Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (3 page)

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?”