Title: Transatlantic
Genres: Mystery/Humor
Rating: T for language and acts of violence
Summary: An ocean liner is a good place to solve a crime: endless dessert, entertainment, and no shortage of suspects. It's also a good place to commit one: in the middle of the ocean, there's nowhere to escape. AU
Author's Note: This is an AU adaptation of the world introduced in Death Note, but without the Notes and all related supernatural elements. Light is a student studying at the Sorbonne, and L is a detective working on cases for his secondary personas, one of whom lives in and has an office in Paris…
This story is co-written by Jess (My Misguided Fairytale) and Duck (Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker), both of whom are new to the Death Note fandom (so be gentle if you notice something amiss) but are huge fans of the mystery/thriller genre. We have noticed a distinct lack of stories that aim to illustrate actual "cases" that L would work on, and we have noticed that a good portion of stories in this fandom are far too serious (but that could just be because, as stated earlier, we've never really read/written very much of/for Death Note fan-fiction), so we have combined the two in our attempt to bring some humor to this rather somber series and give the characters a new mystery to solve…
Transatlantic
Chapter One: The Case
It was probably of no importance that, on the day everything went wrong—or went right, by the way one chose to look at such things—it was raining heavily in Paris, France. The sky bled thick dark raindrops that splattered unevenly over the double-paned windows of L's offices in the fifth arrondissement, occupying all floors of the moderately-sized building. The area was busy but not overly commercial, noted for its inclusion of the more notable universities in Paris and chosen for its proximity to the city's center and its ability to blend amongst the other nondescript Parisian buildings of aged stone, weathered copper roofing, and unremarkable inhabitation. No one would care about or question the worn sign over the door that read, in peeling paint, 'université séminaire.' It had been L's idea—and true to his word, the exteriors of his offices on the Rue Daubenton had never been cause for much attention, no matter how hectic the interiors could be.
"I'm sorry, sir—ah, je ne parle pas français— Deneuve is out for lunch…" Touta Matsuda scratched his head with his free hand while he racked his brain to remember the French word for 'lunch.' "Au revoir, monsieur." Returning the phone none-too-gently to its cradle, Matsuda took the time to scrawl the name and number onto an increasingly expanding list of contacts on a small notepad.
This was a nightmare of an assignment—Matsuda didn't speak French—he didn't even speak English very well, and no one in this whole country seemed to appreciate the Japanese language—excepting, of course, the team stationed here with L, who at the moment were delegated to taking calls, amassing and detailing large stacks of perpetually unfinished paperwork, and working on the various cases that L had taken on over the past few weeks.
L—the world's greatest detective three times over—had left his office at precisely ten-thirty, which was precisely one hour and forty-five minutes after he'd arrived, looking with dismal dissatisfaction at the pouring rain and dragging damp pant-cuffs. He'd declared that nothing productive could be done in weather like this and sauntered off for a pastry break—the frequency of pastry breaks and the staggering amount of pâtisseries the true reason for their stationing in Paris, Matsuda secretly considered—although L's own apparent declaration of levity did not extend to his subordinates, as the telephone calls only seemed to become more numerous when L was not in the office.
Maybe he timed it that way on purpose, Matsuda thought, before the shrill ringing of the desk phone struck up once again.
"Bonjour," he said, using up the near-extent of his knowledge of French in just that one word. "You've reached the offices of Deneuve Lefèvre."
"Bonjour," the voice responded—deep, masculine, with a perfect Parisian accent. Matsuda's shoulders slumped; one more conversation he'd have to muddle through in a language that sounded and felt like one was gargling unusually large pine-cones.
"J'ai un cas pour mademoiselle Deneuve," the speaker said, and Matsuda jotted down the information he was given, unsure how to spell most of what the man on the telephone was trying to tell him.
"Nous aurions besoin de son aide en deux jours . Encore une fois, il s'agit de la plus haute importance et nous paierions bien pour la clôture de cette affaire."
"Right, right," Matsuda said absently, hearing the heavy door one floor below him swing open and then shut loudly. It would appear that L had returned, and as Matsuda leaned to the right he caught a glimpse of a shaggy black head of hair bob its way up the creaky stairwell. He waved at the detective, mumbled a "Un instant, s'il vous plaît" into the phone, clutched the receiver to one shoulder, and addressed L.
"Hey, how was lunch?" Assuming the response would be positive, the grinning assistant did not wait for L to reply. "Listen, I've got another call for you."
"Naturally," the detective responded dryly—as dry as one could be, considering the weather. "These phones should not be used for personal use. All calls should be for me, or one of my other titles."
"Aha—yes, of course," Matsuda replied sheepishly. "But I think you should take this one."
"The case, or the call?" L asked. "If I take the calls and solve the cases, what does that leave for you to do?"
Rhetorical questions notwithstanding, L continued. "Just tell them no, I'm busy enough. If you can't handle that, perhaps you should swap places with one of the junior officers handling the petty research downstairs?"
"Don't worry about a thing, L!" Matsuda's cheer never seemed to diminish, even as a crack of thunder could be audibly heard above the clicking of computer keys and the low hush of other voices.
"I'm not worried." L looked only mildly affronted as he shuffled back into his own office, the largest room on the floor. Matsuda peeked into his office before L shut the door; there were enough desks for three men to work comfortably inside, although desk space was another issue entirely, as every available inch of the dark wood seemed to be covered by papers, computers, fax machines, or half-full teacups and empty packages of sweets.
"Oui," he spoke back into the phone, listening to the incomprehensible babble on the other line. "Je suis désolé, mais—"
Another crack of thunder made Matsuda wince, and the voice on the phone cut out from the static. "Excuse me…bonjour? Excusez-moi? Hello?"
A few impatient-sounding syllables returned to him. "Tu es toujours là?"
"Oui? Monsieur? Quoi—"
The connection returned with startling clarity, and Matsuda could make out a quick "Merci beaucoup, au revoir," before the caller disconnected and the dial tone resumed. Shrugging, Matsuda replaced the phone and jotted down the blinking number from the caller ID before turning back to the inventory work that had preoccupied him in the meantime. Cataloguing evidence patterns and finished case files seemed a lot like the 'busy work' for the junior officers, but Matsuda didn't mind it. The quicker they finished, the quicker they got to leave France.
