by Blake Pierce
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Adele and John moved across the parking lot back toward Agent Carter’s unmarked vehicle. The air of dejection hung heavy as they left the wine-making shop behind them. The security footage had revealed barely a thing. They were grasping at straws.
Adele glanced sidelong at her tall partner. “How are you?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Fine. You?”
“Worried,” she said. “The case… Robert’s email—he’s still not answering the phone…”
It was credit to how much John knew she cared for Agent Henry that he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just looked at her, waiting.
The two of them reached the car and leaned against the hood, sitting on the cold metal and staring toward the shop where Agent Carter took down the clerk’s information in case they needed to contact her off hours.
“What are we missing?” Adele murmured, softly.
“France,” John replied.
She grinned. “Oh come on, it isn’t so bad here.”
John gave her the eye. His dark gaze fixated on her for a moment, his burn mark beneath his chin standing out in the lights from the shops against a backdrop of ever darkening skies. “You people smile too much. I don’t trust it.”
Adele nodded. “Frowning at everyone you don’t know… Yes, much more trustworthy.”
“Not frowning. Ignoring. The perfect solution to annoying strangers.” John sighed in a forlorn, longing sort of way. “How I wish to be ignored again. Three people nodded at me as we left the airport.”
“God forbid—they greeted you? How horrible.”
John shook his head, rubbing at his nose. “You people are crazy.”
Before they could get into it, though, Agent Carter burst from the small shop, waving his phone in the air, grinning wide.
John gave Adele a long look and jutted a thumb toward the exuberant young field agent. “See?” he muttered.
Adele rolled her eyes, but pushed off the car. “What is it?” she called.
Agent Carter reached them and, breathing heavy, he wiggled the phone toward her. “The office. Already got a hit.”
Adele went cold, staring at Agent Carter. “Hang on—already? How? It’s only been what… a half hour? Fifteen minutes?”
Agent Carter shook his head. “The van clue narrowed it down a bunch. I told you it would pay off!” He grinned at them.
“Even wild-goose chases can come back quickly,” John muttered.
“Who is it?” Adele asked.
Carter breathed deeply, staring at the ground now, trying to gather himself. Adele waited, feeling impatience mounting. Finally, though, Carter looked up and said, “A doctor…” Another gasp. “And his wife.” One more deep breath.
“Damn it, spit it out!” John snapped.
Carter winced and then, trying to speak without breathing, he rattled off, “They just returned from a European vacation. Went to Germany, took a train to France and flew home from there. Looks like they rented a van recently—sort of thing to haul furniture and the like!”
Carter desperately tried to recover his breath as John and Adele shared a quiet exchange.
“A doctor and his wife?” said John.
“Can’t rule out a couple,” Adele replied, quietly. “We’ve had a husband-wife team before.”
John cursed, but nodded. He reached out and patted Carter on the back, a bit sheepishly as if feeling guilty for the agent’s gasping. But then the sympathy faded with the gesture and he said, “How long ago did they get in?”
“Two—two,” Carter breathed and nearly coughed, “two hours before the third murder. A tight window, yes… but possible.”
“Good enough for me,” Adele said. “Good job, Carter. Do you have an address?”
Agent Carter nodded, wiggling his phone again, then John growled. “Get in—I’ll drive.”
Adele winced at this. “You don’t even have your license here,” she began to protest, but John had already snatched the keys from Carter’s extended hand and lodged his large form into the driver’s side of the unmarked FBI sedan.
Muttering to herself about the number of ways they might get into an accident, Adele slid into the seat next to Agent Carter in the back.
“Oh, you sit in the back now?” John asked, putting them in reverse and squealing out of the parking lot.
“You know what a stop sign is, right?” she asked.
As if in answer, John blew right through the stop sign at the T-intersection which led back onto the main highway.
“Don’t backseat drive,” he called over his shoulder.
“Don’t front-seat crash!” she retorted.
