Left to Murder (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Five)

by Blake Pierce

  “What now?” John’s voice came from behind, where he followed at her pace up the stairs. They reached the second floor landing, turned, and headed toward the third.

  The halls were colored white and beige. A couple of hotel paintings hung from the walls. And flickering yellow lights set in torch stands lined the paintings. The air smelled a bit of chlorine, suggesting there was an indoor pool nearby.

  “Now,” she said, her voice faint in her own ears, “we sleep. Hopefully.”

  John cleared his throat. He continued after her up the final flight.

  They reached the third-floor landing and pushed through the door, extending into the carpeted hall. A long red and blue carpet with white stars in the center stretched down from one side to the other. A row of mirrors lined the opposite wall, giving the illusion the hall was much wider than it first seemed.

  Adele glanced at the room number on her key card, looked at the small little brown and white signs across from the open door, then turned left, following the silver arrow indicating her in the direction of her new room.

  John followed as well. “Think he took a boat?” John asked, softly. “Maybe he flew into a different country, crossed the border through one of the checkpoints. That might explain why they’re not showing up in a search.”

  Adele sighed, puffing a breath and allowing a lock of hair to rise and fall like dandelion fluff. “It’s possible,” she said, wearily. “Did Agent Carter say he’d be back in the morning?”

  John shrugged. “Didn’t really pay attention.”

  “Great. Well, I need some sleep. Whatever the case, the killer has been one step ahead. He knows too much. It’s almost like he anticipated what we might do. He covered his tracks.”

  Adele came to a halt in front of her door, glancing at the key card, then at the brown number painted on the steel frame.

  She looked at John. “This is me.”

  Renee waved with a wiggle of his fingers, and then moved toward the room at the far end of the hall, two doors down from Adele’s. From the doorways between their rooms, Adele heard the quiet buzz of classical music. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 9 PM. She hoped the music wouldn’t last too long. She opened her door with the key card and stepped in, sealing herself in the hotel room and cutting her off from John’s line of sight.

  She tossed the card onto the small counter with greeting plaques and a small complimentary basket of soaps, then moved away from the desk, toward the single bed, and her eyes flicked to the TV. Whoever had last used the room had left the TV on a news channel. She didn’t even want to look, and quickly grabbed the remote, turning off the device. Then, remembering the slick banister, she wrinkled her nose and hurried over toward the sink in the small bathroom. She lathered her hands with a fragrant soap that smelled a bit of honey, and then poured warm water into her palms, rubbing the soap clean, and with it, the feeling of germs.

  She wished she could wipe her mind in a similar way. The killer was draining his victims, dropping them off in isolated locations. Three countries, and who knew if he’d stop.

  Adele sighed, wiping her hands on a pink towel over the sink.

  As she did, grazing her knuckles against the smooth, fluffy fabric, her phone began to buzz. She reached down, fishing her telephone out of her pocket; wiping her hand one more time to completely clear water droplets, she then clicked through with her other hand, swiping her password and holding the phone up.

  Executive Foucault.

  She winced, but then held the phone to her ear. “Sir?” she said, politely. Inwardly, she did some math, trying to figure out what time it was back in France.

  The Executive’s voice sounded strained, tired. “Agent Sharp?”

  She huffed a breath. They weren’t doing very well on the case. She figured Agent Grant back with the FBI was likely filling Foucault in on their movements. This didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. She coughed delicately and glanced back at the small pink towel; her eyes traced to the caramel marble-patterned wall above the bathtub.

  “Sir,” she began, “we just got here. I know it doesn’t look good. But really, if you just give us a couple of days, I’m sure—”

  “Adele,” said the Executive, his voice serious, “I’m not calling about the case. Do you have a moment?”

  Adele shivered. It took her a second to realize he had called her by her first name. Foucault rarely did that. “Is everything okay?” she asked, hesitantly.

  A long, huffing sigh. A pause, and in her mind’s eye, Adele could practically see the Executive taking a long draw from a cigarette. Then another long, heavy breath. “I’m afraid everything isn’t okay.”

  The tingle in her spine grew worse. “What is it?” she said, her voice hoarse. Before he spoke, her mind had already rushed to the worst eventualities.

  “It’s Robert,” said Foucault. “Agent Henry. You are close with him, yes?”

  Adele stared at the mirror over the sink. She could feel her breath—slow, shallow, as if she didn’t want to breathe too loudly, lest she missed what he was saying. “Is he okay?” she said, her voice strangely calm in her own ears. It was as if she’d been expecting this, anticipating it. She had known the news would come. It was a resigned inevitability.

  “No,” Foucault said, simply. “He isn’t. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Is he alive?” Adele asked, and found her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what the emotions were. It almost felt as if she were disengaged from her own body. And yet, she swallowed and tried the sentence again. “Is he alive?”

  This time her voice didn’t crack. Executive Foucault replied, “Yes. For now. He’s in a bad way. I’m heading over myself. I don’t know much.”

  “Can I call him?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s unconscious. Not taking calls. I’ll tell you what I can when I get a chance. I just know you two are close. I wanted to let you know.”

  “Should I come back?” she said, her voice trembling now.

