by Blake Pierce
“Lying about what, Mr. Lavigne?” Paige said, sternly.
But he set his teeth now, his chin jutting out in defiance. Some of the red returned to his cheeks as anger swelled once more in his chest. He glared stonily at the mirror again and, in a low growl of a voice, nodding his head as if in a sudden decision, he snapped, “Lawyer. Lawyer now.”
“Mr. Lavigne—”
“Lawyer!” he screamed. And then he dropped his head, pressing his forehead against his chained arms. His shoulders shaking.
Agent Paige tried another couple of queries, but he continued ignoring her. Adele watched the whole scene with equal parts disturbance and pity.
Was he faking? Acting?
She’d seen killers play emotions before…
He had no alibi. He was at the murder locations. He had altercations with victims before. He’d made offers on all their properties. And, on top of it, he had a rosary in his luggage while trying to fly to Spain where at least two other property owners were located. His flight had been to a city just next to a potential victim’s home town.
No alibi…
Adele sighed slowly, watching Paige stand outlined by the fluorescent lights.
“Well?” Adele mouthed toward Paige.
The older woman glanced from Mr. Lavigne’s shaking shoulders over to Adele.
“Mr. Lavigne,” she tried one last time.
But before she could say anything else, he simply gasped out. “Lawyer!” And then fell completely silent, his shoulders still trembling, his head bowed against the cuffs.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Paige shook her head, breathing slowly and then turning and approaching Adele.
There was a sudden knock on the door and it cracked open. The same police officer from earlier glanced in, his eyes darting for a moment to Mr. Lavigne where they lingered and then turning to Agent Paige. “Should I call that lawyer now?” the officer asked in a whisper.
Adele glanced sharply at Paige, who didn’t return the look. Instead, the older woman nodded once. “Might as well. Tell him his client is being uncooperative. That’ll make sure he makes double time.”
The officer nodded quickly, hurrying away to make the call. Agent Paige held a hand against the door, stepping into the hallway outside with a sigh before glancing back where Adele still stood in the threshold of the door, her back to Mr. Lavigne’s shaking form.
“You didn’t call the lawyer?” Adele asked, slowly.
Agent Paige quirked an eyebrow. “Calling him now,” she said.
“I—are you—what if—”
Paige rolled her eyes, placing a hand on her hip where she stood in the small coastal town’s police station hallway. “We delayed a call for five minutes, and we now know he has no alibi. Do you think we would have gotten that with his lawyer?”
“Yes…but… but…”
“This isn’t America, Adele. His lawyer is coming. There’s no problem here, is there?” Her tone took on a bit of an edge.
Adele remembered how Agent Paige had hidden evidence ten years ago to protect her husband. She remembered how Foucault had covered for her. Remembered the fallout from it all. She swallowed, glancing back over her shoulder toward Mr. Lavigne’s shaking form. Then she sighed, stepping out into the hall and allowing the door to swing shut behind her.
“No problem,” she murmured.
Paige nodded once, reaching up a perfectly manicured hand to pat Adele on the cheek. “Good.” Then she turned on her heel, beginning to move up the hall toward the break room.
Adele followed quickly, her stomach twisting and turning in perpetual motion as it had done for nearly two weeks now. Perhaps longer. Ever since…
Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.
She briefly closed her eyes, her feet tapping on the polished floors as she caught up with the shorter agent. Playing fast and loose with honesty around calling a suspect’s lawyer was one thing… Lying to a suspect another.
But imprisoning an innocent man? A completely different venture.
And Adele still wasn’t certain of Gregor Lavigne’s guilt. The self-proclaimed historian and preservationist was an odd, paranoid duck to be sure. But that didn’t make him a killer.
Who wasn’t odd in their own way?
She winced, picturing the way she’d flung her phone across Mr. Becker’s office space after receiving a call from John.
No… she couldn’t just ignore her gut. Something still didn’t sit right.
Just a feeling, perhaps…
Agent Paige had paused and was looking at her now. “What?” she said, frowning in the hall, framed in the break room door. “What is it? You look constipated.”
Adele swallowed, hesitant.
Did she dare voice it?
Her instincts had betrayed her before. Should she allow them to do so again? Was she playing too close to the sun once more? Her instincts had brought them to Mr. Lavigne. Did she really want to admit she might have missed it?
Could she refuse to follow her gut, though? Wasn’t that what Robert had always said? Trust your instincts…
Did she dare?
Her instincts had led to Robert’s death. Her mother’s death.
Did she dare trust them?
She paused, her jaw unhinged like some rusty door in the back of a house. She hesitated, swallowing, and then, in a creaking, hesitant tone, unsure what she was going to say before she spoke, Adele eked out, “I’m—I’m not sure he’s our guy.”
Agent Paige frowned for a moment, studying Adele.
Adele felt her whole world closing in. She wondered how angry Paige might be. Already, she’d jerked the older agent around the country, around the continent. This was her fault after all, wasn’t it? She’d been the one who insisted they come to Aquitaine. And now they had a perfectly good suspect with no alibi.
So why did she think he might be innocent?
