Left to Fear (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Ten) Page 5

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Adele and John arrived at the docks in Vienna, approaching the riverboat with nearly a half hour to spare on their eight AM deadline. Already, Adele could see passengers queuing up by a rail, some of them with luggage and others brandishing tickets. One passenger was gesturing wildly with their ticket and pointing towards the concrete gangplank leading up to the boat. The passenger faced off with a young woman in a black uniform who was standing by the ramp and holding out a hand.

  Adele could hear the words drifting on the breeze—speaking English, one of the staples of the more touristy attractions. "I'm sorry, sir, but no one is allowed to board yet."

  Adele frowned, sharing a look with John before approaching the line as well. The young woman held up another her hand in their direction also, shaking her head in frustration, and raising her voice to say, "I'm afraid I can't let anyone on before eight. Please, go to the back of the line."

  John and Adele, in practiced synchronization, flashed their badges.

  The young woman froze, swallowing once while stuttering a quick apology. "Go right ahead," she muttered. She moved a cordoning rope and allowed John and Adele past her. A few of the gathered passengers grumbled in frustration, as Adele moved up towards the waiting boat. The large white and blue vessel had three decks. The sleek, angled prow looked more like it belonged on a luxury yacht than a riverboat. The design of the vessel leaned heavily on blue glass and windows as a focal point. The top deck, from what she could see, and parts of the second deck, boasted doors separated by twelve feet or more on either side.

  "Guest rooms," Adele murmured, nodding.

  John followed her gaze, and then stepped off the gangplank onto the boat. The moment his feet landed, someone cleared their throat, and a new voice called, "Excuse me, are you with the police?"

  Adele turned to find a man with a sweaty face hurriedly approaching them. He was thin, and built like a cyclist, with thick legs, and a thin torso. His eyes, though, didn't have anything in the way of relaxation that came with consistent exercise. Rather, he was scowling so deeply Adele thought he might sprain something.

  "DGSI," Adele replied. "I'm Agent Sharp, this is my partner Agent Renee."

  The man with the sweaty face glanced between the two of them, seemingly unimpressed. He looked over the railing towards the gathering queue of passengers. One of the passengers who'd been gesticulating wildly, ripped up his ticket, flung the pieces at the poor woman behind the rope, and then marched away.

  The sweaty man huffed in frustration, turning back to Adele. "You've kept us docked long enough. How much more?"

  "We only just got here," Adele said, keeping her own emotions from the night before in check. She breathed slowly, inhaling the breeze and the water. "Are you the captain?"

  The man stared at her, wrinkling his nose. "What? No. I represent the owner of the vessel."

  "The owner?

  "Yes," the man said quickly. “My name is Mr. Larsen; I work with a law firm that represents the interests of Sightseeing Incorporated."

  "That's the owner of this boat?"

  "Among others. What did you say your name was?"

  "Agent Sharp."

  "Well, Agent Sharp, like I said before, we can't afford to keep the boat docked for this long. As you can see below, we're already losing passengers. Plus, we have others waiting for us. They will have been notified about the delay, but unless we are expected to reimburse them, we need to get going, and soon."

  Adele shook her head. "Where's the crime scene?"

  The man set his teeth and gave an impatient little huff of breath. At last, though, seemingly deciding the sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could leave, he snapped, "Here, on the third floor. Follow me, please."

  Adele gave John a long look, who shrugged back at her. She hadn't been expecting a guided tour by a blustering lawyer.

  "Sightseeing Incorporated," Adele said, walking quickly to keep up with their guide, "is this the only boat they have?"

  "Only? No. They run ten; the program started about three months ago. It's quite new. Which is why it's important we maintain a good reputation. This," he added, glancing sharply at Adele, "is killing us."

  His feet seemed to ring louder, tapping against the deck as he marched up a set of stairs, leading them along a row of rooms with blue doors.