  The Executive’s tone softened just a bit. And for a moment, his voice had the cadence of a father, a gentle, calming tone. “I wouldn’t begrudge you if you needed some time. Agent Renee can solve this one.”

  Adele stood for a full moment, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror above the sink. She traced her eyes, baggy from too little sleep, down to her smooth chin, and back up toward her blonde hair. There were those who thought of her as pretty, in an exotic way. Robert had said she was beautiful with no reservation, the way a parent would. He had been there when her real parent had been cut into ribbons and left on the side of a park path. He had been there when she had wept, for nights on end, without relief. He had been there when she had first tried to solve the case. He had been there when she failed. And had been there when she’d failed again. He’d been an affectionate man. The father who had actually cared about her, rather than her career.

  She felt hot tears begin to form in her eyes and reached up, furiously rubbing them away.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she said, simply.

  “I’m not sure. But I’m not looking for you to be a hero here, Adele. We have other agents. This case can be solved without you. If you need some time—”

  “No,” she said, without even fully realizing what she was saying. “I’m fine, it’s going to be fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I’ll get back as soon as possible. Solve the case, and come back. If he can call, the moment he wakes up, please—”

  “I’ll tell him. Adele, I don’t mean to be crass, but if this is going to distract you, I need to take you off the case.”

  She bit her lip. She knew he had to say it. And yet she hated him for it. “Sir, I’m fine. Really.”

  This time, it seemed like Foucault was the one who needed to take a moment. Both of them waited in silence, and then, at last, the Executive said, “In that case, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you the need for urgency on this case, Ad
ele. Three weeks, three deaths, three countries—especially given the nature of the crimes. People are noticing. Political climates are tenuous already, we don’t need further disruption.”

  Adele swallowed. She remembered Ms. Jayne saying something similar.

  “I won’t fail you, sir.”

  “Adele… In this case, just so we’re clear, taking much longer is a failure. We need this one hushed before the media gets it. And if they do, we need to be able to say we already caught the bastard. Is that clear?”

  “As crystal.”

  “Good night, Agent Sharp. Really, I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  And then she hung up. She didn’t need that horrible moment to linger any longer. Sympathy wouldn’t help Robert now. She couldn’t help Robert. The urgency of the case pressed anew on her, but it was hard to focus on anything just now besides her old mentor. Victims on one side, Robert on another…

  She couldn’t help anyone. She stared into the mirror, her shoulders trembling. She placed her phone down on the small counter around the sink. Portions of it were still wet, as if it had been recently wiped down by cleaning services. She didn’t care, though. She simply couldn’t hold the phone.

  She turned away from it, and then, looking back, dropped a towel on top of the device, covering the phone from sight.

  Her hand, which she’d used to grab the towel, was trembling. She jammed the hand into her pocket and set her teeth, trying to breathe. She inhaled for five seconds, then exhaled for seven. A breathing exercise, in, out, in, out.

  Her whole body felt like it wanted to shake. She felt like a tree caught in a tornado. Roots holding her deep, unable to move, unable to help, unable to do anything but weather the storm.

  “Dammit,” she said, growling. “Dammit, Robert. You selfish bastard…” She trailed off. She knew she didn’t mean it. Why hadn’t he told her? She had known something was wrong. Why didn’t people tell her? Did they think she couldn’t help? Did they really think so little of her?

  You can’t help, said a small voice in her mind. You can’t save him. You couldn’t save your mother. They hide things because you’re useless. You’re helpless.

  She resisted the urge to scream. Part of her wanted to punch the mirror. She stood there, facing the bathroom above the sink, her hands clenched at her side. Then she just slumped, all fight draining from her like water from a sieve. What was the point? What was the point in any of it?

  She unhooked her belt, placed her sidearm next to the phone on top of the towel. Not exactly protocol, but fuck protocol.

  She moved over toward the door, and then shifted toward the bed, glancing up at the TV. She didn’t want to go to sleep. She couldn’t. She could still hear the faint blare of classical music coming from the room next door.

  She felt caught, on fire, unable to do anything. Standing still was agony, moving was even more painful. Thinking. It all was a buzz—the fear and terror. Was Robert going to die? Would she be able to even see him again? She needed to solve this case. Politics be damned, but the sooner she solved it, the sooner she could go back and see her old mentor.

  She could feel the tears again, spilling down her cheeks.

  Was she really so useless? So helpless? Why did everyone have to die around her? Why couldn’t she help? No amount of training, no amount of smarts, no amount of determination, no amount of practice, no amount of physical exertion, none of it seemed to stave off the inevitability that hounded every corner in her job. Death. Death lurked around every corner, and the hounds of Hades came for all. And all she could do was watch from the sidelines as one by one the people she adored were ripped from her hands. And eventually, she would follow. Death itself would come for her, nipping at her neck, cold fingers around her throat.

  And perhaps it would be the truest mercy there ever was.

  Perhaps death would be the answer.

  These morbid thoughts swirled through her. She could feel the panic, she could feel the rage. And the despair drowned it all out in swishing, swaying tides of sadness.