“If… if it’s not him,” she said, her voice hoarse and scratchy in her own mind. “If it isn’t,” she coughed, “then we’re going to wake up to another murder. If the killer is still out there…” She trailed off.
Agent Paige continued to frown, studying Adele. At last, her thin line of a mouth parted slightly. She breathed, exhaling for a moment as if trying to summon a tiring patience.
But then, to Adele’s absolute astonishment, the older agent said, “I think you might be right.”
Adele blinked. “You do?”
“I’m not sure it’s him…” Agent Paige shrugged. “Not sure at all.”
Then she turned toward the break room, walking just as stiffly as she had down the hall. Though the room was empty, Paige passed the nearest table, moving toward the coffee pot along the wall.
Adele stared after her partner, stunned.
If Paige agreed with her on this… then maybe Adele’s instincts weren’t so fried after all.
But on the other hand… if Paige agreed with her on this, and they were both right…
“What now, then?” Adele asked, swallowing.
Paige glanced back, pouring herself a cup of steaming coffee—pure black. “We keep looking into it,” she said, simply. “Let the police continue the interrogation. Lawyer will show up soon enough anyway.”
Adele breathed a soft sigh.
Agent Paige was right. The lawyer would arrive soon, undoubtedly. The killer, if he was still out there, would strike again, soon. Which meant they were running out of time. But where else could they look? What else could they do?
As if sensing her thoughts, Agent Paige raised her phone and gave it a little wiggle. “I took pictures of that folder from Mr. Becker. Makes it easier to compare the pages side by side. I can send you a copy if you like.”
“The potential victims?”
“That’s right.”
“There are dozens.”
“Twenty-three.”
Adele winced. “Too many. We’ll never find the correct victim in time.”
“Maybe not. But if we’re ri
ght about being wrong…” Paige sipped the steaming cup of black coffee and tipped her head down the hall toward the interrogation room, “then we better start somewhere.”
Adele sighed, but then nodded once, slowly sliding into one of the break room seats and pulling out her own phone. “Can you send me those pictures?”
“Yes. Coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Agent Paige paused for a moment, and then said, “Sugar?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
In Paige’s words, if they were right about being wrong, then the killer was still on the move. Time was almost up. They had to hurry… no time for despair now. Adele had to find something.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
“Just admit it, damn it! So we can all go home!”
The voice echoed down the hall from the break room and Adele winced. The lawyer had arrived nearly an hour ago, and still, the locals were interrogating Mr. Lavigne.
Evening stretched across the break room, peeking through the windows across the long hall of the small-town police station. Adele could hear, through the break room glass, more shouting from the interrogation room.
She returned her attention to her phone, her eyes aching from the strain of staring at the screen.
For nearly two hours now, she’d gone through the three pictures of Mr. Becker’s cursive notes. Not quite a spreadsheet, but readable enough.
Adele’s left hand steadied her phone, while her right hand gripped a pencil, pressed to a yellow legal pad. She frowned as she flipped to the third and final page. “Emma Martin,” she murmured, softly… “Did they get back on her yet?” she called across the room.
Agent Paige, who was already on her third cup of coffee, held up a silencing finger, frowning a shade to match the contents of her cup. She scrolled through her phone and in an annoyed tone asked, “Who?”
“Emma Martin,” Adele returned. “Bought the property September twenty-third. The original offer was—”
“Yes,” Paige snapped, impatiently. “Yes, they got back. She’s still alive, still living in Cheshire.”
Adele blinked. “Cheshire. That’s near London, isn’t it?”
Paige shrugged. “Do you have Emile Schroeder? Just came in.”
Adele glanced at her legal pad, scrolling through the finely detailed information. She paused, then tapped against the sheet. “Yes,” she said, quickly. “Germany, right?”
Agent Paige wrinkled her nose. “How about Steven Everett?”
Adele sighed, glancing at the sheet again. Then she shook her head. “Which page?”
“Third, bottom name,” Paige returned, taking another long sip from her coffee mug. “I swear, I don’t know what we pay these desk jockeys for,” she muttered darkly. “Get paid just as much as me to sit on their fat asses by their computers and it takes them a year to get me some simple information.” She downed her cup and pushed away from the table, turning to pour herself a fourth cup. She cursed, though, finding the pot was empty.
Adele looked away, glancing back at the legal pad.
For her part, she didn’t blame the folks back at the DGSI. They’d provided information on all twenty-three of Becker’s highlighted names. Locations, ages, and names…
A bit of a picture was beginning to form on the legal pad. Now, Adele had almost fifteen of the spots filled in. She sighed softly, glancing at the list again, her eyes glazed and trailing over the notes she’d taken.
For a moment, she lowered her phone, trying to focus.
What did it all mean anyway?
The locations were important; not just of the summer homes or the church properties but of the potential victims. Why they were important, Adele didn’t know.
The killer had skipped from country to country.
First, he’d killed in London. Then he’d gone to Italy. Then Germany.