  One of the doors was propped open, with a line of yellow caution tape looping from the handle to the railing and back. Two police officers stood out front, reclining against the doorway, staring out over the rail with bored expressions.

  The moment they spotted the agents, though, they shifted to attention, clearing their throats and standing straight-backed.

  John nodded to each of the officers in turn. “They take the body?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  The officer on the left, a young man with a bright, orange beard, nodded quickly, also replying in broken English. “Two hours ago, sir. Are you with—”

  “DGSI,” John cut him off. “The coroner say how long she's been dead?”

  “DGSI?” The man said, hesitantly. “Isn't that French?”

  Adele cleared her throat. “Under the purview of an Interpol task force,” she said, quietly. The man seemed to ease at this comment and nodded quickly.

  The second officer, an older fellow, with no facial hair, coughed delicately. “Placed the time of death sometime yesterday evening,” he said. “A porter found her in her room.”

  “A porter,” John wrinkled his nose. He glanced at Adele. “Of course... a porter...” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow and waiting for her to fill in the blank.

  Adele, who knew exactly what a porter was, and knew what John wanted, waited instead, watching him with mild amusement. The tall Frenchman's eyes narrowed. “What's a porter?” he finally muttered.

  Mr. Larsen, the representative, rubbed at the bridge of his nose, muttering beneath his breath. “Agents, please,” he said, a bit more insistently. “I'm pleading with you.” He glanced at his watch—a golden Rolex. “We have to depart the port in the next twenty minutes or refund more than a hundred tickets.”

  Adele whistled softly. “A hundred?” she said. “This boat is popular, then.”

  “My clients,” Mr. Larsen said, crisply, “have designed a unique, one-of-a-kind experience along the Danube. Both long-term passengers, and those who wish to embark at whatever point in the journey they like, are able to enjoy the journey.”

  “So it's like a bus,” John grunted. “A floating bus.”

  The man looked like he wanted to rub his nose again, but instead he forced a smile. “A porter, good sir, is a bit like a busboy for a boat.”

  “And this porter who found the body. His name?” Adele said.

  Mr. Larsen looked at her now. “A Mr. Brand. He was quite distraught by the whole thing, I assure you.”

  “Where is he now?” Adele said, standing before the open doorway.

  “I imagine preparing for the day, and hoping, like I am, we are able to set out on time.”

  Adele turned away from the lawyer, now, to look at where John was poking his head into the doorway. “She was found choked to death,” John murmured, glancing back at Adele. “Read the full file yet?”

  “I read what there was,” she returned, stepping past Mr. Larsen, and lowering her voice. “Choked on her own wallet.”

  John made a swallowing sound, wincing and shaking his head before ducking under the caution tape and stepping into the small room with a window facing the front of the boat. Adele followed closed behind. Her eyes darted, instantly, to the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar, and also towards a single book discarded on the bed.

  “Minimal struggle,” Adele ventured after a moment. “She didn't stand much of a chance.”

  “Think our killer was waiting for her? Waited for her to sleep?”

  Adele glanced towards the bed again but shook her head. “Not sleeping. Book is on the bed. Maybe she was distracted, though.” Adele gl
anced through the door towards the officers. “Where was the body found, exactly?”

  The man with the beard pointed towards the threshold of the door itself. “Right inside,” he said, softly. “She was nearly blocking the door when she was found.”

  Adele turned back to the room, frowning even more deeply now. She paced over to the bed, staring at the discarded book and then took three long steps to reach the door again. “That's a long distance to cover,” she murmured, “if she was caught by surprise.”

  John was now by the bathroom, peering into the small space. “So maybe not surprise. Maybe she saw him coming. Recognized him?”

  “Doubtful. If she moved from the bed to the door... Either running or...”

  “Answering the door? Maybe the killer muscled his way in. Then left the same way.”

  “Maybe...”

  Adele exhaled through her nose, glancing around the room. “If he did, without being seen,” Adele said quietly, “then it suggests he at least knows somewhat the layout of this boat.”

