by Blake Pierce
It was a dramatic, romantic notion and yet it seemed authentic coming from his lips. The same lips were now trembling, as if he were trying to hold back further tears. Adele remained hesitant, her hand slowly leaving her holster. She wasn't sure what to do. Generally, she had a good read on people. And as far she could tell, Emile was exhibiting grief, not guilt. But killers were clever, too. She remained attentive, watchful, studying him.
"How did you know Zeynep?” Adele said, quietly.
He shrugged once shoulder, adjusting his low hanging pants. “We'd been hanging out for nearly a year. She liked me. Some people thought she could be a bit..." he hesitated, and then trailed off. "But she wasn't like that around me. It took some time for her to lower her guard is all. She was brought up different. But she tried really, really hard to make friends. The reason she cared so much about what everyone thought of her was because she wanted people to like her. And sometimes, without realizing it," he shook his head, "she could annoy people with how hard she tried." He smiled softly. And shrugged. "I'm not that sensitive though. I kind of liked it when she got like that. It was cute."
He sniffed again, leaning against the door and banging his head softly against the wood. He closed his eyes. "Why are you here? Did you find who did it?" He looked at her, earnest.
Adele didn't reply at first, her lips feeling dry all of a sudden. She considered her options. Her instincts were whispering one thing, but the facts suggested another thing entirely. Slowly, still careful, Adele said, "Did you know a young woman by the name of Anika? You were in an online photo from three years ago."
The man frowned. "Three years... Oh, yes. Anika? I... a while ago, yeah. What about her?"
"Did you know that she was murdered yesterday?"
It was as if he'd been shot. The man gaped, and then doubled over, sliding down to the porch. He made a wheezing, gasping sound, and then looked up at her, his eyes desperate. "You're joking," he said.
"I'm afraid not," Adele murmured. "She was found yesterday. You know anything about it?"
The man's fingers were trembling, and he shook his head wildly side to side. "I'm cursed," he murmured. "I'm cursed. I can't believe it. Annie too? When? How?"
Adele watched him, trying not to be too cold, but also refusing to be drawn in with the emotional outburst. One could never tell with psychopaths. They often practiced enough to blend in. But another part of her, a softer part went out to Emile. As far as she could tell, he was in genuine pain. The tears alone seemed real enough.
"I'm very sorry for your loss. I have to ask, though, it's strange how both of them were romantically involved with you."
He looked at her as if he'd been slapped, staring unblinking with tear-filled eyes. "Y-you think I did this?"
"We're following all leads. I don't think anything. It is strange that you live in Germany, and Anika was from France, yet somehow you two were still connected."
At this, though, he snorted. "No, she wasn't."
"Excuse me?"
"Anika Everett? Right? The one in that picture online. That's the Anika I know.”
“No. not Everett. Anika Blythe,” Adele said, slowly.
Here, though, Emile just snorted, some of the grief lifting for a brief moment as he shook his head in disbelief. “Her name wasn't Blythe! That's just what she told people. Her last name was Everett. We went to the same school. That's how I met both her and Zeynep. I was lucky to get in. Pure scholarships." He shrugged. "I don't have much money, but I'm good at math."
"You met them at university?"
"Yes. Anika changed her name. Her last name. She's from here. I can show you her house. Only a twenty-minute drive." He glanced sheepishly to the side. "It's in a much nicer neighborhood. Much," he said, emphasizing the word.
Adele could feel her brow furrow, could feel her heartbeat pestering her chest. "You're telling me Anika's last name isn't Blythe?
"No. It's Everett. She changed it when her parents kicked her out."
Adele paused, and then her eyes widened. "Wait, Everett? As in Everett Motors?"
The young man tapped his nose and pointed at her. He gave a soft little sigh, staring at his fingers, and closing his eyes. "She was a good girl," he said, softly. "Didn't respect her father's business practices. Thought he was making his money through exploitation. It led to this huge fight. And so she left. They cut her off. She had to switch schools. Go to a cheaper place. She moved to Vienna. I think she wanted a new start. I was sad to see her go. But I haven't seen her in a while.” His voice trembled like a child's. “You're sure she's the one who died?"
Adele paused, but then gave a brief, quiet nod, frowning, her own mind racing. She stared at Emile, and then said, softly, "Where were you last night?"
At this, he snorted. "The same place I am every night, every week. Up at the library at the school. We have to check in online. Hang on. Let me show you."
He fished out his phone, and quickly scrolled through; a second later he lifted it, showing the device to her. It was a page for a school library with signatures on a screen. She peered in at the check-in times. He flipped to another page, and Adele frowned.
"Four-thirty until midnight?" she said. "You do that every night?"
He shrugged. "Like I said, I don't come from money. I have to keep the scholarships up. Besides, why would I kill them? I liked them. Zeynep brought me that car. I'm not able to keep it without her. Maintenance alone will bankrupt me."
Adele glanced back at the phone. "Would you have been recognized at the library?”
"Yes," he said, emphatically, wagging his thick chin, his blonde hair swishing. "I bring coffee to the librarian every night when I arrive. Besides, the school is like an hour from here. I hear Zeynep was killed on a boat. There's no way I could've been there.”
