by Blake Pierce
The chef seemed reluctant, and the others in the kitchen were all watching, curiously.
"Get back to work!" Larsen snapped, waving a hand at the rest of them.
This small, wild tempered man seemed to run a tight ship. The crew immediately began to work on their dishes again, pretending like they weren't paying close attention to what was transpiring with their chef.
The skinny, bony man in his greasy apron came to a halt, a few paces further back than convention might have suggested. He was even more nervous now. And the sweat across his upper lip seemed to have spread to his forehead as well. The man wiped at his head, and then rubbed his hand off on his apron. "Yes, sir?" He said, hesitantly.
"They have a couple of questions for you," Larsen said, bluntly. Then, with a growl in his voice, he said, “it's about the murders."
Adele resisted the urge to roll her eyes or reach out and slap the liaison. The last thing they needed before starting an interrogation was to get the subject defensive. Already, though, he seemed cagey enough. The sweat didn't seem just from the heat of the stoves, but also from firing nerves, visible across the twitching of his brow, and the tightening of his pronounced cheekbones.
"Murders?" He said. "Oh, dear God." He shook his head wildly, and nearly fell, reaching out to brace his hand against a metal rack full of porcelain dishes. "I knew it. Those three women. The ships I was on. I knew it," he said, his voice high-pitched and strained. The man looked ready to faint, and John took a quick step forward, as if to catch the guy. But this motion only caused the chef to squeak and throw out a hand reflexively, banging his knuckles painfully against a dangling cooking pan.
Adele blinked at the man's reaction, clearing her throat delicately. "So you admit you were on those other boats?"
The man didn't even hesitate. Instead, he wagged his head wildly, starting to cry now. Sniffling, tears dripping down his cheeks. "Oh, dear God. Yes. I was. I knew this was going to come. I knew you would come for me!"
Adele blinked. "Are you confessing, sir?"
At this, though, it looked like he'd been punched in the gut. His one hand against the metal shelf gripped the pole so tightly his knuckles went white. His face was the same color, but the tears stopped, and the sweat stayed, and his mouth unhinged in horror. "Did I...are you—what? No! Not at all. That's not what I'm saying. I knew I was being framed! What were the odds? Each of the ships I worked at, someone was murdered. I knew how it would look. Someone is trying to frame me! You have to believe me!"
Adele frowned, crossing her own arms, and glancing back towards the door, wondering if they should find someplace more private for this discussion. She shared a look with John, who shrugged back in her direction.
She said, "So you're saying you didn't have anything to do with the deaths."
"No! I'm clearly being framed. It's a set up. One of you wants my job," he yelled, whirling about and pointing his twiggy finger at the rest of the workers and employees in the kitchen.
Mr. Larsen sighed, rubbing his nose. He leaned in next to Adele, and in a fierce whisper, as if she were somehow his confidant, he said, "He has no alibi. It's clearly him. Arrest him, and then we can move on with disembarking the passengers."
Adele though turned away from the liaison, her voice rising, "Mr. Vierra, do you have an alibi or not?"
The chef shook his head. "I don't know when she was killed. Why was she killed. I'm sure I have some alibi."
"Around five," Adele said. “Nearly four hours ago."
The chef's arm sprang out, expressively and he declared, "Aha!" He wagged his bony face up and down, his chin like a pointing finger. "Yes. Yes. Yes, yes. I do have an alibi. I was here." He pointed another finger towards the kitchen stoves. "I started a grease fire," he declared triumphantly. He paused, though, and then coughed delicately. "It was a very small fire," he added, glancing towards Mr. Larsen.
A couple of the other cooks were snickering where they were chopping vegetables.
Adele raised her voice, facing the two female chefs. "Is this true? Was he here around five?"
It took them a moment to realize they were being addressed, but then the soft chopping sounds faded, and both women looked up from where they were working. One of them glanced at the other and nodded quickly. "Yes. He's worked since three. He hasn't taken a break. He doesn't usually. You didn't kill anyone, did you Mr. Vierra?" She addressed this question towards the tall man, who hung his head, massaging the bridge of his pronounced nose.
