Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13), Page 2

  There was no line up, not at this time, those who had spent the kind of money it took to enjoy the maiden voyage of this marvel of modern engineering in First Class a mostly punctual bunch.

  A hand gripped his arm just as he was about to hand over his ticket.

  He spun, a lump forming in his throat as his heart nearly stopped, the bruisers from the hotel having found him.

  He tried to break the grip with a jerk of his arm to no avail, the man impossibly strong.

  He tapped a well of courage he didn’t realize he had.

  “Unhand me, sir!” He turned toward the White Star Line staff. “Are you just going to stand there, or assist me?”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, shocked, then rushed forward. The grip was immediately loosened and he jerked his arm free, pushing past the two White Star men, stuffing his ticket into one of their hands as he rushed up the gangway. He glanced back to see the two men glaring at him before fading into the crowd, the two staff members joining him as he boarded the ship.

  “Are you alright, sir?” asked the man who was inspecting his ticket.

  Dodge nodded. “An unfortunate way to end an otherwise enjoyable stay in England.”

  “Indeed.” The man handed him his boarding pass. “I trust your journey will be without incident.”

  Dodge smiled. “I’m certain it will be.”

  The man bowed.

  “Welcome aboard the RMS Titanic.”

  Charles Street, Annapolis, Maryland

  Present Day

  Three months before the shooting

  Steve Wainwright looked through the door and sighed at the sight. Box upon box were stacked against the far wall, every square inch of the exposed paneling covered with souvenirs and memorabilia, one entire wall devoted to what appeared to be some sort of research project into the Titanic.

  His grandfather’s obsession.

  His grandfather had died just before the outset of World War II.

  Single gunshot wound to the head.

  Self-inflicted.

  Steve had never met his grandfather, and his own father had barely spoken of him, the pain and shame too great. He knew his father loved the man, yet he was also pretty sure he had never forgiven him for what he had done.

  His suicide had left them with a lot of debts, his Navy pension not enough to support the family, and his Grandma Rose had struggled to keep them fed and clothed. World War II had actually helped, the men going off to war, the jobs freed up for women like his grandmother.

  It had allowed her to earn a decent living while her two boys went off to fight.

  Uncle Mike never returned.

  Dead in North Africa.

  His dad had made it home, stayed with Grandma Rose to help her out, then when she passed a few years after the war, he had married and started a family in this very home. It had been updated over the years, probably unrecognizable to his grandparents if they were to see it today, but this one room in the basement hadn’t been touched in over sixty years.

  Where do I begin?

  His father had just passed and the family home had been willed to him, his mother having succumbed to cancer not even six months ago. He was convinced his father had died of a broken heart, the two of them inseparable for over sixty years.

  It was like losing a piece of your soul.

  His father had never been the same, had barely spoken, and it was clear to Steve that the man was just waiting to die.

  It hadn’t taken long, his father over ninety years old.

  He had had a good run.

  A run that wasn’t worth continuing without his partner.

  Steve’s chest tightened as he stepped inside the small room tucked away at one end of the basement. It had been locked for as long as he could remember, his father never setting foot inside, a padlock on the door sealing them out, the combination something he and his sister had guessed at for years as children with no success.

  Today he had cut it off with bolt cutters, something he had to buy from Home Depot just for this.

  Maybe I can return them?

  He had asked several of his father’s neighbors if they had any and none had, apparently it a tool rarely needed so seldom bought. It seemed in the movies everyone had a set, yet he was pretty sure this was the first time he had ever actually held a pair.

  And like in the movies, he almost felt like he was committing a crime by slicing through the metal that had kept everyone out for so long.

  He drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to get a sense of his grandfather.

  Instead he was rewarded with stale, musty air.

  He stepped over to the wall and unlatched a window, pushing it open, the unused hinges screeching in protest.

  “You down there?”

  He turned toward his sister’s voice. “Yeah.” Footsteps echoed through the stairs over his head. “I’m in granddad’s room.”

  “Aww, you said you’d wait!”

  “You’re late.”

  His sister Judy stepped into the room, her mouth agape. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but…”

  She slowly rounded the room leaving her sentence unfinished, a finger running over every surface within reach, leaving a distinct trail in the quarter inch of dust that had managed to accumulate in the closed room.

  Probably all the paper slowly disintegrating.

  “What’s this?” she asked, stopping in front of the wall of Titanic clippings and maps.

  He shrugged. “I dunno.”

  She pointed at one of the boxes labeled ‘Dad’s things’. “That looks like Dad’s handwriting.”

  Steve stepped over to the wall and nodded, the handwriting not only distinctly different from everything else in the room, but clearly his father’s chicken scratches, the man never known for his handwriting skills. Judy pulled the lid off the banker’s box revealing an assortment of papers and file folders. One stood out.

  “Is that a police file?”

  Judy reached inside and pulled out the blue folder, a faded Annapolis PD stamp on it. She opened the file and gasped at the same time Steve did. “It’s a report on Granddad’s suicide!” She closed her eyes and handed him the folder. “I can’t look.”