"This librarian, she would've seen you arrive and leave?"
He shrugged. "You can ask her. Most likely. Others would've seen me too. The janitor is usually the one that chases me out of the fireside study room so he can lock up. Sometimes he lets me stay longer. You can ask them. I don't know their numbers. But I'm sure the school website has them."
Adele could feel her stomach sinking. Of course, the online sign-in sheet wouldn't be enough. She would have to check his alibi. But her instincts were starting to override the inference of the facts... Emile didn't act like a guilty man. She had a slow, cresting prickle along her back, coupled with an inkling of a suspicion that Emile's alibi would check out.
Shit.
She shook her head slowly, and said, "I need you to stick around. Just so long as I confirm your story. Again, I'm sorry for your loss. Truly.”
The young man watched her and gave a soft little sad sigh.
Adele turned, shaking her head. What more could she do? It wasn't like she thought it was him anymore. Now, though, the connection seemed clear. It wasn't Emile. It wasn't some boyfriend in Germany.
No, rather, it seemed obvious enough.
Akbulut came from wealth. An heiress to a fashion empire. And Everett Motors was also a household name among anyone associated with the elites of the elites. Another young woman attached to wealth.
Both of them rich. Both of them heiresses to empires, and now both of them dead.
That would be the connection.
She gritted her teeth, heading quickly towards the taxi and waving for it to approach. She needed to tell John.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Agent Renee stretched his legs, stalking up the metal stairs towards the bridge. He needed to see if they could delay the boat. So far, no sign of the young man in Adele's picture.
He paused for a moment on the second deck, staring down towards the passengers below. He watched them, his eyes flicking, trying to spot their suspect.
"Come on," he murmured softly. "Where are you?"
As his eyes darted around, though, there was no sign of Emile Hemler. John glanced down at his phone, scrolling towards the pictures again, to double check. The wind was picking up
over the river, and the horn for the riverboat blared—a final warning for passengers.
John cursed, glancing towards the bridge. Through the tinted and slanted windows, he could see the captain behind the controls. Maybe he should stop the thing. His fingers moved towards his identification, and his jaw set in a determined line.
Just then, though, something caught his eye. John frowned, staring across the deck, towards a row of doors for quarters. A young woman hurried along the rail, heading towards the back of the boat.
A second later, as the woman clutched at her purse and moved quickly, John watched a dark figure fall into step behind her. The man was moving slow, carefully, stepping lightly. He even glanced over his shoulder with a nervous posture. He continued in the direction of the young woman, still moving slowly, on the balls of his feet.
John frowned, his attention diverted from the bridge.
He watched the fellow approach the young woman and could feel his heartbeat skipping. The two of them disappeared around the side of the boat. The young woman didn't seem to notice the man sneaking up behind her.
John growled, listening as the final warning from the riverboat blared in the sky. The clouds were even thicker above, threatening rain. John picked up the pace, hastening along the rail, along the side of the deck, in the direction where the two figures had disappeared from sight.
***
She looked so vulnerable, just standing there, leaning against the railing and wearing that pretty red dress. Her blonde curls were caught by the breeze, beneath the overcast skies. He glanced up, looking against the night-time horizon.
Rain was coming. Soon, the skies would weep. Good. Grief was the proper response. He held a rose in one hand, twisting and twirling it. His fingers rubbed against the thorns, and he glanced towards the small note card he'd taped to the stem of the ruby rose.
He looked up again, watching as she moved along the rail, heading around the side of the ship, her red dress fluttering.
He smiled to himself, but then glanced back over his shoulder. A tall man was moving towards him. He frowned, watching the tall man duck under the stairwell, and continue in his direction.
He gritted his teeth, feeling the cold in his chest spread to his stomach. He jammed one hand into his pocket, ducking his head as if against the breeze, but also shielding his face from sight. He held the rose and felt a prick of one of the thorns against his thumb. He winced, dropping the rose and the card. His finger leapt to his mouth, on instinct alone, and he sucked at the blood.
He cursed, and bent over, reaching slowly for the rose again. He paused, kneeling against the cold metal, glancing along the edge of the boat in the direction where she had disappeared.
He could no longer hear her footsteps. Had she gone below deck again? Shit.
Behind him, he could hear the clang of footsteps on the metal. The tall man was drawing nearer, the shadows stretching before him. A horn blared in the air, warning the passengers the boat was about to embark.
Before he had fully plucked the rose off the ground, large fingers reached past him, grabbing the rose then picking it up. A gruff voice murmured, "You dropped this."
He hesitated, still staring at the ground, not wanting to be seen near the second deck; he muttered a hasty apology and accepted the red flower. Hunched and refusing to make eye contact, he began to stroll, as if aimlessly, along the deck. He couldn't pick up his pace. Not yet. It would be too suspicious. He couldn't do anything memorable. He needed to be forgotten, unseen. A ghost. Expendable at his very core. Just like it had all started.
He held the rose, his thumb streaked with blood. He winced, and continued to move, slowly, listening for the sound of footsteps behind him. He could feel the tall man watching him. He'd come too far to back out now, though. He gritted his teeth. If he had to take down two birds with one stone, then so be it.
