by Blake Pierce
The sodden, dripping man was shaking his head, trying to protest and curse, but Adele kept her weapon on him. “Hands up, put them behind your head. Stay on the ground! John, check for a weapon.”
But the tall man was already frisking their waterlogged porter.
"This is a mistake," the porter was saying. "I can't believe you shot at me! I didn't hear you. It was just a misunderstanding."
At that moment, though, John grunted, and his hands emerged with a silver watch, pulling it from the porter's pocket. A second later, John snorted and pulled out a long strand of pearls. Other small trinkets and jewels emerged from the man's pockets as John frisked him.
The porter began to shake his head, spluttering, but Adele cut him off.
"Be quiet," Adele commanded. "Mr. Manet, I have questions for you."
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Adele was glad the employee break room had been cleared, but it still smelled vaguely of smoke, though the porthole window was open above a round, felted table next to a large vending machine only half stocked with protein bars.
John had refused to use his own handcuffs on the porter, citing the potential for rust. So now the man sat, with his arms behind him, thrown over a spindle-backed wooden chair. The porter's pockmarked features twisted, and he had a wincing, ducking way about him as his eyes twitched around the break room. For a moment, he paused, peering towards the door which led back out onto the deck.
Adele knew they wouldn't be disturbed, however, as two uniforms were now posted outside. Mr. Larsen had tried to enter, most likely to sit in on the interrogation. But though he was a lawyer and a liaison for the company, he didn't represent Mr. Manet, and Adele had denied him entry.
Now, she studied the porter, frowning to herself slightly. A grey Tupperware, which they'd taken from the kitchen, sat in front of her. And her fingers rested over the lip, hovering above the glittering items in the tray.
John stood off to the side, behind the man for no other reason than to cast his long shadow over the fellow and put him off guard.
“I can explain...” The porter said, breaking the long silence. He spoke French well enough, hoping, it seemed, to get into their good graces by using their country of origin. His tongue darted out, like a gecko's, dabbed at his lip, then retreated as he gave another long puff of air.
“Explain why you ran?” Adele said, softly, “Or why we found stolen jewelry on your person.” Her fingers now probed into the grey Tupperware, swirling a necklace of pearls about, and tapping a finger against a silver wristwatch, two of the larger items among an ensemble of earrings, necklaces, and rings.
“I... I can explain,” he said, hurriedly.
“You keep saying that, but don't ever get to the part where you do so. I'm waiting.”
The porter sighed again, shaking his head and tilting back so he was staring at the ceiling for a moment as if gathering himself. He continued to twitch, his eyes darting nervously about even when focused on nothing more than the painted beams.
“I knew about the murders,” he said, quickly, clipped, his words starting then stalling in a rhythm like a failing engine. “I did—I knew... But...” he winced. “I didn't... I mean to say, I knew how it would look.”
“How what would look,” Adele pressed, deadeyed.
“You know...” he tried to move his hands, but then winced as they strained against her cuffs. “This... being on those boats, telling no one. I just knew it'd look fishy.”
“That doesn't explain why you ran.”
The man snorted and dipped his sandy-blonde hair towards the grey tray with the jewelry. He twisted his head side to side as if balancing a scale. “That does.”
“The stolen jewelry.”
“I never said it was stolen.”
“Passengers have been reporting missing items.”
“Coincidental.”
“You seem to be involved with a lot of coincidences,” Adele replied, frowning more deeply now. The man, she'd determined, was clearly a thief. Athletic, too, given how he'd climbed the rail and dove into the river. But at the same time, he seemed adamant about his innocence.
Then again, most criminals were.
Still... That rose, that strange note, the taunting of the parents of the victims... Adele had felt certain the killer wanted somehow to be caught. A reckless killer, a desperate one. But Mr. Manet...
Her eyes moved from his chin to his narrowed eyes. He seemed caught in a cycle of self-preservation. Desperate only when threatened. The sort of sneak thief that preferred shadows to limelight. But a killer?
“This jewelry,” Adele said, softly, “would have come from wealthy patrons, no doubt.”
“I mean. It's mine. I was trying to sell it, is all,” he said quickly. “Bought it off a friend. He runs an online store, see. Wanted to make a quick buck by having me sell it to passengers. No luck so far,” he added quickly, shaking his head in sympathy with his own plight. “But I'm a trooper. I don't believe in quitting. Never give up, that's what I say. And, besides, my friend was nice enough to offer a ten percent commission on sales.”
The words came quick, rapidly. All of it complete bullshit, Adele knew without batting an eyelid. But impressive at how rapidly the lie reached his lips.
“Let's say I don't believe you,” Adele said, softly. “At all. And let's say you did steal these items.” The plastic container rattled as she tapped against the pearls again and a couple of rings went sliding.
The man tried to protest, but Adele cut him off. “Hear me out, Mr. Manet. Let's say you are a thief. And let's say, to get items like these ones we found in your pockets, you'd have to find wealthy targets.”
“I... I see where you're going. But I had nothing to do with their deaths.”