  “And?” John prompted.

  “You heard Mr. Larsen. It's a new boat. Only three months. How many people would be that familiar with it?”

  John was reading his phone slowly, shaking his head. “Still waiting on more information about Anika Blythe,” he said, softly. “She was only twenty-three.”

  Adele winced. “How old was the last victim.”

  John rubbed his chin. “Twenty-one,” he muttered, a note of disgust to his tone.

  “Well, there's at least that as a connection. But Zeynep Akbulut is well known and wealthy. Anika Blythe...” Adele glanced around the sparse room. “Doesn't seem to fit the same cloth.” She shook her head. “Anyway... even if the killer did know the layout of the boat. It suggests perhaps he killed Zeynep, got off that boat, then onto this one.”

  Adele turned, glancing out the door again towards where Mr. Larsen was practically glued to his watch. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Yes?” he snapped. “Can we go?”

  “Not yet. It's possible our killer struck on another boat before coming to this one. Did you hear about—”

  “Zeynep Akbulut? Yes, of course. Everyone did. Very sad. Very. I'm not sure what keeping us docked, though, can do about that.”

  Adele frowned. “Do you know who owned that other boat?”

  Here, Mr. Larsen's cheeks went the color of the young officer's beard. He coughed delicately, sighed once, then glanced off. “Sightseeing Incorporated,” he said, softly. “One of the smaller boats.”

  Adele's eyebrows flicked up. She heard John come to a halt behind her, his shadow falling over the lip of the doorway.

  “The same company who owns this boat owned the other one, too?” Adele pressed.

  “Just a coincidence. A very bad one. I'm sorry, agents, but we have to depart now. So, if you don't mind... This is a calamity as it is.”

  John began to grunt, muttering, “No wa—”

  But Adele interjected. “You can leave. But we're staying until the next stop. This porter, the one who found the body. We'd like to speak with him.”

  Mr. Larsen gave a long, gusting sigh of relief. He quickly wagged his head, nodding, and turning to begin marching down the stairs. “Of course, of course!” he called over his shoulder. “There's a café on the second level, towards the prow. He'll meet you there! Thank you, Agent Sharp!” He paused for a moment, before disappearing down the stairs, his small, sweaty-face peering over the steps. “And look... this business. This other boat. It's just an unfortunate coincidence. I can assure you.”

  “Of course,” said Adele.

  “Of course,” muttered John.

  Then, they watched the small man leave, hurrying quickly down the steps to get the boat moving again.

  “Think it's a good idea to allow them to embark?” John murmured beneath his breath.

  “Can't hurt,” Adele replied quietly. She gestured towards the crime scene. “Nothing there. Both victims were young women. Both choked to death with items lodged in their throat.”

  John winced, rubbing at his own throat. “I already hate this guy.”

  “Yeah, well, let's see if the porter has anything to add.” Adele shrugged. “And the two boats, both owned by Mr. Larsen's clients. Coincidence, hmm?”

  “Right,” John muttered, stepping past Adele and moving towards the indicated café. “Definitely. Coincidence. When is it not? Let's stop talking to bureaucrats. They're useless. This porter is the one who found the body. He'll know something—they always do. Coincidence—bah!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Adele regarded the porter who wore a dark, silk uniform and a nervous countenance. His fingers tapped abruptly against the back of the chair which he seemed reluctant to sit in. The small, little café at the prow of the riverboat was a quaint amalgam of silver tables and chairs, and a small café which seemed to occupy two spaces that might have originally been intended for rooms.

  Soft, instrumental music and the odor of reheated coffee wafted from within the café, lingering on the air above the tables.

  Adele cleared her throat delicately as she leaned back in her chair. John had opted to remain standing near the stairwell which led back up to the rooms.

  “I'm sure it was very upsetting,” Adele said, quietly in English for John's sake. “But anything you can tell us would be a great help.”

