LOST WITNESS
A Josie Bates Thriller, Book 8
Rebecca Forster
Lost Witness
E-Book Edition
Copyright © Rebecca Forster 2019
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All rights reserved
Cover Design, Hadleigh O. Charles
Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
Alex Czuleger, The Greenroom Talent Management, Hollywood, California
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Contents
title
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
1. Day 1 @ 2 A.M
2. Day 1 @2:30 A.M
3. Day 1 @3:30 A.M
4. Day 1 @ 6:30 A.M
5. Day 1 @ 8 A.M
6. Day 1 @ 9:30 A.M
7. Day 1 @ 10:00 A.M
8. Day 1 @ 10:42 A.M
Tala
9. Day 1 @ 2:00 P.M
Tala
10. Day 1 - 3:20 P.M
11. Day 1 @ 4:00 P.M
12. Day 1 @ 6 P.M
13. Day 1 @10:00 P.M
Tala
14. Day 1 @ 11:06 P.M
15. Day 2 @1:00 a.m
16. Day 2 @ 2:30 A.M
17. Day 2 @ 3:30 A.M
18. Day 2 @ 4:10 A.M
19. Day 2 @ 5:38 A.M
20. Day 2 @ 11:00 A.M
Tala
21. Day 2 @1:00 P.M
22. Day 2 @2:30 P.M
Tala
23. Day 2 @ 3:10 P.M
24. Day 2 @ 5:00 P.M
25. Day 2 @5:00 P.M
26. Day 2 @8:00 P.M
Tala
27. Day 2 @ 11:00 P.M
28. Day 2 @11:30
Tala
29. Day 3 @12:30 A.M
30. Day 3 @1:10 A.M
Tala
31. Day 3 @1:30 A.M
32. Day 3 @1:43 A.M
33. Day 3 @ 2:00 A.M
34. Day 3 2:05 A.M
35. Tala, 6 Weeks Later
36. Bree, 6 Weeks Later
37. Hannah, 6 Weeks Later
Sneak Peek at Severed Relations, Book #1, Finn O’Brien Thrillers
Also by Rebecca Forster
About the Author
Lost Witness
A Josie Bates Thriller
Book #8
By
Rebecca Forster
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
- Dylan Thomas
For My Mom who I admire more than words can say.
For my dear friend, author Richard Bard. I miss you.
For readers who insisted that Josie’s story continue,
I thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people to thank when a novel is finally written. Jenny Jensen, my amazing editor, along with Bruce Raterink and Glenn Gallo and Lawrence Standifer Stevens who have offered encouragement, friendship, and honest words for years. My husband and sons who put up with the highs and lows of the creative process (and the lack of dinner on nights when things are really cooking in my brain). But there are two people who were particularly instrumental in helping me with LOST WITNESS.
Ante Fistonich was an enormous help in understanding the business of the ports. He regaled me with stories, insights, and amazing facts long into the night. I also want to shout out to Debbie Textor Camardelle. She was a fan, then a Words With Friends competitor, and is now a friend. In a previous life she was a merchant marine serving on LNG tankers. Her insights regarding women on ships and her encouragement were invaluable to the writing of this story.
Above all, thank you to the readers who insisted LOST WITNESS be written.
1
Day 1 @ 2 A.M
The man in the mid-ship cabin had sailed 6,300 miles on the Faret Vild, and no one onboard save for the captain knew he was there. It was the captain who brought him his meals, the captain who made sure the man's linen was clean, and the captain who had chosen the large, long unused cabin for this passenger. When the man ventured out at all it was in the dead of night when only the watch on the bridge was awake. Even then he was cautious. If he was noticed at all his presence seemed no more than a shadow on the deck, a spirit near the rails, a thing undefined but sensed by those who knew the Faret Vild well. Now, on the last legs of the voyage, he had cabin fever. The Port of Los Angeles was within sight, the weather was clement, the hour late, and the crew was busy preparing their cargo, so the man took a stroll.
He breathed deep of the sea air, stretched his legs a bit, turned his body, and heard the bones in his back crack. He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and rested his arms on the deck railing. He would enjoy a moment before returning to his cabin to wait for docking and debarkation. At that time he would blend in as if he were an inspector, or a supervisor, or any number of men who worked on the ships or at the port. When his business was done he would return to the Faret Vild in the same manner, and he would come back richer.
But that was tomorrow and tonight was beautiful. Above him the heavens were as black as the water upon which the ship sailed. The sky sparkled with stars; the ocean illuminated by a moon that was bright enough to read by. A fresh, cool breeze caught the smoke from his cigarette and swirled it around his head before blowing it away. The man was raising the cigarette for one last drag when the back of his neck prickled. He had caught someone's attention. Being an old hand at watching and being watched, he gave no indication that he knew he was not alone. Instead, he allowed this person time to pass on or to return to where they had come from. When that didn't happen the man swiveled his head, chin tucked into his shoulder, and saw that it was a person of no consequence staring at him. He shook his head, stood up straight, took the last hit off his cigarette, and flicked the butt into the ocean. He started to walk past the watching person who did not stand aside and who looked at him brazenly.