Her words were cut off by a buzzing GPS voice directing their vehicle toward their destination.
***
Destination is on your left… declared the GPS voice emanating from Carter’s phone. John yanked the steering wheel—and, at this point, Adele felt certain he was playing it up for the sole pleasure of traumatizing his captive passengers.
The front wheels bumped over the curb and the sedan nearly hit a mailbox. Then John kicked open his door and Adele, gritting her teeth—without realizing she’d been doing it for the entire drive—kicked out the passenger door and joined her partner.
They faced a large, stone house with an octagonal turret in the front next to double wooden doors atop stone slab steps.
“Nice place,” John muttered in French.
The house, for a brief moment, reminded Adele of Robert, but she repressed the rising murk of worry and focused on the home itself.
“Careful, calm,” Adele muttered to her partner. “They’re not guilty of anything yet.”
“Ah,” said John. “What you’re saying is don’t shoot the nice doctor and his wife?” He glanced back to where Carter had joined them, looking a bit sickly. “I’m joking,” he said, for the benefit of the young agent.
Then the three of them moved toward the front of the mansion. The house was in the suburbs midway between Sonoma and San Francisco. Around them, the other homes matched this one—all large, all expensive. Just shy of mansion status in Adele’s mind.
As they neared the front door, Adele held out a hand, pressing it against John’s muscled chest. “Look,” she said sharply.
First, she’d noticed the U-Haul parked outside the garage, attached as a trailer to a small mini-coupe. The juxtaposition would have been funny if not for the scene playing out through the large glass windows allowing them a glimpse into the living room.
Two people were seated at a long, glistening dining room table beneath a chandelier.
A man and a woman—older, but laughing and, in each of their hands, a glass.
“Is that wine?” John asked, slowly.
The doctor was older, but had dark hair. Possibly the man in the video, though it was hard to tell. The wife looked younger, and was one frame removed from movie star good looks. Still, she was the sort of woman who would have given Adele all sorts of jealousy back in high school.
John whistled beneath his breath. “Hello, darling,” he muttered. “I like wine too.”
“John, she’s married, and possibly a serial killer.”
John shook his head. “I don’t judge.” He moved up the stone drive, through the garden toward the front door.
Adele followed quickly behind, trying to match his long strides. They reached the massive oak doors, stepping past the windows. Adele reached out before John and tapped on the door. No answer. She waited, then extended a steady finger, pressing the buzzer.
A few seconds later, she heard voices—quiet, hushed. Then she spotted a silhouette through the glass, peering out into the drive.
“FBI,” Adele called—though technically this wasn’t true. Americans, though, had no clue what DGSI was. “Open up!”
The door opened without making a sound, but then stopped. A sliver of orange light, emanating from the dining room beyond, fell across the agents on the stoop. John’s shadow was cast into t
he rose plants surrounding the house. A thin, olive-skinned face, with premature wrinkles around the eyes, and an overly large nose, stared out at them.
“Are you Dr. Gardner?” Adele asked, using the name Agent Carter had provided.
The man bobbed his head, his nose like a rudder, swishing as he tried to glance back over his shoulder toward the dining room.
Adele spotted a security chain, keeping the door half closed. “FBI,” she repeated. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Could you open the door?”
Dr. Gardner squeaked, and seemed caught between indecision. Again, he glanced over his shoulder. Now John was following his gaze, frowning. His hand had migrated toward his hip, hovering near his holster.
“Mr. Gardner,” Adele said, quietly. “Is there a reason you won’t let us in?”
He looked back at her and swallowed, muttering to himself a bit. Then he raised his voice, and in a deep, velvety, masculine tone, which, in Adele’s assessment didn’t suit his physicality at all, he said, “Let me see some credentials, please.”
Adele hated to admit it, but part of her enjoyed seeing the doctor squirm. She didn’t know Mr. Gardner at all. But she hated doctors. She hated hospitals. She hated anything that reminded her of illness or ailment, or death.