***
John's frown only deepened in the night as he followed the suspicious man who continued to walk slowly on the balls of his feet after the young woman. As he rounded the back of the riverboat, he spotted as the woman paused, bending over to tie her shoe. The man behind her kept moving quietly, but picked up pace, sneaking from behind.
No other witnesses; they were in a dark, secluded corner of the second deck. His hand reached for his pocket—a flash of something silver. A knife?
“Hey!” John shouted. No time for his gun—she would be in the line of fire.
He broke into a sprint, covering the distance between them with rapid footfalls, a feral snarl ripping from his lips. “Bastard!” he yelled and lunged.
The man whirled around, the woman screamed, and John slammed into the stalker, sending both of them careening into the thick, metal rail.
John gasped heavily, his hand tight against the scruff of the man's neck and collar. He shoved the man's face towards the ground, shouting, "Don't move! Don't move!"
The man beneath him struggled, kicking, trying to rise. He sent an elbow backwards, striking John in the jaw.
The woman was screaming something in German.
John grit his teeth, wishing Adele had come with him. He always ended up needing a translator in situations like these.
Gasping heavily, John got to his feet, keeping a knee against the man and lodging him against the railing. His hand went to his holster, pulling his gun and pointing it at the fellow's head.
"Stay on the ground!" he snapped.
The man looked up at him, wide-eyed, wary. His hands, which had been scrambling towards John's leg to push it off, froze at the sight of the gun.
The woman screamed even louder now, her voice screeching towards the night sky.
John held out a cautioning hand towards her. "You're safe now," he said, firmly. He breathed, his chest rising and falling slowly.
The woman, though, stared at the gun, swallowed, but then hurried over, summoning some inner courage. She tried to tug at John's leg, muttering something beneath her breath and shaking her head.
John frowned, staring at where her small, pale hands tugged at him. The stalker was glaring, but as the woman drew near, he looked up, a tender but simultaneously sheepish look in his eyes.
John felt a jolt of confusion. Something was off. Slowly, he extricated himself from the stalker, glancing to the woman's hands, and at the expression on the man's face. Still hesitant, careful, John took a cautious step back, his gun lowering to his hip.
"No," the woman was saying, shaking her head and her finger at John. "No, please."
"I don't understand you," John retorted in French. "Police. Polizia!" what was the German word again. "BKA," he said, quickly, remembering Agent Marshall. Impersonating a German fed probably was a big no-no. But as far as John was concerned, everything was game in matters of translation.
At this, the woman's eyebrows shot up, and the man on the ground stiffened, wide-eyed, and shaking his head wildly. The woman rattled off a question in German, and the man replied just as hurriedly. Now that John's knee had removed, and his gun was lowered, the woman was reaching towards the man as if to help him. They both stared warily where John's weapon pointed at the ground.
John was even more confused. He swallowed, staring over the railing, then back. The woman was acting like she knew the man. And the man, now, up close, was holding a bag of crisps in one hand.
The man pointed at the bag, then the woman, and mimed a popping motion with his hands.
The woman frowned at this and tweaked the man's nose. Again, they both looked up, hesitant, cautious. The lowering of the gun seemed to strike them as good news, but the tall, muscular Frenchman over them still left them wary.
John closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he saw the woman holding the man's hand, trying to help him to his feet, both of them still careful, murmuring softly in German as if trying to appease a wild dog.
They were together. The man had been slinking up behind her to pop his chips, or surprise her. John had tackled an innocent man with his girlfrien
d. Perhaps wife. Maybe sister, he thought, hopefully. She was really quite pretty.
Inwardly though, he kicked himself. He was a taken man now. No point in such thoughts. He looked away, shaking his head and wincing once more. He held up an apologetic hand, holstered his gun, and then hurried away, growling to himself, and wondering where on earth Adele was.
***
He didn't think of himself as a killer.
And yet, perhaps, that was what he was. There was no sense denying the plain truth. He watched as the tall man moved off, heading behind the railing, and disappearing towards one of the rooms on the top of the ship. He breathed a soft little sigh of relief. He wasn't being followed. That had been close. He could still feel his heart hammering in his chest. He winced at his thumb, glancing down at where the thorn had pierced him. He made sure he rubbed his blood off on his shirt, leaving no sign. And then, he moved along the edge of the ship, around the railing.
A door slowly swung shut. An edge of a red dress fluttering out of sight within.
The bathroom. The door continued to slowly close, carried by a spring-loaded arm at the top. The man grunted and took three quick steps forward, his hand shooting out, catching the door before it shut completely. He slipped through the door, following after the woman, and then allowed the door to click behind him.
He looked around the small bathroom.
The woman hadn't seen him yet, now humming to herself and adjusting her dress in the mirror.
She wrinkled her nose as she glanced around the public toilets, and immediately went for the soap dispenser above the sink.
The man glanced towards the two stalls. Empty as far as he could tell. He looked back, reached out, and clicked the lock.
The sound alerted the woman. She spun around, sharply. The moment her eyes landed on him, she gasped. He held a finger to his lips and lifted the rose with the note.
"I have a letter for you," he said, quietly.
