by Blake Pierce
"I'm sorry for bothering you so late, Adele Sharp. My name is Dr. Mueller."
Adele's eyes snapped open. "Doctor?"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Your father..."
"What about my father?" she said, fully awake now. Once again, she was sitting upright, the phone was no longer on speaker, but pressed to her cheek.
"He's here. Injured. I'm afraid he was attacked at his house earlier tonight."
Adele's heart leapt into her throat. Her pulse quickened, and for a moment it almost felt like all the blood in her body had frozen solid. She could feel her heart hammering and could even hear her own ragged breaths puffing in her ears. For a moment, it almost felt like her head had been dipped into water, and everything was echoing around her. It took her a second to refocus on the words. "Joseph Sharp? You're sure? Are you talking about Sergeant Joseph Sharp?"
"Yes. I'm sorry Adele, but your father was attacked. He's alright, and should make a recovery."
Adele's heart dropped from her chest to her stomach. She tried to latch onto the words towards the second part of the sentence, but found her fingers were trembling so badly she thought she might drop the phone. She was out of her bed before she realized it, stalking towards the door, throwing it open. She was still in her sleeping clothes, but she didn't care; she hastened towards the front door of her apartment, pausing only long enough to grab her wallet, which had her identification. She moved over towards the cupboard next to the fridge, where she kept her passport.
"I'll be there. You said he's going to be fine? What happened? Who attacked him?" She shot off the questions like a military commander barking orders. But she didn't need to. She knew the answer. Who else would attack him? Only one person was out there, hunting everyone Adele loved. It was the same person it had been ten years ago. The same person from a few months ago. The same person it would always be, until one of them caught lead.
"I'm afraid we don't know. A stranger. Your father isn't really speaking with anyone right now. I did have something else to mention, though," the doctor said, hesitantly.
"What?"
"Your father asked me to tell you not to come."
Adele felt a jolt of sheer frustration. Typical. "He asked—are you joking? Is he there? Put him on. Is he there?"
The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. And then, she heard muffled voices in the background. A second later, the doctor said, "He's going to be fine. Just some superficial wounds on his arm, and some bruises on the back of his head. He'll be fine."
"He's there isn't he? Put him on, dammit. I mean it. Put my father on now!"
The full force of Adele's words seemed to weigh and then shift. The doctor gave a stuttered apology, his voice muffled, suggesting the phone had lowered from his cheek. Then, a moment later, she heard the soft clearing of a throat, and then a familiar voice.
"Adele," her father said.
"Dammit, Dad, what happened?"
"I'm fine, Adele. Some little rat skunk got in my house. I gave twice as good as I got."
Adele felt her heart still pounding. She retrieved her passport now. Wallet. Check. Passport. Check. Was she forgetting anything? She needed to get a ticket.
She gritted her teeth, moving back towards her computer. How fast could she get a ticket? Maybe they would just have one available if she rushed to the airport now.
"Are you okay? The doctor said you're gonna be okay. You're okay, aren't you?"
"I'm fine. It's barely a scratch."
"Dad, what did he look like? The guy who did this?"
"Small, runty little fellow. Ugly. Stupid."
Stupid wasn't so much a descriptor of his appearance as her father's mood, but the rest of it was telltale enough. Adele knew she'd been right. The same little runt of a man she'd seen. Who John had seen. Who Robert's private investigator had spotted heading into a police station. The man who'd killed her mother. Who had killed Robert.
"Adele," her father said, "Really, I'm fine. You have work, don't you?"
"I just got a case. But I'm turning it down. Foucault can get someone else."
"Not a chance," her father snapped.
"Christ, Dad, I'm coming."
"Watch your language."
"Dad."
"I don't need you here. I'm fine. Don't you dare leave that case for me. You have a job to do."
Adele let out a strangled little sigh of frustration. She still had her passport and wallet gripped in the same hand, her other palm still pressing her phone to her cheek. She wanted to scream, to lash out. Being the daughter of someone like Joseph Sharp had to be the most frustrating thing in the entire world.