Adele frowned at the woman. “So you're saying there's no way he could've slipped away?"
Both cooks shook their heads adamantly. "Guy doesn't allow any of us to do anything without micromanagement," one said reluctantly, as if aware she was both complaining about her boss and providing his alibi at the same time. She shrugged. "He was here the entire time. We would have noticed if he left."
"It would've been a relief," the other one muttered, seemingly emboldened by her boss' tears and twitchy nature.
Adele exhaled, but nodded slowly, returning her attention to the chef. "I'm sorry for bothering you Mr. Vierra. But as you say, you were on all three ships. You didn't happen to see anything did you?"
The chef was already shaking his head though, between shooting dirty looks at his two coworkers. For a moment, Adele considered asking him to calm down, and think through his answer. But the man clearly wasn't in the frame of mind to do either of these things. So she nodded once, and then said, "I still need you to stay on the ship while we check your alibi on the other two."
His words exploded like a confetti cannon. "I can provide a detailed schedule. The others, my kitchen staff, would be able to tell you when I was there or not!" The chef still sweated profusely and twisted at the edge of his apron with nervous fingers.
Adele looked to John, and turned, moving towards the door.
"Hang on," Mr. Larsen declared. "Arrest him. You need to arrest him! We need to get the passengers off the ship."
Adele didn't reply, continuing.
The liaison frowned, and then hastened after them as they stepped back out onto the deck, leaving the kitchen, and allowing the door marked Employees Only, to slowly swing shut.
Larsen reached out as if to tug at Adele's arm, but John growled, and the lawyer lowered his hand as if he'd touched something hot. "You don't know,” the lawyer weaseled, a whine to his voice. “Maybe the chef's alibi is just a cover. Maybe they're lying for him. You should ask them. They're not above taking bribes, trust me." Then, as if adding a key piece of evidence, he said, “Plus, things have been stolen from the passengers recently. We think an employee has been stealing—if they'd steal, why not lie? See what I mean?”
Adele sighed, turning sharply, and fixing Mr. Larsen with a piercing glare. "I'm afraid I don't. But, either way, he has an alibi, and on top of that, he's a recognizable figure. No one seems to have seen anything like this killer. But not only that, look at his fingers; they're long, brittle. The man who killed these women was strong, blunt, and rough. He choked them to death; do you know how difficult that is? He forced them to swallow a wallet, a necklace, and a piece of fabric. It's not the chef."
Mr. Larsen was muttering darkly now, shaking his head as if deeply aggrieved.
Adele turned away though, bowing her head as if in prayer to focus. "One more shot. The porter." She looked at Mr. Larsen. “You know anything about him?"
CHAPTER TWENTY
"What was his name again?" Larsen said, standing on the deck, some of his grumbling replaced by a note of hope at the prospect of arresting someone after all. Adele glimpsed excitement in his eyes.
"Manet," she said, simply. "He was on all three ships. What deck does he work on?”
The liaison winced, pausing and thinking through the employees for a moment. Then, he clicked his tongue. “Ah, yes, Pierre. I remember hiring him. He's supposed to be helping passengers settle in their rooms, but that would be on the deck with the crime scene. We had that cleared out. At your orders," he a
dded, significantly.
"Alright, so where is he now?"
"Employee break room, probably. Hang on." Mr. Larsen reached to his belt, but instead of drawing a phone, he pulled a small walkie-talkie. He paused for a moment, pressed a button, and then said, "Hello, this is Larsen, I'm looking for Manet. Where is he?"
There was a pause, a staticky voice, and then a crackle that said, "Pierre's not here."
Larsen snorted. "Was he there recently?"
A long pause. Some muttering voices and more static. Then, "No. We haven't seen him."
Mr. Larsen shook his head in frustration, then glanced up towards the bridge. He pressed the speaker again. "Hello, this is Larsen. Is Pierre Manet there?"
A longer pause, this time, but then, another static-filled voice replied, "The porter, sir? No sign of him here. Sir, do we have any idea when we're going to be allowed to—"
Larsen clicked off the walkie-talkie. He rubbed at the back of his head, frowning. "I guess he's not accounted for.”
