sorry, but we can't ground those boats, not yet.”

  Adele hissed slowly, loosing air like steam from a kettle. At least the call wasn't about John. But somehow, now, she realized, this was far worse.

  Without grounding all the ships, there was no way to track down the killer. For all she knew, the bastard had slipped the boat long before they'd even arrived. She had no clue where to go from here, other than a wild goose chase on some other boat. She couldn't waste time skipping from ship to ship hoping that luck would help her save another life.

  She stared at the idling, white sports car. Winced against the sunlight. Winced, even more, against Mr. Havertz' words about his wife. She'd liked sunrises apparently. She'd loved him more than her family's wealth.

  Someone like that didn't deserve to die, did they?

  Adele considered it for a moment. Perhaps deserve was the wrong word. No one was solely their highlights. Most people were a mixture and hid their flaws well enough.

  But this killer, this predator, he'd allowed his worst nature to take the reigns. And she was kicking against a wall, unable to find entry into even the simplest lead.

  “Sir, I beg you to reconsider. Is the judge willing to take a phone call? If you'd give me his—”

  “Ha! Absolutely not. Out of the question, Agent Sharp.”

  “Sir, really, we're running—”

  “I get it. But no. Ships won't be grounded, Sharp. That's final.”

  Adele huffed a breath but nodded slowly. “Alright, sir. Anything else?” As she said it, she winced, staring off and resisting the urge to cross her fingers.

  “One other thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “I'm having reports that Agent Renee had an altercation with two violent civilians.”

  “I—er, what?”

  Foucault cleared his throat. “Are you alright?”

  “Am I—excuse me, sir?”

  “They attacked, you, yes? John said they tried to push you overboard. Renee's report includes a description of you trying to escape but being outnumbered.” She heard what sounded like rustling paper and then a flipping page. “I see one of them tried to kiss you. Apparently, he was drunk—is there anything you'd like to add?”

  Adele just stared, her mouth unhinged. She felt something like ice and sheer outrage fall across her shoulders. “Tried... tried to kiss me, sir?”

  “Yes. We've confirmed their identities. A couple of low-life paparazzi scum. Looks like they filed a report with locals. Something about cameras being damaged.” He cleared his throat delicately. “Renee's report said they were taking photos of you in indecent postures.”

  “I... They were... so... Renee's not in trouble?”

  “Renee? As far as the report goes, he was only protecting his partner. That's what we're going with in communication with the Germans. Why, do you have something else to add to the report?”

  Adele stared at the sky for a moment, considering her words. The initial jolt of outrage cycled through her, whirling again and again.

  A bald-faced lie. A lie directly to the executive.

  Then again, John was the same agent who used federal money to lease sports cars. He'd once tackled a man into a river and parked a helicopter on a mountain during a snowstorm. She could picture, in her mind's eye, John snickering as he wrote the report.

  Damn nine lives... More like nine hundred.

  “I... I don't remember things the same way, sir.”

  “Well, if you want to add anything, file a report. Adele, I need you focused on this. All three of these victims had high profiles. The stories are starting to seep out in local channels. It's only a matter of time before we have more cameras on us.”

  “I understand, sir. I won't be filing a report.” She gritted her teeth. “But John may be adjusting his.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that all?”

  “Focus, Agent Sharp. Catch this bastard before I'm swimming in red tape. Hear?”

  Adele sighed, but then nodded. She realized a second later, he couldn't see her. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. No red tape.”

  “And Adele, I'm sorry about those reporters. If you'd like to press charges...”

  “No, sir,” she said, reflexively. “I... I don't quite remember it like Renee, sir.”

  “So you said. Alright, good day, Agent Sharp. Report back with anything. On the case. And try not to get kissed by any more paparazzi.”

  Adele heard the line go dead, and she stood on the edge of the dock, seething, folding her fingers into a fist and glaring across the water.

  “I'm going to kill him,” she muttered to herself. “Kill. Him.”

  She could picture the shit-eating grin on John's face when she confronted him. One of these days, she knew his antics would catch up with him. With th
em. Did she really want to be around when the pied piper came calling?

  John wasn't by the book. He wasn't always honest. He was a damn fine shot, though, and reliable and loyal. Still... sometimes it felt like trying to train a toddler not to bite other children.

  She found her fingers reflexively moving back to her phone. She lifted the device, scrolling through until she found the contact she wanted.

  The Sergeant.

  And then dialed.

  If there had ever been polar opposites in their approach to their careers, John and the Sergeant were it.

  Adele wasn't sure why she was calling, until the voice answered after the second ring.

  A grunt, then, "What? I'm busy."

  "Nice to hear from you too, Dad," she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  "You can't visit me. I'm fine."

  "I'm not calling about that."

  "I don't need you checking up on me either," the Sergeant said, gruff as ever.

  "I'm not checking up on you. I have a question."

  Compared to John's unprofessionalism, and the chaotic nature of moving from boat to boat, Adele supposed she simply wanted to tether herself to something reliable and consistent. Her father was the consummate professional. He was gruff, blunt, and had the affectionate bandwidth of a pet rock, but he had been good at his job. And consistent. He'd been a Sergeant for longer than she'd been with the FBI. Besides, it wasn't like she had leads coming from any other source.

  "Dad, I'm not calling about that."

  "Good. What do you want, then?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, how are you?"

  "I'm fine, Dad. Are you still at the hospital?"

  "Course not. I'm back home."

  Adele felt her temper surge. "Dad," she said, sternly. "The asshole who attacked you is still out there!"

  "Are you tracking the case? How do you know he's still out there."

  "Of course I'm tracking it. The guy who attacked you is in the wind, Dad. You should be at the hospital, or somewhere safe."

  "I am safe. Besides, the hospital food was awful. I missed my mushroom soup."