  She found her hand moving toward the door again, but what was the point? There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  She flipped the lights and lowered herself into a sitting position, her back against the door. Trembling. Shaking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  And there she sat, for half an hour. Perhaps an hour, maybe more. Her pulse went wild, her heartbeat throbbing in her chest. A panic attack. Two. What was there to do about it? Nothing. Nothing but sit and wait. Inwardly, she loathed how she was feeling sorry for herself. This was about Robert. Not about her. This thought almost propelled her to her feet, but then another rush of pumping blood, a pulsing heart, and wild thoughts glued her to the wall, keeping her pressed to the floor, like a hand pushing down.

  She offered up a quiet prayer, like her father used to teach. But this didn’t seem to satisfy either. She tried to hum to herself, a song her mother used to sing. This didn’t help. She tried her breathing exercises.

  None of it seemed to stave off the dread pouring down her spine like ice water. A killer they couldn’t catch. Her mother’s killer had also eluded her. And now Robert, dying in a hospital, unable to talk to him on the other side of the planet.

  A quiet knock echoed on her door.

  She blinked in the darkness of the hotel room where she leaned against the wall. A shadow moved beneath the door, black lines crossing a yellow slit.

  She tried to open her mouth to reply, but found she didn’t even have the energy for that.

  How fucking pathetic did she look now? What a joke. As good as a cadaver.

  The hand knocked on the door again. The shadow shifted. “Adele?” said John’s voice.

  There was something about the way he said her name that carried a concern deeper than she felt for herself at that moment.

  “Adele,” he said, a bit louder, but still echoing with the same concern. “Open the door.”

  It wasn’t an option. He wasn’t asking.

  “Adele, open the door, please.”

  Again, not a request. A strange tactic, she considered. Blunt, straightforward, a demand. But also full of concern, care.

  She was just too tired for it.

  “Adele, please, Foucault called me. I know about Robert. Please, just open the door.”

  She exhaled, her lungs compressing at the name of her old mentor. She reached up, her arm practically limp, and just barely pulled at the edge of the metal handle, twisting it, and allowing the door to click. It opened just a bit, jarring against her shoulder where she sat against the wall next to the doorjamb.

  She felt John push the door and allowed herself to be scooted just a bit across the room. John stepped in, and his shadow stretched across her. She could hear the classical music again, echoing down the hall.

  The door clicked shut. For a moment, she just sat on the ground, trembling, her hands wrapped around her knees, staring between her fingers at the carpet beneath her feet. Then John dropped to a knee. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. He felt warm in the cold room. He felt strong, his muscles pressed against her small shoulders.

  “I think he’s going to die,” she said, softly, her voice trembling again.

  He just hugged her again, holding her tight, leaning in and pressing his head down against hers, and then, whispering, his voice soft, in French, “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  She knew he meant well. But his words irritated her. She half flinched, then turned, pushing away from him a bit. She shuffled back on her hands, her back now pressed against the doorjamb of the bathroom, facing the main entrance. “Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “Robert is going to die.”

  John slid down the door now as well. He also sat on the carpet. He stared at her, his long arms draped over his knees.

  “I heard, I’m so sorry.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not going to be okay.”

>   He returned her look. “Foucault thinks he’s going to a better place…”

  “That does fuck all for me right now.”

  John closed his eyes and nodded slowly. Adele glimpsed his scar beneath his chin, stretching and moving. The darkness of the room was near complete, save the moon moving through the open windows.

  John looked at her in the dark. “I can’t tell you anything helpful, Adele. I lost everyone I cared about. Helicopter crash. My fault.” He nodded and swallowed.

  “Is that what happened?” Adele asked, grateful for the distraction. “Those pictures, back at the agency, in the basement.”

  He gave a ghost of a nod. “Friends. Brothers. I’d known them for ten years. Closer than any family I ever had. All of them, dead. I lost everyone. Nine of my closest friends. Because of me. I’m the only one that made it.” He chuckled softly, but there was absolutely no humor in the sound, like the noise of a shovel digging a grave.

  “Sorry,” Adele said. She looked at John, looked at his scar. She’d known he’d come from pain, but hadn’t known the extent. She’d known he was filled with guilt, but hadn’t known the source.

  He looked at her. “Yeah, well, I thought I was done. I thought that was it. Fast cars, guns, drink. I wasn’t sure which would take me out, and I didn’t much care. It was a little game; I’d make bets with myself, deciding if I’d live another year, a few months, a week. I didn’t know. Then you came along,” he said, his voice practically a growl.

  Adele stared at him. He wasn’t looking her in the eyes anymore. Shame and fear and frustration weighed on every feature. For a moment, she thought she could faintly smell the odor of alcohol. Perhaps he’d already raided the hotel fridge.

  “I didn’t like you at first,” he said, stiffly. “You were too alive. Something about you wasn’t right. Not normal. I didn’t like you because I liked you. I didn’t like anyone. Understand? I thought everyone I could like had died. I wanted them to stay dead. The way you smiled, it reminded me of one of my closest friends. Copilot. You have the same smile. Your cheeks half dimple, and your eyes squint just a bit. You finish it with a soft little sigh, like the start to a laugh.”