The scum.
If he were at home he would teach this one a lesson. But he wasn't at home, and the last thing he needed was to make a scene at this late date.
Yet, now that he had been seen, the man realized how ridiculous it had been to hide all these days. It was boldness that had gotten him where he was, not timidity. Then again the stakes were higher than usual, and caution had served its purpose. His business in Los Angeles would be brief and lucrative if handled correctly. Then it was on to Panama. After that the route would be firmly established, and he would never have to travel in this low manner again.
"Move," he said, annoyed by this person's impertinence.
When that didn't happen, the man showed his knife, its blade shining in the moonlight. That should have been enough, and in the next moment it was. That person, that lowly being, moved aside, but only far enough for the man to pass. He put his knife in his pocket and went on his way only to stumble, missing his footing when he thought he heard the mate speak.
Tala.
The sound of it was not so much whispered as choked.
Tala.
The man righted himself. He tugged at his shirt and raised his chin. He did not look back, positive that it was a trick of his brain that made him lose his footing. Yes, this was his imagination working overtime, brought on by the affront of being scrutinized in such a manner. Perhaps he was unnerved by the solitude of the last many days. It could have been the sound of the ocean breeze bringing up the memory of that name, whispering as it followed him through the heavy door. No matter what it was that made him
think of that time so long ago, he resented being put in such a position by someone not worth spit.
The man turned to unleash his fury on the brazen snake that dared address him, but the mate was gone, disappeared into the old, creaking hulk of a vessel. The mate had gone so quickly, so silently, that the man wondered if he had imagined the meeting. Perhaps all this was nothing more than a rare itch of conscience.
Putting a hand to his eyes, he pressed his fingers against the sockets to quell the pounding behind his lids. Undone by what had happened, the man considered that this encounter might be a bad omen. Then he laughed. Such thoughts were folly. He had a diamond in his ring after all. Everyone knew that diamonds kept evil spirits away. Yet here he was worrying like an auntie; acting like an amateur. That person was nothing but an ant in a hill, moving things about without knowing why, doing what was expected and unsure of how to handle the unexpected. He on the other hand made things happen with a snap of his fingers: big things, frightening things, deadly things.
Stepping through the heavy metal door, he turned left and not right toward his cabin. He would inspect his cargo once more, count the boxes, and check the lashings. He would visit each container, even the one down in the very bowels of the ship because tomorrow was important; tomorrow some of that cargo would be delivered, tested and accepted and he would arrange for the next shipments. All would be well. What just happened was nothing. He would move forward as he always had. He would come out on top as he always had.
The Faret Vild was a very large container ship built in 1990. In 2002 it was sold to Libier Knox, and then it was acquired by North Jutland, Boldsen Enterprises in 2004. The vessel sailed, as it had since 1990, under a Liberian flag, but it was no longer the pride of the fleet.
The massive ship's captain, Adeano Bianchi, was Italian; the first mate, Nanda, was Indonesian. The engineer was a man of mixed heritage whose papers indicated that he came from New Zealand. The crew was sparse - as crews tend to be on such vessels - and numbered seventeen seafaring souls. Of the crew there were four Chinese, one African, nine hailing from the Balkans (two Serbs, three Albanians and four Croats), two citizens of the Philippines and one - well one who was a mystery of sorts.
The Italian captain, needing another hand at the last minute, merely shrugged at this young man's poorly forged U.S. passport. He ignored his reticent, wary manner, and the distrustful darkness in his blue eyes. The young man was possessed of a quiet that made his fellow mates steer clear and the captain feel as if he were somehow lacking. Still there were worse types on board. Not to mention there was another mate who would not sign on without this strange young man. To get the refrigeration engineer Adeano Bianchi had to take the second mate who was not an engineer. That was fine because they both came cheap.
The young man - this boy - was not angry or cruel or even a little insane, he simply made it clear that if people kept their distance it would be for the best. Men like him were ocean swells, apparent and unsettling but of little consequence once they moved on. The first mate assigned the quiet man to the lower hold to monitor the temperature on the refrigerated units, and the captain thought no more about him.
Now it was zero two hundred hours and the Faret Vild lay off the coast of Southern California. Having been advised by the port that a berth would not be available until zero eight hundred at the earliest, the crew made the ship ready to anchor. They did their work quickly in anticipation of the 'love boat' the captain had promised. It would bring ladies who would help them pass the time in a happy way while the ship remained in the queue.