“You do insist on your innocence, I give you that. But the evidence,” another rattle, “seems to disagree.” Adele leaned in now, breathing slowly through her nose, unblinking and watching Pierre's face. “Did you kill them? Were you trying to steal from them? And when they caught you, did you silence them? Is that what this is all about? Some stupid jewelry?”
Mr. Manet squeaked, shaking his head and wagging his face side to side. “I—no, what—never! You have to believe me!”
“That's the problem with being a thief and a liar, Mr. Manet. I don't believe you.”
Adele got to her feet, shaking her head. She looked towards the closed door to the employee break room and called out, “We're done!”
A second passed and then the door opened as two uniformed officers entered. “Take him into custody,” Adele said, quietly. “And get him out of here.”
The policemen nodded, moving quickly over to Mr. Manet and gripping him by the arm. The small man continued to protest, shaking his head frantically, but Adele looked away now, ignoring him completely. She'd heard enough.
As Mr. Manet was led away, John cleared his throat, and in French said, “We're giving him to the locals?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
“You don't think it's him?”
Adele looked John square in the eyes, then glanced back down at the jewelry in the Tupperware. “I don't know, John. I can't tell. He's clearly a thief. And he was on all three boats. And he probably targeted wealthy patrons. But... I don't know...”
“Seems like a rat. A coward. Not a killer.”
Adele shrugged. “Maybe that's what I'm picking up on. I... I'm worried it's not our guy.” She paused. “The first victim was killed with a strand of pearls... Does that sound like the sort of thing a thief might do? Throw away perfectly good jewelry?”
John crossed his arms, his frown so deep, his eyes were now cast in shadow. “What now then?” he murmured.
Adele spread her arms, indicating the break room. She nodded her head towards the vending machine. “Grab a protein bar. We've got this place to ourselves, for at least a bit. I'd like to go over those manifests one last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Adele's head drooped over her phone, an
d her back ached from the bowed position in the spindle-backed chair facing the break room table. John's head was in his arms, snoring across from her, a pile of protein bar wrappers scattered around his side of the table.
Adele blinked blearily, running through the manifest a final time. She closed her eyes, holding them shut a moment, before opening them wide, hoping by that simple gesture to stave off her rising caffeine headache, and desperate need for sleep.
A second later, a quiet knocking resounded on the door.
“Yes?” she called, blearily.
The door opened, allowing a shaft of morning light to come as well. Adele winced, glancing at her phone and feeling a jolt of frustration. Dawn already. They'd allowed some of the passengers, the ones without rooms, to disembark earlier, once they'd provided and verified their IDs and addresses.
The overnight passengers, though, and the rest of the crew had been kept on board. Adele knew they couldn't maintain this, but she could feel time threatening to slip by, could feel her frustration mounting.
A head poked in the now open break room door. A throat cleared. “Agent Sharp?” said a policeman.
“What?” she said, a bit more crankily than she'd intended.
“That's it for the passengers,” the officer replied, also blinking against sleep and rubbing at his salt and pepper temples. “Did you have anyone else on the list?”
Adele glanced at the door, pausing for a moment. She'd interview another three passengers and two employees who'd been on two of the boats. None of them, though, fit the bill. Her eyes glazed as they returned to the manifest on her phone.
No connections she could find. No common links between all three boats. Besides the porter—who was in local custody and clamming up—and the chef, who's alibi cleared on two of the boats, they had nothing left to go on.
“Any news on that court order?” Adele asked, looking to the local.
The policeman shook his head. “Couldn't reach the judge. He's still sleeping. I'm sorry, Agent Sharp.”
She waved him away, and blearily closed her eyes. They needed to get the boats off the water until the killer was caught, but the cruise line—and Mr. Larsen especially—was raising a ruckus and flat-out refusing. Despite what had happened, he still considered it Adele's job to find the killer, while it was his job, in his words, to run the prospects of Sightseeing Incorporated.
She imagined the bad press was already costing them. Grounding the fleet would only make things worse.
But three women were already dead...
She shook her head in frustration, closing a fist in front of her.
At that moment, though, the policeman cleared his throat where he stood in the doorway, and she looked blearily over, raising an eyebrow above a likely bloodshot eye.
“I... We do have someone who wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said the officer. “We have him on the dock for now. Wanted to see if you were available.” The man glanced towards where John was still snoring into his arms. One of the protein bar rappers seemed to catch a gust of the tall Frenchman's breath and skittered across the able, before tumbling out of sight into shadow.
“Who is it?” Adele said.
“Mr. Klose,” The police officer replied, with an apologetic wince. “The husband to Abigail Havertz.”
Adele sighed softly. The third victim's husband wanted to speak. That hardly boded well. Still, she was out of leads as it was. It couldn't make things worse, especially not with John sleeping. The Frenchman wouldn't be able to assault any more reporters while unconscious. At least, so she hoped.
“Fine,” Adele said.
“Should I bring him in?”
“No, I'll come out. I need the air.” Adele pushed to her feet, trying not to loose the groaning sound threatening her lips.