"Like I said, I'm fine. Besides, Adele, I'm a cop."
Those last three words gave her pause. She hesitated, swallowing. She pictured the small station where Joseph Sharp worked out of. She knew how cops got when someone hurt one of their own.
"They're looking for him?"
The Sergeant gave a soft little snort of laughter. It was the most amused she had heard him in a while. "Shut down two airports for me. Three precincts emptied looking for the guy. If he's out there, they'll find him. You're just going to be one other set of boots on the ground. You'll get in the way more than anything. Some of my buddies are keeping a tally at the station. They think they've got something like a hundred guys out there looking for the little rat."
Adele exhaled, slowly, feeling the pressure in her chest released in a steady, shaking breath.
"They're looking for him? Did they find anything?"
"An abandoned car. A rental. Fake ID. That's it, though. They have some of his blood, too. The lab is running tests. DNA."
Adele shivered, leaning back against the counter, placing her hand with the wallet and the passport on the smooth marble to steady herself. She stood in the dark apartment, staring off through the window which faced the city for a moment longer. "Promise me you're okay?"
"Never felt better. I threw him through a window," Joseph said, actually giving a snort of laughter now. He cleared his throat delicately, and chuckled. "You should've seen him, all wide-eyed and scared. It was hilarious." He gave a little laugh, but then started coughing as if in pain.
"Dad," she said, sharply.
"I'm fine. Just swallowed spit. Really, you're overreacting. Look, Adele I'm serious. Do your job. That's what Sharps do. Do your job. If you come here, I'll refuse to see you."
"You're ridiculous."
"Show some respect. I mean it though. I'll refuse you. You better not come. I don't need you here, Adele." Her father spoke firm, harshly as he often had. Then, though, he cleared his throat, and in an attempt at a gentler tone, which barely qualified, he said, “Er, how are you doing by the way?"
In the dark, Adele rolled her eyes. If he was making efforts to try his best and be polite, perhaps it was true he wasn't in such a bad way after all. She could picture a hundred German police officers combing the city, checking passengers and setting up roadblocks. Cops often got that way when one of their own was harmed. She supposed her father was right. It wasn't like she could do much more. If they had blood evidence, then they'd be able to get even more help narrowing down the identity of this guy. There was no guarantee he was in the system, but every little bit helped.
"I'm doing alright, Dad. Look, are you sure I can't do anything?" she said, her voice hoarse.
"I'm fine. Do your job. I'll call you when I can." And then, her father hung up.
Adele sighed, staring at the phone for a moment to make sure she'd been disconnected, and then lowering it, frowning. Fate had never cursed someone so much as the daughter of Joseph Sharp. It was like trying to hug a cactus. But maybe he was right. Maybe she couldn't do anything to help.
Of course, that didn't mean she wouldn't try. He might have refused to see her in Germany. But there were still strings she could pull on this side of the continent. She placed her passport back in the cupboard and pocketed her wallet. She stood for a moment in the dark of the apartment,
running over her options.
Her mother's killer was still out there, hunting everyone she'd ever loved. He would pay. He had to pay. She needed to stop him, soon. Before it was too late.
She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.
It was too late for her to fall asleep again anyway.
Her father in a hospital. Her mother's killer at large. The German police force out in droves, hunting him. Maybe she'd get lucky. Maybe she'd wake up tomorrow to find the news that the small, little bastard had been caught. Or better yet, shot.
She gritted her teeth, a grim resolve falling over her.
Eventually, this would all be over.
A killer at large. Two bodies on boats on the Danube. An heiress to a fashion empire, dead. Another young woman being investigated. And now it was too late to fall asleep again. Best to just get moving.
Never a dull moment. She supposed this was the sort of life she deserved for agreeing to go on a date to a shooting range.
CHAPTER SIX
"You look like death," John muttered as he settled in the seat next to her.