L perched on his black leather office chair, leaning back only slightly on his feet to maintain the perfect balance between optimal comfort and the limits where the chair would tip over from the oddly proportioned weight. He flipped through the manila folders before him, perusing the information and jotting notes down in the margins.
The detective most commonly known as L kept up a large number of personas, both preliminary and subsidiary. At times, it was necessary to actually visit the country of one's origin, and Deneuve Lefèvre happened to reside in Paris, and as the thirdof the world's best detectives, L had decided to relocate here temporarily to keep up the appearances that his European personas were actively working in the field. Therefore, while in-between major, international cases, L busied himself with the case requests for his detective alters.
Three new files had been delivered to his desk in his absence, even though L distinctly remembered telling Matsuda he did not want any additional work. He idly flipped through them once more, taking in the brief, summarized notes and accompanying full-color photos.
98% chance of insurance fraud. Flip. 84% chance that it was the man's ex-wife. Flip. Perpetrator unestablished, cause of death 87% chance of poisoning. He searched the file for documented allergies or medicinal concerns, finding none. Raise that to 90%. The victim was a high-ranking politician, popular, coming up for re-election. 74% of assassination, likely ordered by someone from the opposing side who had something to lose from the victim's proposals. The victim was elderly. L paused. Could also be someone from the same political party who wanted to advance to the same position or esteem. A few additional annotations to the last file, and L shoved it off to the side, with marks to gain further research on the possible candidates' names written inside.
Once again done for the day, L contemplated taking another much-deserved pastry break when the whir of the fax machine interrupted the casual symphony of the prominent raindrops against the windows.
"Hmm?" L addressed the machine, adjusting his balance once again to stretch out his arm and lean the distance required to snatch the paper from the slot on the machine without moving beyond what was necessary. He scanned the message, typed in French, eyebrows lifting subtly as he first translated and then absorbed the information. He knew three things clearly:
One: It was very clear that what L held in his hand was a contract for a new, very public, very unwanted case.
Two: He did not remember agreeing to such a thing. There was always the possibility that he had done so while in his sleep or otherwise impaired, but the odds were so nominally slim to be impossible.
Three: L glanced at the paper once more, mouth and jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. If he wasn't responsible for it, there was only one solution…
"Matsuda!"
The dark haired assistant popped his head from around the door moments later.
L held up the paper loosely in the air. "Would you care to explain just what this is all about?"
From the puzzled yet hesitant expression on Matsuda' face, L derived that maybe bringing his team to France had not been such a great idea. They'd barely been there two weeks, and it seemed that they would never fully adapt to the change, however temporary.
"This is a case file," L began patiently, "from the Police Department in Marseille and the Divine Waters, Ltd. Cruise Line Company, requesting the assistance of Deneuve Lefèvre with solving a murder that occurred during the maiden voyage of their first sailing last week, a transatlantic crossing. They expect me on that boat tomorrow. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you?"
"Divine…Waters?" Matsuda scrunched up his nose in thought, cheeks growing hot upon realizing that Eaux Divines sounded much too similar for comfort. A lightbulb blinked on.
"Yes, L!" He dialed back the enthusiasm only slightly, glancing a look back towards his own neatly organized desk. "I got their call—unfortunately, with the storm outside, telephone reception has been really bad, you know? They must have thought we accepted the case when we meant to decline it."
"We?" L returned the paper to the top of the desk, simultaneously moving a teacup out of its way. "Matsuda, you're fired."
"What?"
"Well, not fired," L amended. "Demoted, anyway. Send one of the junior officers to my office."
"Which…one?" Matsuda visibly deflated.
"The first one you find that speaks French," L said. "At the moment, that is my only prerequisite."
"Oh." Matsuda seemed re-encouraged. "Never fear, L! This weekend I will buy a French dictionary, and learn the language just for you! This oversight will not happen again! Cette surveillance…sera…" He tried to translate his words, looking hopelessly determined.
"And Matsuda?" L asked, just as the dark-haired assistant was about to step out of his office.
"What is it, L?"
"It's a shame I don't have the time for this case." He returned to the single sheet of tightly-spaced text before him. "It could actually be interesting. That is all."
"Detective L?"
The voice at the door belonged to an entirely unfamiliar man with golden hair and a syrupy, confident voice. L waved him in.
"May I ask who, exactly, you are?"
"Light Yagami," he said by way of introduction. "I'm Soichiro Yagami's son."
L nodded, noting the physical similarities between the two—posture, hair texture, the slimness of his fingers as he slipped one hand into the side pocket of his perfectly pressed and tailored khaki pants. "Ah. May I ask what, exactly, you are doing in Paris?"
If the detective's persistent and unwavering stare unsettled Light, he didn't show it. "I'm attending the Sorbonne. International Studies and Philosophy. My father asked me to meet him here so we could have lunch together. I'm early."
"How very convenient. Now, may I ask what, exactly, you are doing in my office?"
The same vocal inflection—or lack thereof—and the same exact motions to match the similar speech. Light studied the detective he'd heard so much about from his father—had L even moved since he'd entered his office? Had he even blinked? The skin around his expressionless eyes was darkened by bruising, makeup, or poor circulation, giving him either the raccoon-like look of someone who'd slept in their eye makeup or the tell-tale signs of someone who didn't sleep at all. He credited it to the latter—L, the greatest detective in the world, wearing makeup? He didn't seem the type. He did, however, seem the type to prioritize his work above such necessities as sleep—but not eating, he noted, as one cursory glance of the room took in the boxes of jelly beans and chocolate bars stashed under paperwork or sorted with the office supplies.
That same glance also surveyed the detective, who was nothing like he'd expected. The contemptuous curve of Light's lip twisted only a fraction further; this was, as his father had said, the greatest detective in the world—the assistant who'd shuffled Light hurriedly up the stairs to his office had been adamant that this visit would be worth his time, and it wouldn't hurt to hear him out for a few more minutes, at the very least.
"Erm—" Light cleared his throat, maintaining the perfect combination of venerable hesitation and professional confidence. "Matsuda sent me. I'm the only one in the building who speaks French…fluently." He glanced down at L's desk, where the faxed case file sat. "Apart from you, of course."
The detective sighed dispassionately. "That will have to do," L replied. "Take a seat."
He gestured to one of the three other office chairs spread throughout the room, and Light crossed the room to sit in one about five feet from L's right, putting him on the same side of the desk as L rather than across from it. How interesting.L had gotten tired of studying the many idiosyncrasies of his team members, so having someone new to analyze was beginning to improve L's mood, which had soured from the unending storm raging on outside their door.