Who knew where he’d hit next…
She placed a hand over the glowing screen of her phone, if only for a respite from the glare. She blinked a few times, massaging the bridge of her nose briefly before returning her attention to the yellow legal pad. She tapped the rubber end of her pencil against the paper, thinking to herself, trying to piece it together.
“Emma Martin and Steven Everett…” she murmured softly. “Steven’s married,” she called out, raising her voice.
“So?” Paige snapped back, fiddling with the coffee pot.
Adele blinked. So? A good question. So what? Steven was married. “Means he has a wife. She’s about in her fifties too,” Adele said, consulting her yellow legal pad. “Both still live in England. Not far from London, actually.”
Paige turned now, crossing her arms, gripping an empty Styrofoam cup that she’d crushed beyond use. “And?” she said.
“And…” Adele paused. “Why didn’t he just kill all three of them while there?”
The moment she said it, she felt a tug in her stomach. Instinct. The sort of instinct calling for her to pay attention, to follow the lead. A bloodhound with a scent. A bloodhound with a bad cold, trying to catch a scent. And yet, she felt like she was on to something.
Paige said, “What’s your point?”
“My point,” Adele said, slowly, tracing the other names on the yellow legal pad. “Look at these names. A good few of them live in France, to be sure. But… look, these two in the UK. These two in Germany. Three in Italy. Why did he only kill one in each place, moving from country to country?” The more she spoke, the more she felt her pulse quickening. “It doesn’t actually make sense, does it?” she pressed. “If the killing is simply about the land, why not bump them off as quickly as possible? Take out three in the London area before moving to Germany then doing the same.”
“I don’t know why psychos do what they do, Adele.”
“No—I get that. But people who murder aren’t random. They have reasons, usually. At least this sort of killer does. He’s flying around the continent for specific victims.”
“We’re still not sure it isn’t Mr. Lavigne.”
Adele sighed. “I know… but… You have reservations too.”
Paige stared forlornly at her crushed cup. “I’m beginning to lose those.”
Adele shook her head, glancing from the legal pad to the screenshot of Becker’s highlighted names. “For some reason, the killer isn’t solely interested in old church properties. Something else is going on here… Something…”
She trailed off, frowning in consideration.
“What is it?” Paige said after a moment, watching Adele. “What’s the matter?”
Adele breathed a soft sigh, her breath shuddering with the exhalation. And then she pushed to her feet, nearly toppling the chair as she did. She snatched the yellow legal pad, jammed her phone into her pocket, and spun about, marching out of the break room and down the hall.
“Adele!” Agent Paige called after her. “Agent Sharp, where are you going?”
“To get answers,” Adele replied.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Adele marched directly toward the interrogation room door, gripping the metal handle and feeling the cool surface against her fingers. Maybe she’d been considering this wrong. Maybe instead of seeing Lavigne as a potential suspect or victim of overreach, maybe she needed to think laterally.
Maybe Lavigne was an asset…
What sort of asset?
She supposed she was about to find out. She flung open the interrogation room door, clearing her throat as she entered.
Four people crowded around the table.
All four figures turned sharply as the door shut behind Adele with a thump and a loud click.
“Can I help you, Agent Sharp?” said one of the police officers on one side of the metal table. It was the same man who’d been complicit in the late phone call with Agent Paige. Now, the subject of the ruse, the lawyer, was sitting on the opposite side of the table, next to Mr. Lavigne. The lawyer was a very small man, both in stature and girth. He had wild, jutting hair, sticking up in the back and smooth
in the front. He couldn’t have been much taller than a child, and he wore an immaculate brown suit. The lawyer’s briefcase was on the table, and already he had pulled out a couple of forms, which it looked like he was sifting through and showing his client. For his part, the suspect, Gregor, was eyeing Adele with the severest of distrust.
She felt her stomach twist, but glanced at the two police officers on one side of the table, and said, “I need to speak to Mr. Lavigne alone.”
The police officers hesitated, and one of them cleared his throat. “Are you sure?”
“Quickly, if you please,” she said, insistently.
The officers glanced at each other, but then shrugged and moved away from the table, passing by her on opposite sides. Another dull thud and a click suggested they’d left the room.
Adele’s neck prickled. She clutched the yellow legal pad in her right hand. She waved the papers toward the lawyer. “He doesn’t need to be here for this either,” she said to Mr. Lavigne.
The lawyer began to protest, but before he could, Gregor said, “Why? Do you believe me?”
Adele glanced uncertainly around the room. She took three quick steps over toward the blinking red lights of the camera above the mirror. She reached up, clicking it off. Then she returned her attention to Gregor.
The lawyer began to sputter in protest again, jabbing a small finger toward the camera.
But Lavigne cleared his throat and reached out with a cuffed hands to steady his representative.
“What do you want, Agent?”
Adele shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and then, slowly, she sighed. “I need your help,” she said. “If you’re telling the truth, and if you had nothing to do with it, I need your help. It will go a long way to clear your name.”
The lawyer was speaking quickly now, muttering beneath his breath. “Don’t listen to her, Gregor, you can’t trust them. You need me here, and Agent,” he said, raising his voice, “all of this is highly irregular. Is it true you questioned my client before I arrived?”