  Steve took the file and dropped into the only chair in the room, the springs protesting under his weight, his grandfather probably the last to sit here. He quickly skimmed the file, mostly routine name and address info, a description of the scene and the position of the body.

  He jumped from the chair, looking back at where he had just been sitting.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the chair sitting in front of a roll top desk. “That’s where he was when he shot himself.”

  Judy’s hand darted to her mouth and she bit her index finger.

  And suddenly things he had missed earlier jumped out at him. To the left of the desk the carpet had a dark stain, something he had dismissed as coffee earlier. There were dark brown splotches sprayed across the boxes stacked to the left, several spots on the window he had just pushed open.

  Bloodstains!

  “No wonder Dad never wanted us in here.”

  Judy nodded, gripping his arm. “But why wouldn’t he clean it up?”

  Steve pointed to the floor. “It’s been cleaned, just not well. I guess back in those days they left things to the families.”

  “Probably Grandma was left to clean it up and she couldn’t deal with it.”

  He looked about the tomb, it at once a testament to his family’s shame and its remorse. “I remember Mom saying that Dad had locked the room up shortly after the death. Grandma probably couldn’t get in here to finish the job.”

  He returned his attention to the file, flipping to the next page, a piece of paper, handwritten, clipped to the file. He read it aloud for his sister to hear, her eyes once again squeezed shut.

  “May God forgive me for what I did.”

  “His suicide note?” she asked, stealing a quick glance.


  He nodded, his eyes narrowing. “Something doesn’t sound right. What do you make of it?”

  Judy shrugged. “He’s asking for forgiveness for committing suicide, obviously.”

  Steve pointed at the last three words. “Then why is it ‘what I did’? Shouldn’t it be ‘what I’ve done’?”

  Judy leaned in closer, reading the note for herself. “Maybe he wasn’t thinking very clearly? He was about to kill himself.”

  Steve shook his head. “This is written very neatly, signed and dated. It looks like a very deliberate note.” He pointed again at the words. “It’s as if he regretted something he had done in the past. Can you think of anything?”

  Judy looked at him. “You’re asking me? You know Dad never spoke about him. I can honestly say I know absolutely nothing about Granddad except that he was in the Navy.”

  “And the Captain of a ship.”

  “Right.” Judy snapped her fingers. “And didn’t he resign, or retire early?”

  “After World War One, I think. I remember Mom mentioning it. It was unexpected, apparently.”

  Judy smiled at him. “I guess we do know a little bit.”

  “‘Little’ being the key word here.”

  He flipped the page and groaned, a crime scene photo showing his grandfather slumped over his desk, the gun on the floor, the note sitting to the side. On the floor sat a poster tube and another banker’s box. He moved the folder closer to his face.

  April 14, 1912.

  He lowered the file and looked about the room, spotting the box sitting on top of a stack near the window, the tube lying beside it. He handed the folder to his sister and retrieved the tube, popping the top off.

  “What’s that?” asked Judy as he tipped it upside down and shook it, something inside beginning to slide out.

  “It was on the floor the night he shot himself.” He nodded toward the box. “And so was that. Dad must have moved them.”

  Something hit his hand and he reached inside with his fingers, fishing it out. Putting the tube aside, he unrolled what turned out to be a large painting. “What the hell is this?” he muttered as he held it up for Judy to see. A naked woman holding an almost translucent scarf stood in front of some sort of stone structure.

  “Doesn’t look like something Granddad would like.”

  Steve shook his head. “No. Not at all. And look at the edges. This has been cut out of its frame.”

  Judy gasped. “Granddad was a thief?”

  Steve felt his stomach flip at her words. He couldn’t believe it, not for a second, but he was holding the evidence in his hand. Then again, what he was holding could be anything. It could be some worthless painting done by some hack in a street market for a nickel.

  It doesn’t look cheap.

  In fact it looked like a great deal of talent was involved.

  He handed Judy the painting and lifted the box from the stack, placing it on the desk. Removing the top, he reached inside to remove the single, thick file folder, a piece of paper clipped to the cover.

  “My greatest regret. May God forgive us all.”

  Judy leaned in. “Open it.”

  He flipped the cover back, a sheaf of papers inside dry to the touch, so much so he feared they might crumble if he were to bend them. Yet the type was still clearly legible. “Looks like a passenger manifest.”

  Judy leaned in. “Of the Titanic?”

  “Yeah...” His voice drifted off as he focused on the handwritten note, his heart pounding with the implications. His grandfather had been Navy, had been captain of a ship during the time the Titanic sailed.

  And had killed himself for something he had done.

  Granddad, what did you do?

  He handed the file to Judy who read the handwritten note attached to the first page by a dull paperclip, her voice barely a whisper.

  “We could have saved them all.”