Likes to maintain order, L thought as he studied the crisply knotted tie at Light's neck and the way he regarded the neatly ordered mess surrounding the office—an oxymoron that Light could clearly not appreciate. Likely favors the complete food pyramid…L next noted in turn Light's reaction to the overabundance of the detective's favorite food group. There is an 88% chance if I offer him something to eat, he will refuse it out of pure revulsion, but a 12% chance his manners will force him to accept. If he accepts, I will reward myself with the fruit tart in the refrigerator I've been saving…
"Light, would you care for a caramel?" The detective held up a small, red-colored box with the promised candy inside.
"No. Thank you." Light's response was suitably forced, and L sighed with false regret.
"Suit yourself." He slid the lid from the box and placed two caramels in his mouth, chewing even as he spoke over the sound of a clock chiming loudly from somewhere else in the building.
"Now, I am sure that Matsuda's intention with sending you up here was to fulfill my instructions to the letter—or his idea of a practical joke, but I am more inclined towards the former. However, since none of my own assistants possess a competency in the French language, his solution was sound. Therefore, I would like to offer you a job as my assistant, for the duration of my stay in Paris." He tapped the small stack of files on his desk.
Light's eyebrows arched subtly, his jaw loosening imperceptibly as his mind was already processing the various effects and implications of what he had just heard. A chance to work with the world's greatest detective, at his age and level of experience, was unheard of. Unimaginable—not that Light's imagination was anything to speak highly of, but he could still theorize how much this would benefit his own future as a detective. He took a moment to check his breathing, and ask the appropriate questions with the appropriate accompanying tilt of the head and modest confusion. "How long will your team be staying?" Light asked.
"Two more weeks, although I'm sure you already knew that as Soichiro would have undoubtedly told you something similar." L shrugged, and combined with his bad posture gave the effect that his shoulders were literally disconnecting from his body. It was more than a little creepy, as was the detective himself, Light thought, and only his own thought of the boredom he was experiencing with the curriculum at the Sorbonne gave him pause to consider.
"So, what will it be?"
It was not such a difficult question to answer, yet it seemed as though time itself was waiting for Light's answer, as he was treated again to the full attention of L's unblinking stare and even the unrelenting curtain of rain outside the windows of the building seemed to lessen enough for the silence of the office to weigh as heavily as each second of it felt to Light Yagami, soon-to-be detective's assistant. Whatever that meant.
"Sure, I'll do it."
"Excellent." Another two caramels found their way into L's mouth.
"So…what do I have to do? As your assistant, I mean," Light asked.
"Shouldn't you have asked that before you took the job?"
Light frowned; how did he manage to sound condescending or dismayed without sounding like he meant anything at all? It was irritating, and Light found himself highly envious of the quality. He studied the detective closely, determined to see through the layers behind his speech and actions. Not knowing something, or someone, or even something as rudimentary as the meaning behind someone's words—was irritating. And irritants needed to be washed away.
Starting with the obvious. "It's a job with the best detective in the world!—I'm studying to eventually become a detective myself, so it doesn't matter what the job entails."
"Well, actually you're Deneuve Lefèvre's assistant, so that's only number three, I'm afraid." The sound of L chewing on the caramels was distinctly unpleasant, and the detective rooted through a pile of candy wrappers and folders to find what he was looking for.
"What?"
Light's confusion merited a response, L decided. "I maintain several personas to assist me as L and to take on detective pursuits in their own right. In addition to being the best detective, as you said, I am also the silver and bronze medalist in that particular category. It is the third ranked detective's office in which we currently sit, and it is under their name that you would be employed." His mouth twisted wryly around another caramel as he picked up the slightly disheartened expression that crossed Light's face—was he really so disappointed to be working with only the world's third best detective over the first, as he'd been led to understand, even upon learning that they were the same person? How arrogant—and amusing.
"First order of business," L said, handing over the folder, well-creased from his earlier perusal of it that day. "Research the suspects listed in this column on the right"—he flipped the folder open briefly to point to the corresponding line of names, written in red ink—"I need schedules and alibis for the day of the crime. Delegate something to Matsuda, he'll be feeling a little downcast today. Also, you'll be required to do any translating work that the team may need done. Additionally, you'll be responsible for the proper handling of Deneuve's phone calls."
"Is that all?" Light blinked, clearly unimpressed by the workload. It was obvious he'd been expecting something either more critically important, more time-consuming, or more life-threatening. He'd learn that the life of a detective wasn't nearly as glamorous as he thought, and the life of one's assistant even less so.
"I will assume that is sarcasm," L responded evenly. "That is all for today—tomorrow, we will visit the docks in Marseille to inform the currently misinformed staff of the Eaux Divines Company that Deneuve will not be accepting their case."
Light wrinkled his nose imperceptibly. Eaux Divines Company…what did they make, bottled water?
"Why can't you just call them?" He asked.
"You'll notice by the uncommon silence and the absence of the most monotonous ringing irritation that the telephone connections went dead approximately seven minutes ago," L stated. "Our generators keep the power running through any ill conditions, but as the phones are not working I would assume a power line is down, in which case the direct approach is the only approach. It is also courteous, and I would enjoy visiting Marseille."
After having known the man for all of…seven minutes, Light realized—noting the irony—if he had to pick one word to describe the detective, courteous would be nowhere near the top of the list. If two words were allowed, monotonous irritant came a lot closer.
"If you'd like, you and Soichiro may take your lunch now," L offered. "But I will expect you back within the hour. Additionally, you will bring me back some pan au chocolat from the bakery on the corner of the Rue Daubenton."
Light remained immobile, making an admirable attempt at keeping the incredulous expression from leaving his eyes and moving to anywhere else on his face—most regrettably would be his mouth, as he supposed L would not take being told off very well only five minutes into his employment—he was training to be a detective, not a food service employee!
L must have noticed—of course he did, Light realized—for he spoke as Light stood from his chair: "Normally I have an administrative and a personal assistant—to gather food and supply transportation, namely—however, unforeseen circumstances have prevented his presence at these headquarters for the moment. Therefore, you have been given the responsibilities of both." He caught Light's subsequent expression. "Complaining would be unwise. When you return, I will have a contract drawn up to legalize the terms of your employment, including a confidentiality agreement, and I assure you that you will be compensated enough for your assistance to make dealing with my…demands…manageable."