  "I don't know what you want," replied Mr. Brand, suited enough to the language himself, his fingers increasing their tempo against the back of the silver chair. He seemed to be keeping rhythm with the music wafting from the café, and every so often he would glance back towards one of the speakers hidden beneath a green and white umbrella spread as an awning over the small shop.

  "I didn't even know who she was," he said. "I just spotted the door slightly ajar, when I was making my rounds. Sometimes the guests order room service, or have special requests lodged for amenities they might need.”

  "What does this mean? Amenities," John asked.

  The man glanced towards the tall Frenchman, and only seemed to grow more nervous, his fingers tapping even louder. "Just things they want. Look, I really didn't know who she was. I wish I hadn't found that body." He closed his eyes for a moment, staring at the back of his tapping fingers. "It was all so horrible."

  Adele waited patiently, allowing the man to speak, before saying, softly, "Did you see anyone nearby? Anything strange at all?"

  "You mean besides—"

  "Yes, besides that."

  "Nothing. I'm telling the truth. I didn't see anything. No one was moving about the deck. Most the passengers stayed near the café, or the lowest level, watching the water or the passing countryside. It's really a beautiful sight. It's why most people board."

  "And yet you were upstairs," John insisted.

  The porter squeaked, scratching at the back of his head, and shaking his head quickly. "It wasn't anything like that. You have to believe me. I didn't have anything to do with it."

  Adele sighed. "Look, when you found her, what happened next?"

  "I told Mr. Larsen. He's the coordinator. Represents the company, but also keep things moving. And he immediately called the police."

  "I see," said Adele. "Mr. Larsen, he works for Sightseeing Incorporated, yes?"

  Here, the porter seemed to grow rather nervous. The chair beneath his fingers shifted, and he glanced off past John, as if looking for something. His voice became quieter, and he murmured, "He does a good job. And the company pays well. I don't have any complaints with them."

  "Were you aware there was another murder, on another boat owned by the same company?"

  The porter's hands twisted on the back of the chair. "I heard something. I don't know anything about that. Really. I've been stuck here ever since I found her. Look, can I go? We have passengers coming."

  Adele looked towards John, who shrugged back at her. Both of them emitted a soft little sigh at the same time.

  "Go on," Adele said. "We'll be in touc
h if we need anything else. And if you remember anything—"

  "I won't," he squeaked, and then hurried away from the table, sucking in his stomach as he slid past John and then took the stairs three at a time in his bid for freedom.

  Beyond, along the rail, Adele could see passengers now moving towards the café, and she sighed softly, looking towards her tall partner.

  "What do you think?"

  "If they're murders on the same boats," John said, "it could very well be an employee. Maybe even that guy. Really twitchy."

  "He was kept on the boat all night."

  "It doesn't mean he couldn't have come from that other ship. Whoever it is, they're moving from one to another, killing people."

  Adele bit her lower lip and shook her head. "You really think it's an employee?"

  "Don't know. I'm curious why he's targeting these women though. You know how I feel when—"

  "I know. I get it. Crimes of opportunity? Or maybe he just seeks them out once he's on the ship?"

  "Possibly. If so, though, he got really lucky to hunt down the eldest daughter of the Akbulut family."

  "You think he targeted her especially?"

  "Maybe it's like a needle in a haystack. Kill a bunch of people, but really only target one. Pretty sure I saw a movie about that. If either of these two was the real target, it'd be Zeynep Akbulut."

  "Maybe. One thing is certain..." Adele trailed off, her tone grim, her eyes narrowed. "There's no reason to believe the killer is finished; there could be another body tonight."

  "I certainly hope not," said a new voice. Adele glanced past John to see Mr. Larsen scowling and moving up the final step to the second deck. He shook his head. "What makes you think that?" He spoke quietly, shooting a glance over his shoulder towards where some passengers were near a rail, shooting suspicious look towards John and Adele. A couple of others were still approaching the café but were taking their time about it.