Next, Frank explained the origin of the oil painting to Feng Shan.
This oil painting was created by the Russian painter Ilya Yafimovich Repin in 1885. Its title is *Ivan the Terrible Kills His Son*. It’s based on a story from Roman mythology, depicting the scene of the Titan Cronus devouring his own children.
However, in 1987, the original was purchased by the Getty Center—the most beautiful museum in Los Angeles—from the Tretyakov Gallery for 53.9 million US Dollars.
So, that raises a question.
Ilya Yafimovich Repin couldn’t have painted two versions of *Ivan the Terrible Kills His Son*, so one of them has to be a forgery.
"Buddy, even though yours is a fake, my friend at the auction house says the artist has an incredibly high level of skill, almost on par with Ilya Repin in his pri. While it’s not worth 50 million US dollars, a few million shouldn’t be a problem."
’From fifty million to a few million.’
Feng Shan didn’t know what to say to Frank.
’What a failed attempt at building suspense.’
’Still, a few million in the bank isn’t bad, especially for a painting I got for free.’
"When can your friend get to the Crown Territory to appraise it?"
"He’s waiting on you. The sooner the better, he says. There’s a high-end auction in Los Angeles, and this painting could be a major selling point. With so hype, it might fetch a high price." Frank shrugged.
’The sooner the better... that depends on whether the killer decides to cooperate.’
’Get back to port early, get this over with early.’
’Oh, right. The crabbing boat has already left from Anchorage.’
Feng Shan wolfed down his breakfast in a few bites. Just as he stepped out of the hotel, he ran right into Alvin.
"Boss, Eugene called. The rcedes-Benz Group Company sales team is about to land on Saint Paul Island. They’re hoping to et with you."
"They don’t need to see , they can just talk to him!" Feng Shan pointed to Frank beside him. "This is my private lawyer. He’s handling the boat purchase. By the way, little grandma, where’s your girlfriend?"
Hearing Feng Shan use that nickna for him again in front of everyone, Frank rolled his eyes in resignation. "God, she’s not even out of bed yet. Maybe she’ll surface this afternoon."
’Vicious. Doesn’t he know how to pace himself?’
Feng Shan shook his head. "This is Alvin, the captain of our new boat. He’s a veteran crab fisherman. The two of you will handle the boat purchase. The sooner the better. I don’t have much ti left on Saint Paul Island."
With that, he turned and left with Nash and Wawa.
Frank and Alvin were left staring blankly at each other.
They arrived once again at the rchant Fishing Pier.
The pier was as busy as ever. The crabbing boats that had been docked there had long since loaded up on supplies and departed with the tide.
With only a week left in the gray-eyed snow crab season, everyone was rushing to make one last haul.
Feng Shan’s arrival was sothing of a surprise to the fishern and dockworkers. They stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
This was the sa Northern People who had spent over 20 million on a huge crabbing boat just yesterday—the biggest in all of Alaska, they’d heard.
A few fishern ca forward to say hello, hoping to make themselves known.
After all, there were a limited number of crabbing boats on Saint Paul Island, and every spot was filled. The crews were made up of crab fishern who had worked together for ages, and captains rarely replaced anyone unless there was a major issue.
This left a large number of aspiring fishern without a spot on a boat. Their only options were to take low-paying manual labor jobs at the processing plants or leave Saint Paul Island to find work in the city.
But what regular job paid as well as crabbing?
An average crab fisherman in Alaska could make 100,000 US Dollars for just seven days of work a year.
Sotis, at the end of the season, they’d even get a bonus from the captain when they disembarked, usually around 2,000 US Dollars.
Of course, while the crab fishern were well-paid, the captains who hired them made out like bandits.
A small crabbing boat with a 150-ton capacity could bring in around 1.8 million US Dollars with a full hold. After deducting expenses like labor and fuel, a captain could clear 1 million US Dollars from a single trip.
The legendary Alaskan captain, Gegil, once set a record by catching 276 tons (about 608,475 pounds) of Emperor Crab in seven days. At a purchase price of $11.20 per pound, not counting other expenses, that captain would have earned 6,814,920 US Dollars.
Now, this Northern People had bought a huge boat. They heard its cold storage hold alone was 500 cubic ters, and it had a 120-ton live-well for crabs.
If that boat were filled with Emperor Crab, the haul would be worth over ten million.
The pay for being a crew mber on that ship would be insane.
Desire shone in everyone’s eyes, as if they were staring at a life-changing opportunity.
They quickly surrounded Feng Shan, each one vying to recomnd himself.
They eagerly described their experience and skills, their words brimming with confidence and passion.
So flexed their powerful physiques, others boasted of their past glorious catches, and still others expressed their deep desire for the job and swore their loyalty.
Surrounded by the enthusiastic fishern, Feng Shan was feeling a bit overwheld.
But he kept a smile on his face, patiently listening to each man’s pitch.
Ti flew, and soon it was noon. Feng Shan’s group of three stood watch at the rchant Fishing Pier, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee the fishern had brought them.
A few crabbing boats trickled back into port, unloading crate after crate of gray-eyed snow crab. So crews were jubilant, others dejected.