The last time she’d voluntarily gone into a hospital for anything besides her job had been when she was a teenager. Even physicals for the agency had been done through private clinics, rather than hospitals.
Adele and John removed their badges, and Agent Carter stood just a bit behind them, watching.
After the doctor looked at the credentials, Adele began to lower hers, but he wiggled his fingers. “I didn’t see, one more moment.”
Adele frowned, but held out her credentials a bit longer. The doctor wasn’t quite looking at them, and instead, glanced over his shoulder again.
Now, Adele looked at John, and her partner raised his eyebrows.
“Sir, is there something you’re hiding?”
The question seemed to alarm him. He turned back on her, sharply, and stared. “Hiding?” he stammered.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to get back from that door.”
He let out another small squeak, which didn’t match his normal speaking voice. “Look, it’s all a misunderstanding. Just give me one second, and—”
“—No more seconds,” John growled. “Open the door.”
Adele wasn’t quite certain of the legality of this. A fidgety, nervous doctor wasn’t cause for entry. Agent Carter would have to report to his superiors. Then again, they were on the path of a killer.
With trembling fingers, the doctor unlatched the security chain and opened the door a bit more. “We’re not hiding anything,” he said, quickly.
“Sounds like you’re hiding something,” John retorted.
The doctor squeaked and stepped back as John stepped into the dining room.
“Hey,” Agent Renee called out, suddenly, “stop!”
Adele followed his gaze, and she spotted the pretty wife, who’d also been sipping wine at the table, hurrying toward the top of the stairs curving past the dining room. By the looks of things, she had crept through the kitchen, around old, ornate furniture pieces stacked with potted plants, in order to reach the stairs without being seen from the door. Now, though, with John in the entry, she bolted, sprinting up the final steps to try to reach the top.
“Esther,” the doctor cried, “be careful!”
John snarled, and bolted after her.
Adele stepped in quickly. “Dr. Gardner, let me see your hands.”
The doctor stuck his hands in the air, protesting desperately and calling after his wife as Adele moved past, staring up the stairs. She heard John shouting, and the woman screaming. She heard the sound of clattering, which suggested they’d knocked over something in the hallway.
“John?” she called. “Are you all right?”
“We’re sorry,” Dr. Gardner was saying, shaking his head wildly, “it wasn’t on purpose. We just thought, we didn’t know—”
“Sir, I need you to be quiet.” She turned her attention back toward the stairs, looking up at the dark outline of the hall. She could no longer see her partner, or Mrs. Gardner.
A few seconds later, John returned. In one hand, by the scruff of the neck, he had a small, hairless cat. In the other, by the collar, he had Mrs. Gardner. Frowning, he was leading both of them back down the stairs.
“Unhand my wife!” the doctor shouted.
“Happily,” John growled back. “This is what you are trying to hide?” He wiggled the small, hairless cat.
“What is that?” Adele asked.
“A naked sphinx cat,” the doctor said, his voice shaking. “Look, we didn’t know that it was illegal to bring back. We wouldn’t have bought it. There was a street vendor, they were very convincing, and I’ve never broken the law before in my life, neither has she, and please, it wasn’t on purpose.”
Adele stared. She looked at John, then back to Mr. Gardner. “You’re joking. You thought we were here for that stupid rat?”
Mrs. Gardner protested with a small little gasp. “It is a cat,” she said.
John lowered his hand and said, “It looks like a rat.”
Adele puffed a breath. “Mr. Gardner, I don’t care that you smuggled in a cat. It’s not my department. We’re here about a murder.”
Mr. Gardner looked shocked. His wife stared, and then both of them looked at the other, their eyes laden with unspoken words: “What did you do?”
The expressions were matching, the surprise palpable.
“Murder?” Mr. Gardner said, stammering. “We only just got back.”
His wife nodded quickly. “What did he do?”