Adele shared a long look with John. "Is there anywhere else the porters might gather? Take a smoke break or something?"
"Smoking is expressly prohibited in front of passengers," said Larsen, as if from a rehearsed cue card. "No, I can't think of anywhere. Maybe he's on the first deck.”
Adele tapped her teeth with a finger, considering their options. Only one name remained connecting all three ships. The same name that was now mysteriously missing. Hiding, perhaps? Escaped? She felt a jolt of adrenaline, and found her heartbeat rising. "All right,” she said, trying to remain focused, “we need to find Mr. Manet. John, can you get a couple of the police from the crime scene to come help us look. I'll start on the first deck and start moving through the passengers.”
Mr. Larsen sighed briefly, but then said, "I'll ask some of the crew to help out as well. Maybe it will raise morale to give them something to do. Really, though, is this necessary to keep the passengers—"
"Just help us find the porter. We'll take things one step at a time, Mr. Larsen.”
The small, hot-tempered lawyer looked like he wanted to protest, but then he just shrugged, biting his lip and began to move, walkie-talkie rising to his lips as he took the stairs down to the lower level, already issuing instructions for the crew in the break room to start looking for the porter.
John began to move towards a different stairwell, further back, which would lead to the second deck where the crime scene was. Adele, for her part, followed Mr. Larsen, hastily, taking the metal stairs three at a time, as she moved back towards the first deck.
The porter was missing. He had been on all three ships. All three crime scenes. The chef was cleared. He didn't have the countenance, the physique, and he also had an alibi. Which meant there was only one option remaining. Process of elimination ended with a giant, pointing finger directed exactly at the porter.
"Where are you hiding?" she murmured to herself.
For a brief, horrible, moment, Adele wondered if perhaps the porter had already disembarked somewhere else. But according to the manifest he was supposed to work through the night.
She picked up her pace, moving down to the final deck, where the passengers were gathered. As her hand slid along the railing, and she could hear Larsen behind her, now, where she had passed him on the stairs, still jabbering into his walkie-talkie, and answering to the responding static, she stared across the faces. The passengers were leaning against the deck, or gripping the railing, many of them edging towards where the ramp was, complaining to a few police officers blocking their way.
Adele heard the sound of thumping footsteps above, suggesting John had wrangled some of the police to help their search. She watched as a couple of other porters, who didn't match the photo of Pierre Manet, stepped out from a room at the back of the ship, and began to move through the passengers, looking about, curiously. Adele's own eyes swept the crowds, from her slightly elevated purchase on the fifth step. She frowned, still looking.
"Manet!" she called out, suddenly.
A few eyes looked towards her, curious, but then glanced away again.
Adele took a step down, lower, still scanning the heads, the faces, the grumbling, the dark countenances. "Manet!" she called, louder.
Again, no response. She watched us two of Larsen's employees moved through the crowd, glancing at people. Her own eyes went from the light clothing to the darker ones matching the suits the porters wore.
John and three police officers emerged at a stairwell next to the break room on the opposite side of the ship. With her and Larsen on one side, the two employees in the middle, and the police at the back, they were like a net, closing. Or a noose, constricting.
"Pierre Manet!" she said, even louder now.
She saw movement towards one of the railings, closest to the exit ramp.
Her eyes shifted. The man in question ducked his head, trying to move away from John and the police officers. But as he did, she realized, though he was no longer wearing his work clothing, the man's face was pockmarked, and he had a thin, scruffy yellow beard. The same face she recognized from Manet's picture on the manifest.
"John," Adele said, sharply, pointing.
John looked over at the same time as the man looked up. His eyes landed on Adele, and then he muttered darkly and bolted, sprinting in the opposite direction of the police, and towards where Adele and Mr. Larsen were waiting. Adele hastened down the steps, hand moving to her firearm. But the man was moving quickly, and he shoved into an old couple, sending them careening towards Adele.
"Stop!" she yelled.
But the man was still moving.
John and the three police spotted the commotion and were shouldering their way roughly through the crowd to reach them. Adele, making sure the couple was okay, extricated herself, and then broke into a sprint, racing towards the back of the boat, towards a clearer, more shadowed section of the deck.