He paused. "That is all."
The abrupt, impersonal dismissal gave Light the opportunity to roll his eyes—after leaving the office, of course, he wasn't stupid—and he painted a weary smile across his face as he descended the creaky staircase to where his father was talking lightly with another officer—that Matsuda fellow, he remembered.
"Hey, Light!" Matsuda called cheerfully. "Can I call you Light? So, how did it go?"
"Well, I got the job," Light said, watching with a stab of mild pleasure at the proud expression his father wore at the news.
"Congratulations, son." Soichiro Yagami lightly settled one hand on Light's left shoulder. "Let's celebrate with lunch. My treat."
Light's thin smile was dashed into a wince by the memory. "We've only got an hour," he said, checking his watch, a fairly nice waterproof Citizen Eco-Drive that had been a present from his family upon his acceptance into the Sorbonne. "And His Highness expects me to bring him back something."
"I see L's made his standard impression on you," Matsuda said with a chuckle. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough."
Getting used to L seemed more like a painful necessity than the welcome relief Matsuda's tone suggested, although Light wondered how someone so influential and distinguished could be so…eccentric. When Light thought about detectives, he pictured someone like the Poirot or Holmes of the novels; stately, intelligent, well-mannered. He imagined his father. He did not ever consider that the greatest detective in the world was someone like the hunched-over sugar addict residing in the upstairs office. There was still something there—the look in his eyes that belied a deep intellect behind his peculiarity. Light himself liked to parallel his sharpness of mind with his outward appearance, making sure that he always looked and acted with perfectly scripted perfection, never a hair out of place or a wrinkle to be found. L was a genius—but no one that smart would go around looking like that. It was absurd.
Soichiro retrieved his son's umbrella from a holder by the door, holding his own in the opposite hand. The storm had not retreated; if anything, it was just as constant as before. Five minutes later, sitting in a typical French bistro a few blocks away from their building, Light folded his hands across a white linen tablecloth, curiosity overcoming him as his father sipped a mineral water.
"Tell me about L."
Light returned to the office, noticing the downed power line on their block as he and Soichiro entered the building. The unfortunate side-effect of the dead telephone connections was that he then had nothing to do. He crossed the floor to knock lightly on L's office and opened the door at his acerbic call of "Come in, Light."
He dropped a paper bag on the detective's desk with the promised pastry inside, finding it impossible to not notice the other papers on the desk, trying to read what the detective was working on even as most were in French, and upside-down at that. L pushed a small stack of stapled papers in front of him, gesturing towards a cup of pens resting innocuously to the side.
"Initial in the boxes and sign on the last page, if it's amenable to you. I'll also need your school schedule, as I do not wish to overwork you."
Light snorted derisively, and L raised an eyebrow over the chocolate-filled croissant.
"Don't worry about my schedule," he said. "I'm in perfect standing, and I can take a few days off without harming my grades." Quickly, he scanned the document, initialing with the second pen he grabbed after finding the first was out of ink.
"So, is the Sorbonne not meeting your challenging expectations?" L managed to look thoughtful even as he chewed and swallowed. "You know, Deneuve Lefèvre attended the Sorbonne."
"...How very nice for her," Light responded evenly. Some of these provisions were…a little strange, but he dashed his name across the last page, feeling somehow like he'd just sold his soul to the black-haired detective. He handed back the papers and replaced the pen, and L in turn opened a drawer and pulled out even more official-looking forms.
"You need scene of crime authorization," L said. "And identification that places you as a member of my staff. I assume your passport and other papers are up-to-date?" Light nodded in response.
"How very good. Please carry them on you at all times, just in case. Fill these forms out and leave them with Mogi downstairs—I believe he also requires some minor translating assistance, and then you'll be free to go. Tomorrow, I will expect you here at eight o'clock."
That was early, but not unreasonably so. Light took the papers with him to the desk designated for his use in an open alcove on the same floor next to L's office. He filled out the papers methodically, and spent an hour assisting a detective named Kanzo Mogi once finished. It was early when he left, and with the weekend approaching Light didn't have any classes or studying to worry about, having already finished his assignments for the upcoming week. He yawned as he walked back to the campus in the near-quiet of the steady afternoon rain, the fingers curled up in one pocket and wrapped around the handle of his umbrella practically itching to wrap themselves into a case, and prove himself—not to L, not to his father, but to the world—that he could handle a big case and solve it; perfectly, effortlessly. He was given this opportunity for a reason, and he would use it.
The red blinking lights that read 7:30am flashed in the back of his brain with the constant repetition of a drum-beat as Light dressed, ate a quick breakfast, and walked the now-familiar path to L's building. The detective was waiting for him outside, a light gray sedan stationed by his side with an unfamiliar driver.
"Get in," L said. "We're going to the train station."
The car ride was silent and uncomfortable, and the ensuing train ride even more so. L refused to talk to him and either read through a series of important-looking papers from a case at his feet or stared out the window like the view was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. The Train A Grande Vitesse—or TGV, as it was colloquially known—was a new high-speed train line that would take them all the way across the country in a matter of hours. L had commandeered a private first-class cabin for the two of them and gotten an attendant to bring him some tea, into which he promptly tumbled a sickening amount of sugar cubes. Light had planned ahead for the journey and had slipped a small art history book into his coat pocket to do some reading for one of his least favorite courses.
The train ride from Paris to Marseille took just less than two hours, and they were met outside the train by a small man in a dark hat who seemed to have worked with L before, by the way that he had everything they would need waiting for them just outside the station.
"Normally, any car would do," L murmured to Light, the first words he'd spoken since they boarded the train. "But, as today we are attempting to make a statement to the good executives of Divine Waters, I suppose a Rolls would be of best use." He waved at Light to follow him with a slight lift of his elbow and a flick of his wrist. Within a few moments, they were standing before the most impressive car Light had ever seen. The man who met them earlier slid behind the wheel, and L and Light climbed slowly into the back seat of the extensive car.
"Is this a Silver Spur Centenary?" Light asked, gingerly closing the door behind him. L nodded quickly in response, the slightest of grins crossing his face as he settled into the leather, still perched on his feet.
"You do know they only made twenty-six of these, don't you?"
