by Blake Pierce
Adele blinked, then frowned. She hated how often John dragged her into these messes.
“The public deserves to know!” The woman said, swatting towards her camera to try and get it back. “Who was Zeynep Akbulut here to sleep with? We all know she was a whore! Who? Was it you?” she said, looking at John. Her eyes narrowed. “I bet it was. Yes! I can see the frontpage headline now! Fashion slut screws ugly cop! Scandal!” She wagged her head, and then lunged for the cameras, but John held them back, aloft and out of reach.
“Get a real job,” John snapped, pointing one thick finger from the woman to the man who was clutching at his throat and hyperventilating. “I think I have whiplash,” the man said, his voice trembling. “I'm feeling faint. You saw it, didn't you? Injured on the job. Someone has to pay!”
Adele resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She took another step towards her large partner, murmuring quietly. “John, let's not do anything hasty, okay? Foucault is going to hear about this. You know he is. How about we just go ahead and give back the cameras to the nice papara—”
“Shut up bitch!” the woman screamed. “Give me back my camera!”
John had paused for a moment, as if listening to Adele. He seemed to be doing his best to do this more ever since they'd gone on their date. The moment the woman shrieked though, his eyes hardened like flint.
Adele felt her stomach sink. She knew what was coming before it happened. “No!” she protested, desperately. “Don't—”
John tossed both cameras over the railing. He flashed a satisfied smirk towards the two paparazzi and winked. “She was here to sleep with me,” John said, grinning. “We've been sleeping together for years! Her mother too!”
Then, he spat off to the side and turned.
The two paparazzi were both staring, slack-jawed at where their equipment had plopped into the river. Adele winced, staring over the railing at two expanding rings of white against the blue. The riverboat continued away, distancing from them.
“Psychopath!” The woman screamed. “Tyrannical fascist!”
John winked at her. “Prove it.” Then, he turned, his expression darkening as he marched towards Adele.
“John...” Adele said, slowly. “You can't—”
“What's done is done,” he snapped. “Come on. Let's go.”
“John!” she protested.
“No. We go.”
Adele sighed at the top of the stairs, leaning back and tilting her head to stare forlorn at the blue sky. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Absolutely insane,” she muttered beneath her breath. “John!” she yelled, turning. “John, come back!”
The two paparazzi were leaning against the railing. The man no longer seemed to be rubbing his neck, but his face was screwed up like a child on the verge of tantrum, his eyes red. He shook his head, blubbering, “We have to call someone! The police! The press! Someone! How dare—how dare—”
“I knew that little slut was sleeping around,” the woman was muttering, seemingly taking the drowning of her camera in stride. “I knew it. Hang on Henry, I'm calling the office. New front page headline.”
Adele seemed forgotten now in the face of a new story.
She sighed beneath her breath, and then turned, moving back down the stairs quickly after John.
The tall Frenchman was standing next to the manager whose phone was still in his hand. John shrugged and pointed towards the manager. Adele approached, glaring at Renee.
“Whoops,” he said, beneath his breath.
She jammed her elbow into his ribs. “Whoops my ass,” she muttered. “You're lucky if we don't end up fired for that.”
“No evidence,” John muttered.
“Yeah? If they ask me about it, I'm going to sell you out,” Adele returned. “What is it with you and chucking cameras off of some place high?”
John scratched his chin. He shrugged. “Bad childhood?”
“Shut up.”
“Nervous tic?”
“I said shut up. What?” she demanded, rounding on the manager. She switched back to German seamlessly, “Those manifests?”
“Yes... umm... should I ask about that commotion, hmm?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” Adele muttered.
The manager gave a weary sigh, clearly tired of all the excitement. “I see. Well, Mr. Larsen said he'll send the manifests to you in the time frame you requested. Just so long as you don't park the boats.”
“Fine, whatever. Give me the phone—I'll tell him where.”
She heard the sound of angry footsteps against the stairwell behind her and winced. “John, head downstairs. I'll meet you there.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“How about you avoid throwing anything overboard for a little bit? Call it a personal growth moment.”
“I mean seriously. What should I do?”
Adele rubbed at her forehead for a moment, wincing and closing her eyes. Why was she dating this man again? Some things were beyond mysterious. Still, now wasn't the time to berate her partner. A couple of furious paparazzi aside, they still had bigger fish to fry. Or, in John's case, to bean with a chucked Canon.
“The boats,” she said at last. Eventually, Foucault would come calling. The moment he heard what John had done, shit would hit the fan. But in the meantime, in the words of Renee, what was done was done. She couldn't dwell on it—not now. Reasoning with John was like trying to break through a brick wall with gelatin. No, best to just solve the case. Foucault could handle the rest. She swallowed back any further berating and refocused. “Look, I need you to figure out which ones are still on the water. The ones that belong to Sightseeing Incorporated.”
“The boats?” John said.
“Yes, the boats.” Adele was now pushing her partner towards the stairs. She could hear the clang of footsteps reaching their level from behind. She winced, leading John hurriedly down the stairs in a hasty retreat. After him, she called, “Find which ones have been active and will be active this week. If the killer is going to strike again, it will be on one of those. Now move!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Adele found herself at the back of the riverboat on the lowest level, leaning against a metal post with a thick, wet rope tied around it. She winced against a spray of water, glancing once more at her phone. Still no manifests.