  North Atlantic Ocean

  Aboard the RMS Titanic

  April 14th, 1912

  Henry Dodge folded his napkin neatly, his meal finished. And what a meal. Ten courses, starting with oysters and ending with Waldorf Pudding, it was one of the finest dining experiences he had ever been privileged to partake in. The company was terrific, the well-heeled always welcoming of the son of a United States Senator. He was treated with respect, lest they feel the wrath of the elder Dodge should they want something from the government in the future.

  And these people were always wanting something.

  John Jacob Astor IV, by far the richest man aboard—and one of the richest in the world—rose, silencing those gathered. “Gentlemen, may I suggest cigars and brandy in the smoking room?”

  A round of agreement had the men rising, assisting their wives to their feet, the two sexes to part. He had been paired with a lovely young lady tonight named Madeleine Dumont, travelling unescorted to meet her fiancé in New York, and as he was married, it had been deemed a good match, there none of the pressures of young single people to worry about.

  She was ten years his junior, though their conversation had been pleasant, he finding her well-educated and well-versed in world affairs, a refreshing change from his wife who seemed to make it her mission in life to be ignorant of all things non-domestic. It had been a disappointment to say the least. She had an education, a good one, her parents well to do, and during their lengthy courtship she had partaken in conversations covering most topics with what he had assumed was genuine interest, her insights often thought provoking.

  Yet after their wedding it was as if a switch had been flipped and all she cared about was climbing the social ladder by managing a good home, being invited to the right parties, and making certain the A-list were always at their own parties. He was certain she was determined to see him follow his father’s footsteps, she even fantasizing about it on occasion, with phrases like “when you’re a senator” and “when you take over from your father” peppering their conversations.

  Unfortunately for her, he had no interest in becoming a politician. He had seen what it had done to his father, and though he was certain his father loved his job, he hated the way he was at the beck and call of those who helped finance his campaign.

  He exchanged pleasantries with Mademoiselle Dumont then joined the men as they made for the lounge, standing drink orders delivered into their hands within moments, choices of cigars presented and lit.

  Dodge made it a point to note what Astor was drinking and smoking on the first night, hoping to use it as an excuse to open a conversation with the one man who might be able to help him.

  The Astor family was apparently opposed to the creation of the Federal Reserve System, and Astor, along with several other prominent men, were travelling back to the United States to try and stop it. If anyone might know who this Assembly was, and how to stop them, he was certain it would be Astor.

  Dodge sipped his 1858 Cuvée Léonie, a ridiculously expensive cognac preferred by Astor, the viscous liquid setting his taste buds afire as the delicious fluid rolled over his tongue and down his throat. He took a long drag on his cigar, mixing the two sensations and closing his eyes for a moment.

  He spotted Astor, departing one group, heading for another.

  He made his move.

  Deftly navigating the groups of three and four that had gathered, he approached Astor.

  “Sir, I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

  Astor paused, looking at him.

  “I assume about the letter I sent you?”

  Wainwright Residence, Collette Court, Odenton, Maryland

  Present Day

  Two weeks before the shooting

  Steve Wainwright looked at the scanned pages on his computer screen, his sister Judy sitting beside him. He shook his head as they slowly read through his grandfather’s service record, the files sent to them after he had put in the request months ago. It had taken a call to his congressman a week ago to finally grease the wheels of an impossibly slow bureaucracy.
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br />   And now they were reading a rather mundane file, listing their grandfather’s personal information, assignments and commendations. He clicked to the next page, finding a list of specific missions.

  A spasm shot through his big toe and up to his knee. He winced as he pulled his foot up by the pant leg, crossing it over his knee, massaging away the pain.

  “Your arthritis again?”

  He nodded. “Getting old.”

  Judy smiled. “Old? I just had my first great-grandchild. Now that’s old.”

  “Hey, I’m older than you.”

  Judy lay her head on his shoulder for a moment. “And I’ll never let you forget it.” She lifted her head. “What’s that?”

  Steve’s eyes narrowed at the large blacked out block in the center of the page, one of their grandfather’s assignments redacted. “That’s odd.” He pointed to the dates of the previous and next missions. “Notice anything about those dates?”

  Judy shrugged. “Should I? You know I’m not the history buff like you are.”

  “The Titanic sank April fourteenth. His previous mission ended two weeks before that, and his next mission started three weeks after. Don’t you think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

  Judy squeezed his forearm as she looked at him. “You don’t think Granddad had something to do with the sinking, do you?”

  Steve felt his stomach churn. “I don’t know what to think anymore. But I have to find out.”

  Judy’s grip tightened. “But what if he did have something to do with it. Do we really want to know?”

  Steve sucked in a quick breath as his heart slammed in his chest, not sure of the answer. If his grandfather did indeed have something to do with the sinking, it could destroy the family’s reputation for generations.

  Nonsense!

  The ship sank because of an iceberg. That was accepted fact, the footage taken of the ship on the bottom of the ocean proving the firsthand accounts from the survivors, so there was no way his grandfather was responsible for sinking the ship.