"Of course. You should enjoy it, then," L responded as the car began driving towards their final destination. "Who knows when you'll get another opportunity?"
Light's own response was a sound halfway between righteous indignation and appreciative carefulness. He buckled his seat belt and did as L suggested, letting the minutes roll by in the unique gratification that only an unnaturally nice automobile can provide. He kept his eyes transfixed on the car, the dashboard, the smell of the salt in the air from the cracked window, the sound of the engine—
"We're here, Light."
Disappointment swirled into protesting complaint as they pulled up to an attendant, L rolling down the tinted window only enough to flash them an identification badge for Deneuve Lefèvre and murmur in low tones the purpose for their arrival. They were welcomed through the checkpoint with no further hassle and told that a representative from the company would be there to greet them at the farthest point at the dock by the company's office. They drove down the long lane to that point, trees obscuring most of the view of the sea or the rest of the docks. True to their word, a uniformed attendant waited for them, wearing an expression of sheer amazement at the almost imperial vehicle they arrived in.
"Just follow my lead," L whispered before they exited the car, shutting the doors quickly behind them.
"Gentlemen!" The man spoke in French. "I am Chief Steward Arnaud Bousquet, and I have the honor of welcoming you to Marseille and the Divine Waters flagship! The company and I are so happy you have agreed to assist us with this matter—"
"Actually, we have come to explain a miscommunication between your representation and mademoiselle Deneuve," L interrupted. "We are her assistants—I am Ryuzaki, and this is Yagami"—he pointed to himself and Light in turn—"In fact, our team did not intend to accept your case."
"But where is mademoiselle Deneuve Lefèvre?" The steward asked, looking between the two men blocking the way towards their car, clearly struggling to see inside the tinted windows.
"She remains in the car," L said swiftly. "Deneuve prefers the security of anonymity and therefore does not wish to be seen by yourself or any of the cruise guests or employees."
"Security? But our security staff is first-rate! You should meet our Chef de la sécurité—he is more than capable, I assure you!" Catching Light and L's pointed looks, the steward hastened to add, "But of course, with this we are dealing with matters far outside our control or experience! It is unexpected, this crime, and we have called for Deneuve for help! We have great need for her unmatched skill—a half-dozen of Divine Waters' most distinguished executives will be sailing on this cruise to assuage the panic of the other guests, and they would feel most comforted if we had a presence like yours on-board—in fact, the only reason they are sailing at all is because we have told them that the country's best detective will be present on board, keeping them safe while helping to put an end to this mystery once and for all!"
In the French manner, the Chief Steward was very energetic and bombastic in voice and tone, with sweeping arm and hand motions to accompany the image he presented. He looked beyond optimistic, like he couldn't even comprehend why Deneuve was finding such difficulty accepting the case, and if he only showed them the benefits of sailing on their near-pristine flagship, the two assistants would be able to convince their superior to take the case, as they had initially been told.
And worse, L seemed to be buying it, nodding his head emphatically as he spoke to the steward.
"So, which day was the murder committed?"
"The penultimate day of the voyage, sir," the steward answered, with far too brilliant a smile to accompany such a topic of conversation.
"Dates, please," L reprimanded quickly.
"The fourteenth. With today being the seventeenth, we have received all forensic reports, should Deneuve wish to see them."
"Were you in port that day or at sea?"
"In port," the steward answered promptly. "We docked in Southampton that morning. We will be returning to that same port on the second day of this next voyage."
"Southampton? Ah," L said, chewing lightly on one thumb pensively, acting as though the words exchanged with the steward were of critical importance. "And the victim's name?"
"Linda Blanchard, thirty-three," he replied. "A resident of Paris like yourselves."
L paused, alternating between glancing upwards thoughtfully and watching for Light's reaction to the information received. At last he sighed, dropping his thumb and slouching his shoulders.
"Well, I am sorry, Deneuve surely would have liked to help you—it's just that she's so busy with her other cases at the moment—" L began, but the steward interrupted in wide-eyed panic, waving his arms in flustered resolution.
"Please—we have already reserved a suite for mademoiselle Deneuve, and we are prepared to offer you any accommodations her team would require to solve this case." He stamped one fist into an open palm. "Let it never be said that Divine Waters cares not for its guests, both casual and professional! You will have our security team at your assistance. Anything you ask for shall be yours."
L paused. "We would have to discuss these new developments with Deneuve, of course, but I still think—"
"Come with me!" the steward gestured ahead, walking quickly down the empty lane. Through a gap in the trees, Light could see something tall and black.
"Just one glimpse of our flagship, the Reine Hélène, and you will have to join us! I am sure you will have never solved a case in such luxury, I assure you."
"That is doubtful," L whispered to Light, reverting out of French, "as on our way here I solved one case in the back of the Centenary."
"Did you just…make a joke?" Light asked, stunned. "What case might that have been?"
L gave him only a knowing smile which quickly morphed into an expression of equal surprise upon seeing the massive ship that appeared immediately in view. "This…is the Reine Hélène?" L asked in French, his voice much softer than normal.
"Why, of course!" The steward Arnaud responded. "Only the best and brightest of our fleet. Look at that steel hull and fresh paint! Is there a more beautiful sight on this Earth?"
The ship itself rose at least 220 feet in the air and seemed to stretch on endlessly down the length of the dock. The hull was a gleaming black, with white and red accents in the paint on the upper levels and the funnels, with the ship's name stenciled in red. The glass of the many windows and balconies seemed almost to shimmer in the light from the high sun, making the entire ship gleam like a diamond.
"Not at the moment, no," L answered, as Light swung his head around to stare at L and then the boat. That was all it was…a boat. Why was he getting so worked up over a boat?
"Thousands of guests, a dozen restaurants and bars, four pools, a casino…everything Deneuve's heart could ever ask for."
"That's right," Light said. "Deneuve's heart. Ryuzaki, would you like a moment?"
"Hmm?" L looked disinterestedly at Light. "Yes, I suppose we should consult with Deneuve…" Light waited patiently for the briefest of scowls to etch themselves lightly into L's brow. "Fine. Back to the car." He turned to the steward. "Chief Bousquet, we will let you know Deneuve's final decision. Thank you for your assistance and some most…interesting information."
He turned on his heel and ambled back towards the car, shooting a few longing glances over his shoulder back at the boat.
"Ryuzaki—what a ridiculous name," Light mumbled. "So, can we go now?"