She glanced over her shoulder, along the more crowded portion of the boat. Nearly thirty passengers lined the lowest railing, some of them tossing breadcrumbs to seabirds, and others taking video of the passing countryside and other watercraft. Many were smiling, speckled with spray and damp.
Adele breathed heavily, grateful for the small crowd blocking her from view. The paparazzi hadn't yet found her again, but she knew once they did, things wouldn't be pretty.
She returned her attention to her phone. Again, no message. No documents of the manifest—like she'd requested. No call from Foucault—at least this part was good news.
She winced, anticipating the call. What would he do when he found out what John had done?
Renee's career was like a cat. It had nine lives. But even the most feline folk ran out of luck eventually. The crazy thing was, this wasn't the first time John had thrown a reporter's camera. Then again, to call those two reporters was a severe disrespect to the profession.
Adele leaned back, listening to the swish of the water against the hull, inhaling the breeze. She checked her phone again. Still no messages.
Was Mr. Larsen going to stiff her on the info? The man had sounded angry enough when she'd threatened to dock his boats. He'd promised to send the manifests along within the hour...
He only had fifteen minutes left.
For a moment, she considered calling John. The tall Frenchman was hiding out in the victim's vacant room, thanks to the Pierre, the manager.
John hadn't admitted anything, but Pierre had seemed a sharp fellow. He'd snickered when offering to show John a place he could make some calls and made a comment about “raining cameras.” John
had giggled in return which had only soured Adele's mood further.
No, best not to call him either. John was still busy trying to track the various boats owned by Sightseeing Incorporated. She wondered if he was faring any better.
Adele sighed, lifting her phone a third time. Still no messages, good or bad.
She cycled back to the case files in her email, opening the documents for the two victims. She'd already been through them. Zeynep Akbulut's information was nearly six pages long, most of it detailing what they already knew about her family's connections and fortune. Anika Blythe, on the other hand, barely had half a page. Her information didn't start until two years ago.
Nothing before that. Some tentative suggestion she was a student, but even the university where she studied seemed unconfirmed.
Strange. A name change? False papers?
Adele frowned, her eyes on the small photograph of the young woman in question. She had dark hair and kind eyes, and even in the license photo she was smiling at the camera.
Adele felt a flash of anger shoot through her. What a waste. She exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. Anika Blythe... Perhaps no official record...
But what about unofficial?
Adele cycled in her phone to the internet client, typing in Anika's name and then searching through the most common social media engines.
She scrolled past one, then another. She clicked on a link, cycling to the profile pictures in question. The photos didn't match.
Adele refined the search on the profile, typing in the name and then “Vienna.”
It took a moment, but as the results displayed, Adele's nose wrinkled... None of them matched the driver's license photo. She clicked to the second page... Then the third.
None of the photographs matched—
She stopped, staring, eyes fixed on a photo at the bottom of the screen.
Not a picture of Anika Blythe, but one of Anika B.
Adele clicked on the photo, cycling to the profile. It was sparse, nearly empty, as if everything had been hastily deleted. Only the profile picture remained. Adele clicked on the photo, frowning as another gust of wind and river spray speckled her cheeks and dappled her phone. She wiped her sleeve over the phone, accidentally zooming in on the picture.
It was the second victim, alright, and Anika B wasn't alone. She sat next to a young man with a wide, sparkling smile. A handsome man, with blonde hair and a rugby-player chin. His ears were also bumped and bruised—cauliflower ears. Either a fighter or someone involved in contact sports.
Adele frowned at the photo, zooming out again. “Hello there,” she murmured quietly. “Does our mystery beau have a name...”
She moved to the description of the photo. It had Anika's name and a simple caption. First, a small little red heart. Then the text, “w/ Emile.”
The name “Emile” was hyperlinked. She noticed the photo had been uploaded nearly three years ago. It was clearly the same girl from the driver's license, but her last name on the media profile was missing, and other than the one picture, everything seemed to have been scorch-earthed.
Adele waited as the site loaded with her mobile data. The link to Emile's name led to another profile—this one far more active beneath the blue and white heading.
She cycled down, scrolling slowly, and then she stiffened.
Emile Hemler was still active on the site. In fact, he'd posted only a week ago. And there, in the picture was a group of young men and women, out at some sort of bar or party, it seemed. The text above the photo simply read, “#clout.”
Adele's eyes narrowed, but then stopped.
There, next to the handsome blonde man, with cauliflower ears, she spotted a picture of the victim. Except, it wasn't Anika Blythe. Rather, there in the picture, taken against the bumper of a Lamborghini, Zeynep Akbulut stood with one arm wrapped around Emile's shoulder.
Both of them were beaming at the camera, surrounded by other good-looking, young men and women.
“Hello there,” Adele murmured softly, staring at the picture and then taking a screenshot. “Emile Hemler,” she murmured. “And where might you be from...”