On the bridge, the first mate was on the radio walking through the anchor checks: brakes on and clear of the voyage securing devices, hydraulic power of the windlasses was checked, and the anchor crew was appropriately dressed for safety. The latter was a matter of faith since the first mate did not think it necessary to check on the crew's dress, nor had the Indonesian thought it necessary to send more than one crew to discharge the task. This was a violation of the company's safety regulations, but it had been done before and it would be done again. Finally the first mate confirmed there was no craft or obstacle under the bow.
Simultaneously the captain ensured that the vessel's GPS speed was near zero before he specifically identified the ship as the Faret Vild to those on shore. He did this to avoid misinterpretation should any outside person pick up the transmission. The ship, after all, was old and the communications were by radio, so the identification was necessary to avoid possible confusion with another vessel. This procedure was also necessary because Captain Bianchi wanted no curious eyes on the Faret Vild for any reason. By the book. No mistakes. For a captain who was more than willing to cut corners this was telling to Nanda, but the first mate asked no questions. That was how he stayed employed and healthy. Finally the Italian gave Nanda a nod and he, in turn, gave the order to drop anchor.
It was more than a minute before the first mate realized that he had not received confirmation from the anchor crew. He palmed the radio once again, but before he could speak the bridge vibrated with the telltale shimmy of the hydraulics engaging and the giant anchor being lowered by the enormous chain. Satisfied, the first mate turned away. The captain looked up, pen at the ready, in anticipation of verbal confirmation of the lowering of the anchor for the log. Before the Indonesian could speak, the shimmy stopped and all went quiet. In the next second a warning light blinked green on the bridge.
"Nanda."
When the captain had the first mate's attention, he moved a finger to indicate the walkie-talkie. Nanda picked it up and muttered 'omong kosong apa' before depressing the talk button. The captain laughed.
"Si, but she is our piece of crap."
As Nanda tried to raise the anchor crew, the captain left his log and went out to the bridge wing. He called to Lito, one of the Croats working below, and ordered him to see what was what. The man dropped the heavy hose he had been using to wash the deck, and leaned over the railing. When he stood upright again, he waved his hands at the bridge and signed that the anchor was stuck, dangling against the side of the ship.
"Che Casino. Such a mess." The captain muttered as he went back to the bridge. "Nanda, send someone to check."
The Italian went back to his log, making meticulous notes, taking little notice as the first mate called to the lounge where the crew smoked and ate as they waited for the ship to be secured and the love boat women to arrive.
"Bojan will go," Nanda said when all was arranged.
The first mate went back to work. There had been a change in position that needed to be reflected in the log since the anchor was not yet in place. This he relayed to the captain.
While the men on the bridge monitored the drift, Bojan, one of the Serbs, rose from his dinner, stubbed out his cigarette thoroughly, downed the rest of his coffee, and made a joke at the expense of the Albanians. Only then did he go on his way, down into the bowels of the ship, keeping a more leisurely pace than he should have.
He navigated the narrow passageways and ladders with a light step, ignoring the cold that became frostier the deeper he went. He whistled a song from his youth and chuckled as it pinged a merry echo in his wake. He drummed a beat or two on the massive containers stacked high on either side of him.
As he approached his destination, the whistling stopped and his steps slowed. Despite the groans of the ship, despite the grinding of the hydraulics, the Faret Vild seemed suddenly, eerily silent. The only light came from poorly spaced industrial fixtures attached to the walls. These were encased in metal cages and cast ghostly shadows in the hold. Bojan inched forward unable to imagine what was wrong since he was a man of limited imagination. Not that it mattered. No one could have imagined what he found in the anchor room.
First he saw the dead man caught between the hydraulics of the windlasses and skin of the vessel. One of his arms was woven through the massive links of the anchor chain. It had been cracked in so many places the thing didn't look like an arm any longer. Part of
his shoulder was crushed, too, and his neck was tilted at a ninety-degree angle. The man's body was being dragged back and forth on the floor, and his face was crushed flat where it rhythmically hit the hull as the chain strained against the obstruction. The Serb knew the man was dead without touching the body. He had seen enough dead men to know this. He also knew that men didn't wind themselves through chains to commit suicide, and that meant whoever had done this must still be about.
Knees bent, fists held at the ready, eyes narrowed as he peered through the shadows, Bojan pivoted slowly. The anchor room was not a large space, so it wasn't long before he saw the other one propped up against the wall, bloodied, glassy-eyed, and unmoving. Carefully Bojan righted himself and went over to take a closer look. This one had been beaten badly, cut in places; perhaps a bone or two was broken. Unsure of what to do next, knowing there was no help for the dead man, Bojan backed away. Keeping his eyes on the person against the wall, he called the bridge, and told the first mate what he had found. The first mate told the captain who said:
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