"No," L replied. "I believe it is Deneuve's best interests to take this case."
Stunned for an entirely different reason, Light's jaw slackened. "What will I do if you're up there?"
"Naturally, you're coming along," L replied without batting an eye. "You are Deneuve's assistant, are you not?"
"I did not sign up for this," Light groaned as the two once again climbed into the Rolls to keep the appearance of their "consultation" with Deneuve. L shuffled some papers in the case he'd brought, and removed a Divine Waters brochure. Light didn't want to ask how he'd gotten it or how long he'd had it. L stuffed another brochure into Light's hands, and upon turning it over he internally groaned again upon seeing the extensive list of on-board amenities.
"Yes, you did—you are my assistant. I knew you'd take the job, just as I knew I'd take this case."
"You decided that roughly five minutes ago, when you saw the boat," Light responded, suitably deadpan.
"Light, the moment I saw this boat was the moment I realized true happiness."
Light raised an eyebrow at the inflectionless response, obviously holding back a comment like, 'you don't sound happy, you just sound greedy. This only started after you learned there were two complimentary ice-cream parlors, twenty-four hour room service, and an unlimited amount of ways for you to swindle food out of this assignment while we solve this case!
Light could imagine it now: "Yes, sir, this massage is somehow related to the case. As is this cheesecake. This is evidence! I will take it from you now, and store it in the evidence locker with this highly official knife and fork. And by evidence locker, I mean stomach.
"Let's tell the man the good news," L continued. "Deneuve Lefèvre is on the case."
Light covered a particularly inelegant roll of the eyes by ducking his face to the side as he opened the car door. The steward looked at them expectantly, and L delivered a very un-L-like smile. "Deneuve would like us to tell you that she is more than happy to accept the case on the conditions that we are given full access to any ship employee and location, public or private, at our discretion. She would also like to remind you of her need for privacy, and will be boarding separately and privately."
The steward's beaming smile showed a line of even, pearl-white teeth. "Of course, say no more. Would you permit me to have your luggage delivered to mademoiselle Deneuve's suite?"
"Certainly. The luggage is in the trunk. Light, could you please assist monsieur Bousquet?"
"Luggage?" He asked L, sotto voce. "We don't have any luggage."
"The chance was below four percent that something would require that I take this case, and as such I made the necessary precautions." He paused. "Do help the man, Light, some of the things in those suitcases are highly breakable."
Three black, nondescript suitcases were removed from the deep trunk of the Centenary, two wheeled by the steward, one by Light.
"I will have these brought to Deneuve's suite immediately, along with copies of the current case file, photographs, and witness statements. A member of our security staff will greet you shortly after we embark for Southampton to go over the security system on-board and any modifications or recommendations you might have to best protect our guests."
He gave them a polite nod of the head before continuing, "You may pull your car around to the end of the dock, where mademoiselle Deneuve will have leave to use the covered entrance reserved for our more renowned guests. The elevator will take you directly to your floor." With a flourish and a grin upon realizing his success and preparation, he pulled out a small envelope from within his jacket and handed it to L, opening it briefly to show him the two electronic key-cards inside. "These will unlock room 730. If you need an additional card, simply call the front desk."
He walked briskly away from them, one suitcase in each hand, whistling a tune that sounded vaguely familiar and was certainly of French origin.
"Come along," L said, following him at a much slower pace, the car inching along behind them. "We must get Deneuve settled into her suite, and then we should look over the case files and explore the ship—what do you think, Light?"
"I think," Light said, holding his head as high as he could without straining his neck, wheeling the suitcase behind him with a stiff right arm. "I am going to do my best to remind myself that this is a professional case, and that I am not here to enjoy myself until the case is solved."
"Nonsense," L replied breezily. "Light, after one day you'll be leading the parade."
I think not, Light thought indignantly. He gritted his teeth.
"Something wrong?" L asked innocently.
"Nothing, this is just much heavier than it looks," he said—of course, Murphy's Law would insist that he get the heaviest one. "Just what did you pack in here?"
"Naturally. That one probably has the computer equipment in it."
Light's resentful attempt at ignoring the detective lasted until they reached a large canopy over a carpet-covered walkway leading to a special entrance area near the port-side bow of the ship; far down Light could see the main boarding area near the stern, with an additional covered awning to protect from the sun or any inclement weather. Two attendants, one with a camera around her neck, dressed in pressed Divine Waters service uniforms, stood waiting with champagne, towels, and a bevy of informational brochures, pamphlets, and fliers advertising different restaurants, children's programs, and other opportunities on-board.
"We will be leaving port after muster in exactly one hour. Let us know if we can do anything to assist detective Deneuve's boarding this afternoon," one asked.
Light eyed the walkie-talkie equipped to the speaker's belt, anticipating the giant logistical headache that could ensue as it appeared that every single staff member had been alerted to their presence. Anonymity and secrecy was well and good, but it would be hard to move around unencumbered if everyone knew who they were.
"Thank you—and yes, there is something," L spoke quickly and evenly. "The detective does not wish to be seen, nor for there to be any physical record of her presence on this boat." He nodded towards the camera. "Therefore, I will ask you to turn around and close your eyes while Deneuve boards. I suppose you can also alert any other staff that would be meeting us inside the ship that it is not necessary, and that Deneuve can find her own way to her room without assistance or interference."
The staff both looked stricken, but managed to obey L's orders with a surprising swiftness and professionalism. Light assumed they'd probably gotten stranger requests while in this line of work from celebrities or otherwise difficult guests.
"Go right ahead," the first attendant said as their backs were turned. "Normally there is accompanying photography for each guest for identification and disembarkation purposes, but we will waive that in Deneuve's case, with the understanding that you will not disembark once onboard or do so with the assistance and notification of a security personnel."
"That is more than acceptable, don't you think, Light?" L asked, moving to the Centenary, opening the door, whispering a few words to the driver, and then shutting the door loudly.
"This way, Deneuve," Light said, barely concealing a wicked grin as he gestured for L to walk into the ship first.
"Why thank you, Light," L replied, unruffled. "Right this way, Deneuve."
The two walked up the inclined walkway to the interior, finding it blessedly empty and air-conditioned. True to their word, an elevator was waiting for them and L pressed the button for floor seven. The elevator rose, and Light spun around to watch as it became apparent that the walls of the elevator were made of glass, allowing them to see the true interior of the ship's central.
