Peccadillo - A Katla Novel (Amsterdam Assassin Series Book 2) by Martyn V. Halm

wouldn’t it be?”
    “Well, he’s an accountant. Finding you new vessels is not his business, is it?” The detective tilted his head. “Wasn’t it unusual for him to make this proposal?”
    “His non-voting stock in the company is five percent. So I assume he’d get a separate commission for brokering the deal.”
    Goedhart jotted something down. “The seller?”
    “All I remember is that the auction would be abroad. I don’t recall going into details after I vetoed the deal.”
    “Maybe Mr. Bootz has more information?”
    Katla shrugged. “If Pascal ran the proposal by him, maybe.”
    “But you don’t think he did.”
    “Unless he ran the proposal by Emil a week ago, then waited five days before he ran the proposal by me. Does that make sense to you?”
    The detective appeared to be at a loss of what to ask next.  
    Katla finished her bottle of water. “Is there anything else?”
    “Can we contact you if we need more information?”
    “Sure.” Katla rose from her chair. “And I’d appreciate it if you could keep me posted on any new developments.”
    Goedhart shook her hand and walked her to the door. “I will, I promise.”
    “I can find my way out,” Katla said and stepped out of his office. She walked back to the reception slowly, hoping the Chinese disposed of Pascal’s body properly. The police might focus more attention on Sphinx if his corpse was found with two bullets in the head.

GENERATOR

    Zeph re-started the generator, but the grinding noise was still there. Cursing under his breath, he shut down the generator, wiped his hands on his trousers, took the handle of the hurricane lamp in his mouth, and climbed out of the engine room.
    A whole morning wasted and he still needed a mechanic. Last time Obadiah helped him out, but only Jah knew where Obie hung out now. And he couldn’t let just anyone in to fix it, not when the mechanic had to pass through his hothouse. Maybe Bram would know someone. Or he would have to find an affordable new generator and ditch this one, but the main problem was getting the generator installed. He didn’t want prying eyes on the Mojo.
    Zeph strolled through the dark hothouse. The air was moist enough, but the clones needed the UV lights. He turned down the wick until the flame extinguished itself, and hung the hurricane lamp from the hook on the third rung. He opened the hatch and climbed out of the cargo hold.  
    He gazed out over the bay and the Zuiderzeeweg angling down from the Amsterdamsebrug towards the motorway. In the distance he could hear the humming of car wheels on tarmac. The rain had gone and a watery sun was visible behind the clouds. He whistled for Shaitan, but the Rottweiler was standing at attention on the roof of the pilothouse, her gaze fixed on a big black motorcycle parked on the soft shoulder of the embankment, opposite from the gangway. The rider was nowhere in view.
    Zeph walked to the gangway and spotted Katla, sitting on a bollard by the water’s edge, dressed in dark-grey motorcycle gear, a black full-face helmet by her side.
    Although he didn’t make any noise walking up to the gangway, Katla turned her head, her eyes covered by darkers with matte silver lenses.
    “Hi, Zeph.” Katla removed her darkers and gazed at him with twinkling eyes. “That’s a fierce looking animal you got there. I figured I’d better not step aboard.”
    “You figure right, sista. Bram tell you how to find me?”
    “I knew your boat was called the Mojo and where it was berthed. It’s not that difficult to find. Did you manage to follow those gangsters to their hide-out?”
    “I followed them to the Zeedijk, sista.” He smiled. “You want come inside? I-man fridge is on the blink, but I can make java.”
    “Your fridge broke down?”
    “No, sista. Trouble with I-man generator.”
    “Electric or diesel?”
    “Diesel.”
    Katla tilted her head. “Would you like me to take a look at it?”
    “Can you fix generators, sista?”
    “Maybe.