Dietmar Richter was the gatekeeper, the money genius, the holder of the keys to the million-dollar fortune. The only thing he feared more than Werner was the thought of being tortured or locked up for years on end. He was only five foot two; a small, rotund man with a face that resembled a million other businessmen that had gained too many pounds after becoming overly enthusiastic for German food and beer.
The large mobile phone with extended antenna had been muffled. Richter removed it from the small drawer on the end table which sat beside the stressed brown leather loveseat he used as an armchair. He was nervous as he touched the phone, as this was the first time it had ever rung.
“They have killed Schweinsteiger. My guess is they are on their way to kill you, Richter. Get the money and get to the safe house in Bern. Leave now,” the voice said.
“How, who?” Richter begged.
“I don’t think they know you’re working with us,” the voice said.
“Working with you? I am not working with you; you threatened me with a life term in Stadelheim prison, leaving me a bitch for some psycho! I’m not working with you; I have been pressed into service!” Richter blurted out.
“I don’t have time for this. I have pressing matters of my own. Get the merchandise now and leave, or by the end of the night you’ll be maggot food,” the voice commanded.
“This is my life; how do you expect me to just up and leave with all the money? I will be hunted down and killed within the week!” Richter pleaded.
“Look, you idiot. You will be dead by tonight. If it had not been for my colleague watching Schweinsteiger’s apartment we would not have known, but right now Bauer is on his way to gut you,” came the stern reply.
“Can you come or send someone to help me?” Richter’s voice was two octaves higher.
“I am a continent away and you will be dead before one of my men get to you. Do what you’re told,” Cutler said, as he handed the phone back to Captain Wayne. Cutler, stunned, left the small Juneau police station.
Chapter Twelve
The last three years had been good for Sebastian. His reputation as an outstanding performer whom the cruise crowd liked was at a high, and he was in demand. When demand outstrips supply, the cost of the service increases, and Sebastian found himself in the top tier of paid performers on the ocean waves.
He sometimes played in the piano bars, but due to his popularity, he was in the main theatres on the ship doing one-night performances more and more. His specialty was that the audience would shout out a tune or a song, and he would then play it. He played the Beatles, the Beach Boys, and George Michael. Other times he would be on stage backing up the in-house team of entertainers who would put on short musical snippets from the West End or Broadway. He would play Phantom, Miss Saigon, and Les Misérables; there was no classic he could not do. It was much to his disappointment that this never included Wagner, who was deemed a little too Germanic for most mixed audiences.
The upside to his newfound popularity was that on some occasions, he might only be on-board for a week or two. He would then be flown to another port to board another vessel to ply his trade.
This made the killings much more random, and they increased in number, to feed his appetite. In the last three years he had killed thirteen times. Always someone who had long hair—dark, blonde, auburn—it did not really matter to Sebastian. He found difficulty in identifying which type of women he enjoyed killing more, so variety was the spice of life, as long as they had clean and ample hair.
Of the thirteen kills, only six had been conscious when he had deflowered their hair. It was only with these six that Sebastian had reached the euphoria he so desired and needed.
Disposal was an art form, and one that varied ever so slightly, depending upon the cruise line and vessel. The introduction and expansion of CCTV had been a thorn in Sebastian’s side, and he had to find innovative ways to circumnavigate the visual recorders.
There were also some close shaves. Vivien Trench, a blonde he had met and killed on the cruise ship Heart of the Orient was one. He had weighed her down and dropped her over into the South China Sea, at the mouth of the Pearl River Delta prior to docking in Hong Kong Harbour. Unfortunately, she had surfaced before the ship left port two days later. Surfaced several times in different locations, in fact. Her body had encountered a Star ferry crossing from the harbour on the short trip to Kowloon. Part of her was wedged between the hull and propeller, while several other parts bobbed up around the ferry, to the horror of its passengers.
It was clear she was off the ship, and the police delayed the departure for a full day while they investigated. The outcome was that it was deemed an accident, as the seas had been heavy on entrance, and it was possible she was leaning over and fell. Her skull had been cracked open like an egg by a propeller, and the wounds and lack of hair had been blamed on the sharks.
He often fantasized about Rachel Jones, who had mousy hair, feline looks, and beautiful, dark, almost-black eyes. They had met on the Dream Catcher; Sebastian thought they should rename the ship Nightmare of the Seas in honour of Rachel. He had dragged her into a lifeboat on deck six in the middle of a storm as she was seasick. The noise she made was drowned out by the tempest in the Great Australian Bight.
Rachel’s mistake was