Mr. Gardner squeaked. “What did I do? What did you do?”
Adele breathed heavily, trying to calm herself. “You got back earlier this morning. Your flight landed two hours before someone died only half an hour from here.”
The doctor stared. “Hang on,” he said, quickly. “We got back only an hour ago. Our flight was delayed. You can check. It was. We didn’t land till late.”
Now John and Adele both turned, looking at Agent Carter.
Sam winced and said, “Er, it’s possible. The search parameters were going off declared departure times from yesterday. There’s a chance they were delayed. I can check.”
Adele rubbed the bridge of her nose, glanced at the naked cat, at Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, then back at Agent Carter. “Yeah,” she said, testily, “maybe you should do that.”
Carter winced where he stood in front of the door on the stone slab steps. He was looking along the house for a moment, and said, his voice delicate, “That hauling van,” he said, softly, “it’s gray. Not white.”
More good news. Adele stomped past Mr. Gardner, whose hands were still jutting toward the chandelier above the staircase. She approached Carter and looked toward the driveway. Her eyes settled on the vehicle in the drive. Indeed, it had been difficult to spot in the excitement, and the spectacle through the windows, but beneath the gray clouds, it was clear, the paint on the van wasn’t white. It didn’t match the video.
She sighed and looked at John. “Put the poodle down,” she said.
“It’s a cat,” Mrs. Gardner objected.
John looked at the thing, like he’d found a booger, wiggled it a little, as if to see if it would move. The thing mewled, protesting the motion, and John gently extended the cat toward Mrs. Gardner. “It is very ugly,” he said. And then said, “Have a good day.”
He moved down the stairs, which split into two sections, and curled around the brown and white rail. He shrugged toward Mr. Gardner, and said, “You have a lovely home and a lovely wife. Have a good night.”
The doctor just stared after John, as the man moved past Adele into the dark and toward the waiting car.
Agent Carter stammered a couple of times. “Don’t you think, shouldn’t we check the house—”
“Call to see i
f the flight was delayed,” John retorted.
Agent Carter shook his head, holding his phone. “Don’t need to. Just looked at the website. They’re telling the truth. Flight was delayed, they did just get back.”
Adele exhaled, feeling her breath tickle against her nose as it crept toward the chandelier. “So they’re telling the truth. They couldn’t have even been here at the time of the murder?”
“I guess not,” Carter said. “Sorry. I didn’t check. I just thought—”
“It’s fine,” Adele said, exhaling. “All right, we’re sorry for disturbing you.”
Mr. Gardner and Mrs. Gardner both just stared after them. Adele shook her head and moved back out into the dark, with Agent Carter falling into step. John had already positioned himself in the driving seat once more. He looked at her. “What now?”
She bit her lip, thinking of Foucault’s demand for urgency on this case. Of Ms. Jayne’s warning about the political implications behind the scenes of a tri-country, cross-continent murderer. “We do better,” she said, simply, numb. “Or someone else dies. And at this rate, soon.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
They were back at a hotel, just outside of Sonoma County. Adele glanced sidelong at John, where he had turned from the reception desk, and began moving toward where she waited at the bottom of the stairs. He held a single key card in his hands, his thumb and forefinger pressed against it. He approached, and Adele began to roll her eyes, but then he shifted his fingers and spread the card, showing two.
“You have your own room this time, my lady,” John said with a gallant flourish of the key card.
She would have been amused if she wasn’t so frustrated.
John was normally the sort to take an elevator, but sometimes he allowed Adele’s habits to rub off on him. She was in the mood for a good stretch of her legs. “What floor?” she said.
“Three,” he replied, just as curtly.
The two of them began circling the stairs, one step at a time, their hands extended, braced against the railing. Adele could hear the quiet squeak of the varnished wood beneath her fingers. She didn’t want to think too long about how many hands had groped these rails. She would make sure to wash her hands when she reached her room.