Adele didn't reply, but instead lowered the tray and buckled her seatbelt. She lifted the blind to the window, allowing the sun to shine through and warm her forearms.
She hadn't slept well the previous night. She'd been lucky to get the few hours she had.
All night, she'd been kept up with horrible nightmares of a small-statured man with one dull eye limping towards her father, a knife in hand.
She shivered, shaking her head and forcing herself to focus.
"Everything okay?" John said. He stretched his long legs as far as they would go beneath the seat in front of him. The executive had permitted business class for the short trip. But even the business seats were a tight fit for the tall Frenchman. When Adele didn't reply right away, John lost interest, closing his eyes, and leaning back. For her part, Adele placed her phone on the tray, ignoring the look of the flight attendant who passed by, checking everyone's seats.
"Do you still have the number of Agent Marshall?" Adele said, at last, cycling through her phone a second time.
"Marshall?" John said, feigning ignorance.
"Beatrice Marshall. You hit on her for an entire year. Don't think I did notice. Have her number?"
"Marshall," John murmured, his eyes still closed. "Marshall...” and then he snapped his fingers. "Right, right, I think I remember something about her. She worked for BKA?"
Adele wasn't in the mood to call John on his bullshit. "I don't care that you had a crush on another person. I just need her number."
"Why?" John said, opening an eye and glancing at her.
"It's nothing. Look, I just need the number. Do you have it?"
John shifted uncomfortably. His seat leaned back, but his long legs still wedged up against the chair in front of him. "This isn't a test, is it?"
"No, John. It's not a test. I just need her number."
"Pretty sure you have to tell me if this is a relationship test. There's a rule about that."
"I'm serious, John. Do you have her number or not?"
Muttering something about entrapment, John pulled out his phone, slid it over to her, then closed his eyes again, shifting uncomfortably once more.
Adele cycled through John's contacts to “Beatrice Marshall”, and then quickly copied over the number. She waited, tapping her fingers impatiently against the lower tray. One of the flight attendants passed a second time, staring at Adele's fingers. She cleared her throat, and pointedly said, "Please raise the tray until we're in the air.”
Adele complied, gritting her teeth. Her phone continued to ring, and then a voice answered. "Agent Marshall. Who is this?"
"Hello, agent," Adele said, quickly, feeling a flush of relief. Her cheeks prickled as the blood returned, and she glanced out the window, towards the stream of sunlight warming her forearms. "Hey, this is Agent Adele Sharp. Do you remember me?"
"Umm... Adele... Oh! Of course. From the case at those resorts."
Adele hesitated. That hadn't been the only time they'd met, but she decided now wasn't the time to remind the younger woman. She had no doubt that if she'd brought up Agent Renee's name, it would've clicked far faster. "Look, I'm calling for a professional favor."
"How can I help you Agent Sharp?" Came the soft, careful voice of the young woman on the other end.
"You're still with the BKA, yes?"
No answer.
"I'll take that as a yes. Look, my father was attacked in Germany last night."
"Oh no," said Marshall suddenly, her voice losing some of the cautious quality to be replaced by a jolt of horror. Adele felt John shift next to her and could feel him staring at the side of her face.
“Look, I know it's a big ask. I'll owe you one. But please, could you keep an eye on hospitals in the area. It would be a huge help. Anyone who came in with injuries. Especially cuts from glass."
"Glass?"
Adele snorted. "My dad threw his attacker through a window. Could you just have people keep an eye out?"
"I'm sure the police are already doing their best."
"They are. But my hands are tied. I have to work a case of my own. But I feel like I'm doing nothing. This will help."
There was a stretch of silence, and a softly clearing throat. And then John leaned in past Adele, and said, "Hey Beatrice. It's me." He didn't even give his name.
Marshall gave a sound like a squeal of delight. "John!" she said, cheerful and chipper all of a sudden. "What a pleasure to hear your voice. How are you?"
John cleared his throat delicately. "Doing fine. Partnered with Adele on this case over here. Say, it would be doing both of us a huge favor if you could just look into the hospital thing."