Not every boat ca back with a full haul, after all. Those that had exhausted their fuel and supplies had no choice but to accept their failed trip.
Just then.
A crabbing boat appeared on the horizon, bobbing in the churning waves as it headed for the pier.
The fishern on the pier squinted, observing the boat’s movent in the waves. "Why is the *Marlin* back already?" one wondered aloud. "They’ve been out less than a week."
"God knows. Maybe they found a huge nest of gray-eyed snow crabs."
"That’s not it. Look at the way the *Marlin* is rocking. It doesn’t look like she’s carrying a heavy load."
Listening to the fishern’s chatter, Feng Shan instinctively turned his gaze to the approaching crabbing boat.
A premonition surfaced in his mind.
’The target is close.’
’The killer is back?’
’After all these days of breathing in sea air, I’ve finally got you.’
Feng Shan polished off his sandwich in two bites and shot a look at Nash and Wawa.
The two understood imdiately. Their expressions turned serious, and Wawa’s eyes in particular glinted with excitent.
The three of them walked onto the jetty where the fishing boats were moored, spreading out as they waited for the crabbing boat to co ashore.
「As ti passed.」
The *Marlin* wobbled its way to the pier. Only then did the fishern see that the deck crane, used to hoist the crab traps, was slumped over to one side.
No wonder it had returned to port early.
The crane was broken. Without it, there was no way to move the crab traps, which weighed nearly 200 kilograms each, by hand.
The fishern murmured amongst themselves, their faces showing sympathy.
anwhile, the crew of the *Marlin* looked utterly dejected. They not only faced the problem of repairing the crane but also had to worry about how this accident would affect their entire season. It was very possible this whole season would be a wash.
Once the *Marlin* was alongside the pier, the fishern on the dock helped secure its mooring lines.
The boat’s crew began to disembark, looking completely dejected.
’They’d been hoping to make a fortune, but who would have thought a rogue wave would smash the crane on their second day at sea?’
The fishern on the pier walked over to ask the crew mbers they knew what had happened.
"Hey, Paul, what happened?"
"Ai Wen, is the crane badly damaged? Will you be able to make it to the end of the season?"
"Tyler, man, you alright?"
The crew mbers were in no mood to answer questions. They pushed through the crowd, intending to head to a bar and drink themselves into a stupor.
Feng Shan nodded to Nash and Wawa. He walked straight into the crowd and stopped in front of a brown-haired crab fisherman, blocking his path.
Justice was already in a foul mood. The accident with the crane was partially his fault, and the captain was sure to make him pay for part of the repairs.
’Not only did I not make any money, now I have to pay up.’
When soone blocked his path, his anger flared. He raised a hand to shove the person aside, cursing under his breath.
"Shit, are you blind? Get out of the—AGH!!"
A pained scream ripped through the crowd.
Everyone turned toward the sound. They saw Justice pinned to the ground by the Northern People, who had a foot planted firmly on his back.
’What’s going on?’
As the fishern watched in confusion, the crew of the *Marlin* quickly closed in. They were already harboring resentnt, and now soone was ssing with one of their own. The guy had picked the wrong ti to start trouble.
’Get him!’
But after taking only a few steps, the crewn froze.
Two Inuit n were aiming AR15s at them, and the safeties were clearly off.
Raising a rifle and flipping off the safety ant they were ready to fire at any second.
"Hey, what are you doing to Justice? He’s just a kid!" a seasoned-looking crewman asked, stepping forward with his hands raised.
"Let go, you bastard! I’ll kill you!" Justice yelled, pinned to the ground. His back felt like it was being crushed by a crab trap, and he couldn’t move an inch.
Hmph!
Feng Shan applied a little more pressure, and Justice cried out in pain again.
Then, he pulled his credentials from his animal-hide coat, held them up, and announced to everyone on the pier.
"I’m the Sheriff of Point Laya. Justice is a suspect in a two-year-old shooting case: the murder of Little Pete from Point Laya."
Pinned to the ground, Justice strained to lift his head.
"Bullshit! I’m not a murderer! What are you talking about? Let go!"
"Guys, help ! He’s not a sheriff, he’s gotta be a gang mber!"
What?
The pier erupted in an uproar.
Everyone knew Justice. He was usually pretty polite and rarely started trouble.
How could he be a murderer?
"Sheriff, sir, could there be a mistake? Justice wouldn’t do sothing like that, I swear to God," the sa middle-aged crewman spoke up again.
"God can be wrong, but I’m not." Feng Shan put more weight on Justice. "If anyone makes a move, I’ll consider them an accomplice, and I will open fire."
CLICK-CLACK!
Nash and Wawa racked the bolts on their rifles.
One of the fishern was a mber of the National Rifle Association. He took one look at the AR15s in their hands, and his face paled.
"Vito, get back! Those are automatic rifles!"
At the ntion of automatic rifles.
The older crewman imdiately backed away.
While gun laws in Alaska are lax, regulations on automatic weapons are extrely strict, requiring a special license for their use.
That made their claim of being law enforcent all but certain.
As for whether Justice was a murderer...
...who could say?
"Buddy, you’d better call the Saint Paul Island sheriff."
...
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