She followed the policeman out on the first level of the riverboat. The rails were now clear. Most the passengers either sleeping in their rooms or returned home with names and addresses logged. It was a risk to send the part-time passengers home. But Adele decided that if the killer was still on board, he most likely would be one of the overnighters or an employee for such familiarity with the layout of the vessels. As it was, she felt stuck.
She followed the police officer past two posted guards, whose heads were also nodding, despite the steaming cups of coffee clutched in each of their hands and moved towards the concrete dock.
Amidst the police cars, she spotted a single white sedan with a fancy-looking spoiler on the back. She didn't know anything about cars, but the thing looked like the sort of vehicle John would drool over.
Standing against the hood of this car, his arms crossed, was a man in a soft sweater, wearing a somber expression as he stared at the boat. The man in the sweater had pleasant, handsome features, in a prep-school sort of way. He couldn't have been much out of his early twenties.
When he spotted the policeman and Adele approaching, he uncrossed his arms, wiping his hands against his pants in a sort of nervous tic, before straightening up and watching them near.
As Adele stepped over a concrete barrier, she winced, blinked, and, beneath first sunlight, came to a halt in front of the third victim's husband.
“Mr. Havertz,” she said, quietly.
“Are you the agent in charge?” he asked in German, his voice high-pitched and soft. Not quite lisping, but near enough. A soft man, in a soft sweater, with soft features. His eyes were ringed red, suggesting he'd been crying, and his posture was now stooped as she addressed him, pulling in on himself, defensive and guarded. He blinked off to the side for a moment, his voice hoarse, but he swallowed and tried again, “Please, are you in charge?”
“Yes,” Adele said, reflexively. “My partner and I. How can I help you, Mr. Havertz. I'm very sorry for your loss.”
He gave a weary little nod and closed his eyes. For a moment, he didn't open them, simply standing there, eyes closed, beneath the sun.
“She liked the sunrise, you know,” he murmured. “We would often go on the porch to watch it together.” he smiled, his eyes still closed. “I'm going to miss that.”
"Like I said, I really am sorry." Adele felt a lance of shame and frustration. If she had managed to dock the boats, this man's wife would still be alive. Then again, she knew how the world worked. Perhaps, how it had to work. The lives of the many wouldn't be put forever on pause for the few. No, the concerns of the few always seemed to end up on her desk, usually too late.
The soft man in the soft sweater gave another little, high-pitched sigh. "We were only recently married, you know."
Adele nodded if only to provide some sort of reaction. She still wasn't sure what the man wanted with her. He'd already been notified of his wife's death. The police would've taken care of that. It wasn't like she could provide any new information. Still, perhaps it wasn't about a solution, or really doing anything. Maybe she just needed to listen.
"How recently?" she said, her reflexively inquisitive nature taking over from her sleep deprived state.
"Only a couple of months. Or, well, not even that. More like five weeks." He sighed. "I keep track, because it's hard to forget when you became the luckiest man in the world. Five weeks ago. That's when it happened for me. When she said I do. And now," he shrugged, his eyes open once more, but seemingly wishing they were closed, "all this. It just doesn't seem right."
"It never does, sir," Adele said quietly. "Your wife, she was very wealthy."
He snorted, waving a hand. "I didn't care about any of that, but I suppose you're right, she would've been. If she hadn't married me."
Adele frowned, blinking in the sun, and said, "What do you mean?"
"Ah, well. She had to give that up. When I found out, I told her not to. I wasn't worth all of that. But she was adamant. I couldn't change her mind." He shifted again, his arms crossing once more. "Her family didn't approve of me. I..." he said, hesitantly, tapping a finger against his dark skin, "I wasn't exactly the right s
hade or creed, if you catch my meaning."
Adele didn't react, though she wanted to wince. She nodded. "So her family cut her off?"
"Yes. Or, well, they threatened to. I'm sure they were about to. I don't really know. We cut ties with them before they could with us." He laughed but the sound died just as quickly. He stared off now. "Agent, I don't mean to take your time. But do you know who did this? It wasn't her family, was it?" His voice cracked now, and tears slipped down his cheek. "I didn't cause this, did I? If she hadn't married me. If she'd only—"
"—sir, it's not worth thinking like that. And no, it isn't because of you. And I doubt it was her family. We have a serial killer. It's not something we're spreading widely right now. But I'm sure you've read about the deaths on the other boats."
He gave a shuddering sob but nodded once.
"I hate to say it, sir, there's nothing you could've done. Others failed; others neglected. And the killer, at the end of the day, is the only one to blame. I will catch him. I don't think that will help. But maybe."
"Maybe."
Adele began to turn, but then she paused momentarily. "Your wife," she said, "we identified her because of her driver's license. But on her ticket she was going under a different name. Adlon. Is that your last name?"
The man paused for a moment, his face creasing in tear-stained smile. He even chuckled, briefly, and shook his head. "No. That's a joke. It's from one of our favorite books. We found it was easier to avoid being tracked down by her family."
"They would track you down?"
"To harass us. They once hired a private investigator because they thought I was from bad stock."