No hesitation, no pause. "Of course. I'm happy to help. How's that new car you were telling me about before? I haven't heard back from you after I sent you that text."
It may have been Adele's imagination, but it looked like John's cheeks suddenly reddened a bit.
"That was a very nice text," he said, in a sort of robotic voice. "A very, very nice text."
Marshall giggled on the other end. Adele found herself scowling.
"I can send you another one if you like," said Marshall. "Or maybe you could send me one; I really liked it when you—"
John coughed, and quickly interrupted. "Maybe now wouldn't be the best time for more texts. Thank you, though. Really. I appreciate the offer."
"Well, if you're sure. I'm looking forward to hearing from you again," said Marshall, quietly. She didn't sound disappointed. If anything, she sounded even more excited.
"I," John coughed, "I'm not sure when that'll happen. Or if ever. Or, well, thank you. Could you just check those hospitals for us?"
"Anything for you, John."
Adele rolled her eyes. And then, she said, "Thanks.” And hung up.
Adele looked at John, turning completely to face him. He scratched at the corner of his chin, and glanced off into the aisle, pretending he didn't notice her attention.
"Very, very nice text?" Adele said, innocently.
"She has a way with words," John said, coughing into his hand.
"And with pictures no doubt. You always were one for a visual aid."
"We were texting," John coughed again, "before you and I were, well, you know. It was only a brief thing. Nothing at all. She's far too young for me." He added this last part quickly, as if worried he might have offended Adele.
She glared. "Too young for you? Are you saying I'm old?"
"What? No. What?"
Adele crossed her arms, frowning out the window again. She resisted the urge to elbow her partner. Partly, it was in good humor, but most of the humor was drowned by her own worry. Worry for her father. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what awaited in Vienna.
Another case, more dead women—she had to focus. She couldn't let what was happening in Germany distract her. Police were already on it. And Marshall would keep an eye on the hosp
itals. It wasn't like there was anything else Adele could do. Her father was fine. He had refused to see her. He wanted her to solve this case.
It was all so convincing, and yet Adele felt a jolt of guilt in her stomach. It felt like she should have been on another plane, flying to Germany.
But the choice had been made. Not by her, but for her. There were others out there counting on her doing her best.
Still, the killer was on the prowl. He had murdered her mother. Cut her to pieces. Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding. The warmth of the sun against her arms felt cold all of a sudden. The plane began to move, pulling out from the airport and jockeying onto the runway.
John was leaning back again, eyes closed once more. "You didn't tell me your father was hurt," he mumbled, still reclining.
"He's fine. Barely even scratched."
"Who was it? It was the Spade killer, wasn't it?"
Adele sighed softly. "He's coming after everyone John. Everyone I care about.” She looked at her tall partner now, her eyes tracing the scar along the underside of his chin, up to his sharp nose, and to his closed eyes. Would the killer come for John next? Probably not again. Even the Spade killer wasn't stupid enough to tangle with someone like Agent Renee twice.
Who then? Who else might he hunt and try to snatch from Adele?
John frowned slowly, watching her. He shook his head once. “He's already dead,” John murmured, his eyes narrowed like a snake's. “He just doesn't know it yet, Adele. Don't let him in your head. He doesn't deserve to be there.” Agent Renee stared off now, as if not quite seeing her, lost, for a moment, in his own thoughts.
It gave her a headache to consider all the ways she might be emotionally devastated. All the ways she was putting other people in danger. She pulled her own phone out, scrolling through, and wondering if she ought to warn anyone.
The killer was injured, though. At least there was that. He would take time to recover. Maybe she had enough time. At least for a brief moment, to solve this case on the Danube, put things back in order, and then see to her own business.
She leaned back, feeling her stomach twist, gritting her teeth against the rampant emotions swirling through her. Sometimes it felt like she was always one step behind. And other times, it felt like she was on the wrong trail entirely.