What were the odds? The same young man, three years ago in Anika's picture. Now, three years later, in a picture—posted only last week—with Zeynep Akbulut. Both clearly romantically involved once upon a time. And both women now ended up dead.
She moved back to Emile's profile information and then paused, staring. The young man was from Ingolstadt. She glanced up from her phone, along the river. Ingolstadt... wasn't that...
She shook her head slowly, trying to piece it together when a voice suddenly cleared behind her, and Adele nearly leapt out of her skin. She spun around, hand to her chest and glared at where John stood, watching her with a smirk.
“Don't sneak up on me like that!” she snapped.
A few passengers behind John looked over and then pretended they weren't watching.
“Sorry,” John said, who clearly wasn't. “I got the information you wanted, though.” He wiggled his phone in her direction.
“Stop smiling, I'm still mad at you. Has Foucault called you yet?”
John shook his head. “No evidence, no call. Trust me. I've done this before.”
“That's not what I want to hear, John. Stop smiling. I'm—”
“Still mad at me. I heard you. But look, maybe this will help.”
He turned the phone towards her, still, to her irritation, grinning.
“What am I looking at?”
John cycled through the picture, pointing at highlighted words in the far-right column. “The itinerary of each and every ship in the last week owned by Sightseeing Incorporated.” Now, instead of happy, he looked mildly smug.
“They gave you all that?” Adele blinked.
“I hit it off with Pierre. He seems to like me.”
“He's not going to send you very nice texts too, is he? Marshall and he should start a fan club.”
“You sound annoyed, my dear. How's that manifest coming?”
“It's coming fine,” Adele growled. “Give this to me.” She cycled through the phone in John's hand, her expression still sour, before she paused, pulling up short. Her eyebrows inched up. She frowned, glancing back at her own phone, then turning to the itinerary a second time. “Shit,” she muttered.
“What?” John asked, leaning in, eagerly.
“Ingolstadt is on here... A boat's leaving there this evening. In an hour.”
“So?”
“So...” Adele said, looking up at John, “it means that city is on the Sightseeing Incorporated Route.”
“And?”
“And, I found a young man by the name of Emile Hemler who was romantically involved with both of our victims.”
“Let me guess,” John said, his eyes fixed all of a sudden, his smirk turning to a look of cresting anticipation. “He lives in Ingolstadt.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“And this boat?” John said, quickly. “Will it get us there?”
Adele glanced at the itinerary and winced. “No. It's not due to dock. Next stop is in Steinheim, thirty minutes from Ingolstadt.”
John gripped the rail, his jaw tightening, his eyes fixed. “We need to get off this boat, then. If this fellow was involved with both victims, and also lives on the route for the riverboats, he had means and opportunity. And where romance is involved, there's always motive.”
“Exactly. We need to get to Ingolstadt and catch him before he boards.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He gritted his teeth against the pain, though not too hard. He didn't want to crack a tooth. One hand gripped the forearm of his new apprentice, his lips close to her ear, hissing through flecks of spit and blood. “Where is your car, my dove?” he said in broken German, doing his best to enunciate in the dark. They walked hurriedly along a row of parked vehicles, moving across the broken and cracked sidewalk on the darker portion of the street. Two of the lights above them were out.
The young
woman whose arm he gripped whimpered softly, shaking her head and muttering something too quickly for him to understand.
He tightened his grip, and with his free hand, jabbed his backup knife—which he'd kept in his rental car—against her spine. The rental was gone, already picked apart by police, no doubt. Bridges and airports would be watched. Hospitals too.
He winced at the thought, limping and feeling the warmth from his injuries, especially the glass along his face and chest.
He let out a rasping little puff of air and jabbed his knife again. “Car! Now!”
It had taken nearly thirty minutes to attract his apprentice. Playing possum by an old alley near a sandwich shop closed for the evening had proven difficult enough. His small size, though, especially at night, in the dark, often attracted good Samaritans, thinking he was a child.
His new apprentice had made cooing noises as she'd approached, murmuring, “Hello? Are you okay?”
And that was when their lovely little apprenticeship had started. He needed a car, but also a plan.
He guided his apprentice further, poking and prodding at her spine, enjoying her little squeals of pain and fear. “There,” she managed to eke out, pointing with a trembling finger towards the end of the street. “There!” she repeated, fiercely as he poked at her back, even harder.
He liked the way their bodies contorted under pain. Liked the little gasps. Liked the sheer control of something so simple as sharpened steel. Her will was now his. Such an odd thing to conquer another human's autonomy.
He licked at the edge of his lip for a moment, panting softly and grinning in the night. Just as quickly as the pleasurable shiver had come, though, he felt a jolt of pain up his side, and along his cheek and he winced, scowling.
“Keys!” he snapped. “Now!”
“Please,” she said, desperately. “Please—don't hurt me!”
“Keys,” he barked. Damn it. What was the German word for 'hurry.' He sighed and poked at her back again, through her sweater. The woman stiffened, wincing. Across the street, a couple of customers were stepping out of a gas station. One of them glanced over, noticing the young woman and the small man accompanying her.