They passed what was a massive central promenade, with balconies and arched overhangs hugging the perimeter of the long, narrow space, climbing three stories to the roof patterned with painted clouds and fiber optics. Within a few seconds that became lost as the elevator climbed higher, showcasing a high, open atrium that soared the length of the ship, capped with another high, ornate painted ceiling suspended with curling sculptures of blown glass. The elevator stopped at seven, and Light and L left it quickly, finding their room only a few doors down.
L held the key-cards, and shifted one into the lock, which whirred and displayed a green light before clicking in acceptance. He opened the door and held it out to Light, who dragged their last suitcase behind them into the surprisingly open space.
The suite must have been one of their nicer ones, Light realized. He'd never traveled on a ship like this before, but his natural perception of berths onboard had been of a narrow, tightly enclosed space with little room to move around or do anything other than the necessary sleeping and bathing. This space was large and light, opening them into a living room with a small sofa set and a trio of plush chairs circling a round, wooden table. Light was amused to see a large vase of flowers and a tag for 'mademoiselle Deneuve Lefèvre' on the table. Beyond the living room a balcony opened up to the exterior of the ship, and a long hallway followed to their right, where Light could see several open doors.
L had not spared their living quarters a second glance, continuing towards the hallway, where Light could hear a dissatisfied sigh.
"They put your suitcase in the larger room," he heard L call. "Do you mind if I move it?"
"Go right ahead." Light didn't care where he slept.
"I am glad this is a two-bedroom and that Light is cooperative; otherwise, Light could be expected to sleep on the couch," he heard L mutter from within one of the bedrooms.
I would not. Light would not rise to L's bait, and chose to sit down on one of the over-stuffed chairs, ignoring the pre-mentioned couch. Sitting in a carefully organized row next to the flowers were a series of white unmarked folders, housing what were no doubt the requested files. Light opened one, wincing instantly at the full-color pictures within.
"Let me see," L said, having reappeared next to him. Light slid the folder over without complaint as the detective perched himself on one of the other chairs.
"Ah." He did not seem as perturbed as he slid open the folder. "Stabbed with…" he flipped forward a few pages to a picture of the weapons laid out in a steel tray, edges still slick with red. "Murder weapons indentified as kitchen cleavers and other culinary utensils. Could have been stolen anytime, as their disappearance was not catalogued or noticed before the weapons resurfaced. Body was left arranged on the top bow deck near the front of the vessel. Peri-mortem—the victim wasn't killed elsewhere, and then dragged there. They were discovered at sunrise the next morning." He sighed, flipping open a few additional files. "No fingerprints to be found, of course."
"Anything else?" Light asked, reading the file nearest him.
"Coroner's report," L muttered.
Light read it, picking out the most useful information. "No sign of other foul play—no bruises, track marks, alcohol consumption. That suggests the perpetrator either knew her or was charming enough to get her to follow them out there."
"You don't need to use the legal terms, Light," L said slowly. "They are a killer, and we will catch them."
"You seem so sure they're still around."
"I am almost certain of it," he responded. "They are either already on-board this ship as a guest or a staff member, will be boarding before the ship departs, or will be joining us illegally when we dock in Southampton tomorrow. Should I be proven correct, I will share my reasoning."
Light swallowed uneasily. "Or you could share it now—you're the detective, but we're supposed to be a team. Right?"
"Hmm, perhaps I should throw you a crumb. I almost missed it, but if you look here—the first photo, of the victim—what do you see on her back?"
Light pulled the photo free from the folder, noticing the deep vertical stab wound just left of the spine. "The cleaver mark?"
"But what does that look like to you?"
Light's blood ran cold. "The number one."
"Precisely. It could very well be a signal that another murder—or series of crimes—is about to be conducted on-board in the coming days. But, believe me—I hope I'm wrong."
"So we've got—what, twelve days to solve this case?"
"We dock in New York on the twenty-ninth, good weather permitting," L replied. "I believe that first crime was only for staging purposes, to either set up a much larger transgression—or to set up the law enforcement presence consigned to the case."
A whistle blasted from somewhere on the ship, and a knock sounded at the door. L moved to open it, and after exchanging a few words with the uniformed attendant on the other side Light could make out the detective strongly saying, "mademoiselle Deneuve will not be appearing for muster today." Light turned a laugh into a strong cough.
The detective shut the door and returned to his seat as the two tried to pretend they could not hear the whistle signaling the moving of feet and bodies throughout the ship to their assigned security stations.
"I always thought the muster was rather pointless," L said conversationally. "Your thoughts, Light?"
"That whistle is loud." Light found it difficult to get anything more profound across with the harsh screech of the ship's whistle blasting its way through his ears.
L paused. "Quite."
The whistle stopped, but the sounds of hundreds of people walking on the deck above them were not a satisfactory substitution.
"A cruise ship is a pretty good place to solve a crime," Light managed.
"It's also a good place to commit one," L agreed. "Plenty of places to hide the body—or expose it, as the case may be. And," he added, with a reproachful look at Light, "this is not a cruise ship. This is an ocean liner. The difference is not insignificant."
"Because it's transatlantic?"
"No. Try again."
"Well, excuse me for not being well educated on the difference between boats," Light huffed.
"You're excused," L responded automatically. "An ocean liner is made of forty percent more steel—therefore it's more costly and weighs more than a standard cruise ship—making it much easier to withstand the rough ocean. Also, this ocean liner travels about four knots faster on average, with a top speed of almost thirty knots." He closed his eyes. "Truly impressive."
"Gosh, L," Light responded. "I didn't know you liked boats so much."
L opened one eye. "There's a lot you don't know about me. And I have always…admired the more high-quality means of transportation."
Light remembered the Centenary and L's reaction to being in the sophisticated car. He stifled a grin, successfully, as the ship's foghorn blew and Light began to feel the sensation of movement throughout the ship.
"We're sailing out. Let's watch."
Light followed the detective to the balcony, sliding open the glass doors and stepping out to the private wooden deck. The ship was not moving fast, but he could clearly see the dock moving farther away as the boat slid out to sea.
"I suppose it's too late to back out now," Light mused.
"You could swim that distance, if you wanted," L assured him critically. "But any farther and you might find difficulty."
"Don't worry, I wasn't thinking about it."