The frightened porter, wearing street clothes, froze at the back, near a railing twice as high as he was tall.
Adele's weapon was in her hand now, pointing. "Stop!" she demanded, firmly. "Don't move.”
The man gave her a long look, breathing heavily, one hand jammed into his pocket, the other making a fist.
"Wait right there, Manet!" she said, firmly. "Don't do anything rash."
The man's eyes twitched, flickering with fear. He seemed to be gauging his options, his tongue tucked in one cheek. Just then, John arrived with loping strides, the three police officers flanking him. “Stop!” John snarled, moving towards the man wedged against the tall wall.
The sight of the giant, musclebound Frenchman drawing nearer seemed to decide it for the porter.
Manet cursed, his pockmarked, stubble-covered face stretching into a furious glare. And then, he spun around and began to clamber up the rail.
"Don't," Adele said sharply.
But he kept going, his back muscles stretched against the thin fabric of his street clothing.
"John, grab him!"
The tall Frenchman, though, was already moving, sprinting. The police officers were a second slower, but they also began to move.
Adele could hear Mr. Larsen, dangling over the stair rail behind them, screaming instructions, pleading things like, "It's all okay folks. Just a small misunderstanding."
Adele ignored him, though, and broke into a sprint behind John as well. By now, Manet had reached the top of the rail. He straddled it, one leg dangling over towards where John tried to snag it by jumping.
The man yelped and yanked his leg up just in time like someone jerking a chicken tender out of the reach of ravenous dogs.
"Get down!” John snapped.
The man looked around, his eyes twitching, shifting, then, he looked over the rail, and gave a resigned sigh.
"He's going to," Adele began.
The porter jumped.
"Jump!" she finished, in frustration. The man plummeted over the rail, and out of sight. There was a sudden splash.
J
ohn was already halfway up the rail, but Adele yelled. “No, this way! John, come!” she said, sternly. The tall man turned, blinked, but at her gesturing, his eyes widened and he nodded. Instead of clambering up the railing at the back, he followed Adele, who was cursing, and the two of them raced back in the direction of the police officers blocking the passengers.
"Out of my way," Adele yelled. The police officers blinked, recognizing her, but then spotting her gun, and immediately stepping away. John and Adele took the ramp, down to the dock.
They sprinted along the concrete barriers, staring towards the back of the boat. Adele spotted white streaks in the blue water and heard splashing. They watched the man desperately trying to claw his way through the water towards the opposite shore.
"John," Adele said, quietly.
"Fat chance, American Princess. This one is all yours.”
"Damn it. All right, hold my phone.” She handed it to John, and then began to sprint forward, racing towards the edge of the dock. The passengers were all watching now, curious. A few youngsters were cheering, as if rooting for some sports team. Adele growled, and yelled, "Stop swimming!”
She stood at the edge of the dock, bracing herself, preparing to dive in. But John held out a hand momentarily. He spread his large arms wide, and then slammed them together with a loud clap! He did it twice more. Then, in English, he shouted, “You just missed him. Here, let me aim. I bet I can hit his head from here!” Enjoying himself, John slammed his hands together again, the acoustics of the metal hull and the water, carrying the noise.
The man in the water cursed, ducking suddenly. Then, two hands suddenly broke out of the water, raised up in surrender. John smirked at Adele and winked, rubbing his hands off on his shirt. Adele just shook her head, watching as the suspect, hands still raised, dipped below the surface. He clawed at the water, scrambling back up, but just as quickly raised his hands again, and began to panic.
"Come towards the dock, and I won't shoot!" Adele demanded, firmly.
The man, treading water behind the ship, seemed caught in indecision, but the echoing, reverberation of the claps like gunshots still seemed to linger, and then, with a series of cursing and spluttering, he turned, scooping water with reluctant, dreading motions back towards the dock. He was a poor swimmer, but when he reached the edge of the dock, towards one of the mooring posts, covered in a rubber guard, John reached down, and snagged the man by the collar, lifting him bodily from the water and dragging him, scrambling and gasping up onto the dock.