"I wasn't worrying," L responded petulantly. A few moments of silence passed as the boat continued to move, slowly increasing its speed.
"Why did you take this case?" Light asked.
"A feeling," L answered, his voice deep and even as if he was conveying a much deeper meaning beyond just those two simple words.
"Like…a hunch?"
"If you choose to call it that," L said. They watched the dock and the mainland recede into the distance until it was so far away to have disappeared into the horizon. L's stomach growled.
"Your feeling is your appetite?" Light asked dispassionately. "I don't believe this…"
"The suitcase with the computer equipment also contains a large amount of sundries and other necessary snacks," L added helpfully. "You're welcome to help yourself to anything you like."
Light paused. "Yeah…sure. Which one is your favorite?"
L's face froze, and one of his thumbs found its way once again into his mouth as the closest thing to a whine left his lips. "Light, that's not fair."
Soichiro had given his son the strangest expression when he'd asked, but now that tiny piece of information was coming in handy. He couldn't wait to use the rest he'd learned. "The strawberry cheesecake, is it? If I had to lug it around, I deserve some of it…"
"That's blackmail, Light," L insisted, before glancing upwards thoughtfully. "Although, I can always have more air-lifted in if the kitchen's cheesecake isn't any good, if necessary." He leaned back against the red chenille material of the chair. "Go right ahead and enjoy yourself."
Light sighed exasperatedly before doing the same, crossing his arms as he leaned back in the chair. "There's no winning with you, is there?"
"Of course not." L's eyes gleamed. "I always win."
Three days prior…
"…that sounds interesting," the woman said, smiling happily at the person beside her.
"Would you like me to get you a drink, mademoiselle Blanchard?"
She giggled at her companion's French; on a cruise like this there were so many people from all over the world, but to have found a friend who spoke her language and was from Paris like herself! She'd made a few British friends just the previous night, enjoying drinks at the Hélène's Martini Bar, but it was tiresome to have only a few members of the staff speaking her native tongue.
"No, thank you," she said. "And what have I told you? Please, call me Linda."
"Then let's go for a walk outside," they said. "It's so nice out, and you can hear the music from the party on Deck Eleven."
They walked outside, Linda hugging her arms as her thin sleeves flapped in the breeze, her companion closing the door behind them. It was…nice, she supposed, but the wind was fairly strong, strong enough that no one else was walking around the deck at this hour. It was a Latin party tonight, and the music was much too loud—not nearly as strident as it would be by the pool on Deck Eleven, anyway.
They walked side by side towards the front of the ship as Linda chattered on about this vacation, and the relatives she saw in New York before coming back on this ship, and how lucky she was to obtain a ticket to the maiden voyage of such an outstanding vessel. "What an opportunity!"
"What? Oh—yes, of course," her companion agreed readily. They'd reached the front of the ship, and it was wonderful to be able to see the sea spread out all around her in every direction as the ship plunged through the waves. The lookout point on the deck here was large enough to accompany several dozen passengers, but they were the only two.
"Do you have plans once we dock in France?" She asked. "If you'd like, we can meet up again for lunch in a week or so, I know a great place by the Seine."
"Yes," her companion's voice was slower now, more even. "I do have plans—but I can't meet you." They shook their head in false consolation, one hand moving to one of the hidden knives inside of their jacket, stolen the previous day by successfully impersonating a kitchen porter.
"Because you see," they continued, one white-gloved hand on Linda's shoulder to steady her, one wrapping around the handle of the largest knife. "You'll be dead."
The first impact was swift and fierce, knocking her off her feet with the barest accompanying grunt of pain and glassy-eyed surprise, his free hand already moving to her mouth to stifle any cries. The wind and the music were loud, but just in case...he repeated the motion.
He knelt by her side, careful to avoid the rapidly pooling blood. "And my plans have only just begun."
The last thing Linda saw was a flash of steel, the glint of the overhead canopy of stars, and the pair of dark eyes that leaned over her. Those eyes became her world until that, too, disappeared.
Notes:
1) We have placed an emphasis on accuracy in trying to make this rather extensive story as realistic as possible; and as we are not detectives ourselves and do not have insights into how an actual case would run beyond fiction, we can at least get everything else right. Therefore:
Umbrella Disclaimer: All characters and locations you may recognize do not belong to us. We do not own Death Note. We have not been able to find a canonical last name for Deneuve, so we have given her the surname of Lefèvre, because it starts with L and has a nice ring to it. Real street names were consulted for our descriptions of Paris, but all places and buildings described are completely made-up. Divine Waters is a fictional cruise line company created by Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker for her completely unrelated one-shot titled Love Boat. The train line from Paris to Marseille does exist, but we took some liberties with the description and its travel time. The statistics of ocean liners and the Reine Hélène are modeled after those of the Queen Mary 2, although the Hélène, any interior locations, or descriptions are fictitious. Jess and Duck are cruise enthusiasts, so any knowledge presented with regards to the sailing or daily schedule of a typical cruise is accurate. Jess is actually posting this first chapter from a cruise ship! What dedication! (…or, you know, coincidental vacationing?)
2) Both of us combined have about the same knowledge of the French language as Matsuda. Therefore, any corrections would be most appreciated. The translation for the French used is as follows:
université séminaire – Seminary Institute
Je ne parle pas français – I don't speak French
Au revoir, monsieur – Goodbye, sir
J'ai un cas pour mademoiselle Deneuve – I have a case for Ms. Deneuve
Nous aurions besoin de son aide en deux jours . Encore une fois, il s'agit de la plus haute importance et nous paierions bien pour la clôture de cette affaire – We would need her assistance in two days. Again, this is of the utmost importance and we would pay well for the closure of this case.
Un instant, s'il vous plait – one moment, please
Je suis désolé, mais— I'm sorry, but
Tu es toujours là? – Are you still there?
3) This story is more experimental for the two of us at the moment; the first chapter is more of a "teaser" for you to read while the two of us compete in the Season Eight YGO Fanfiction Competition and work on finishing this story before we post any additional chapters, so once we do update, it can be done regularly and with strict regulation. Throw the story on alert if you liked it, so you'll know when that is. =) Jess is mightily in favor of some L/Light romance, so comments in favor of that might help to sway the more obstinate Duck.
Thank you for reading! If you've made it this far, please drop us a review to let us know what you think!
~My Misguided Fairytale and Doubleplusgoodduckspeaker