by Blake Pierce
"We need a seat for our guest," John growled.
Agent Leoni was already on his feet, moving quickly over to help secure the strange suspect, and guide the large, beefy man into the chair across from Adele. John swiped the list of guests’ names, as the suspect was shoved into a chair, and then, with a sigh, he crumpled the paper, and tossed it at the man. It bounced off his nose, and rolled down his knee, onto the floor.
The blunt featured fellow blinked in surprise, but then his eyes narrowed in frustration, and he yammered something in Italian.
"Who is this?" Adele said.
"Jacopo," John said simply. "He ran."
"You're both wet."
"He smelled, so I gave him a bath," John said.
Adele shared a look with Christopher, who seemed to be doing his best to suppress a grin. Adele looked at Jacopo.
The man narrowed his mean eyes, staring from one to the other, and shaking his head quickly from side to side, muttering a series of dark words in Italian.
"Christopher," John said, with a growl in his voice, "Can you ask our princess here why he ran?"
A brief Italian exchange ensued. Jacopo looked reluctant to speak at all, but he kept shooting mean-eyed looks towards John. John glared back, spinning his finger around and around as if to say, get on with it.
Christopher leaned in, nearly imperceptibly, his eyes flashing in the poorly illuminated room. He reached out a placating hand, placing it on Jacopo's arm. The man stiffened as if he'd been shot, his eyes traced down to Leoni's fingers as if in a sudden horror.
Christopher gave the man's arm a reassuring pat and then released the grip, seemingly content he'd managed to redirect the large fellow's attention. Then, in Italian he spoke softly.
Adele blinked, watching in interest to see if Leoni's more comforting strategy might work. The definition of good cop, bad cop—but Jacopo didn't seem a connoisseur of late-night detective shows. He seemed to settle a bit, his expression less hostile as he shrugged once and glanced surreptitiously off to the side, murmuring briefly.
Leoni nodded as if in understanding and asked something else. Again, Jacopo paused, but again responded, nodding more adamantly now. Leoni's expression flickered with a frown, but he hid it quickly and continued. Now, the suspect's voice was getting louder, and he pounded an elbow on the table all of a sudden, unable to use his cuffed hands. The startling noise caused Adele to jolt.
“What's he saying?” she said quickly.
Leoni rubbed at his jaw, glancing over at her and shaking his head. “He says he ran because he thought Agent Renee was there about something else.”
“Else? What does he think he's here for now?”
Leoni winced. “He seems to have inferred, from the three of us, that it's something violent. He wants to give his most...” Leoni cleared his throat, adjusting his posture and shooting a sidelong glance towards the suspect, “sincere assurances that he is not a violent man. I told him I'd relay this.”
Adele stared at the blunt-faced fellow, glancing towards John and quirking an eyebrow.
“Seemed violent enough trying to drown me,” John muttered. “Threw his hands up when he saw me coming.”
“Ah yes,” Leoni said, nodding hurriedly. “I think I might help there to.” He nodded in a sort of placating way towards Jacopo to offset the forming expression of worry as he glanced between the agents speaking in English. “Our friend here recently broke up with his girlfriend. He says there have been some... miscommunications with her. Police have been involved.”
John snorted, wiggling his phone and handing it to Leoni. “Miscommunications my ass,” said the large Frenchman. “I looked up his rap sheet. Bastard’s a stalker. Been stalking his ex—who's about ten years younger than him, I might add. Not a good look for a twenty-eight-year old,” he continued, clearing his throat and leveling a harsh gaze on Jacopo. “Can you tell the princess that I don't believe him? Ask him where he was two nights ago.”
Leoni turned towards the suspect, repeating the question. The man shook his head vehemently, glaring at John, but glancing at Adele, his eyes wide and imploring. He murmured something and then shrugged.
Leoni coughed delicately. “He says he doesn't know what you're talking about. He's lovestruck—not a criminal.”
“Dumbstruck more like,” John muttered.
“I mean, you did hit him,” Adele muttered. She winced, remembering Executive Foucault's warning about John's behavior. For now, the media hadn't butted in, but if he kept taking swings at suspects, this anonymity wouldn't last.
John glared at her. “I don't get it,” he grunted. Then he glanced back at Leoni. “Ask him about Lorraine Strasser. Use her name. Mention Rebekah James.”
Leoni turned and complied with the request.
Here, Adele paid close attention, her eyes fixed on the Italian thug's face. But if the names registered at all, he didn't show it in the least. He simply shrugged, grunted without a word and gave a shake of his head.
“Says he—”
“Doesn't know,” John cut off Leoni. “Right. Well, I don't buy it. Guy's lying. He probably killed them because he has it out for young, attractive women. I know the sort. Just look at his little pug eyes.”
Jacopo seemed to realize he was being insulted now. He turned to John, sticking out his blunt chin and spitting a few choice words back of his own.
“What's he saying?” John demanded.
Agent Leoni blinked. “He... in so many words, suggests perhaps you are ill-suited to conclude anything.”
“Did he call me a dumbass? I heard it. I know some Italian. You're the dumbass!” John yelled, jamming a finger at Jacopo. “Hear me? I'll rip your ears off.”
Jacopo spat towards John and the tall Frenchman growled, stepping in, his fists balling. For a moment, as Renee's long shadow stretched over him, Jacopo's eyes widened and he let out a small squeak, seemingly realizing perhaps he'd taken it a step too far. The chair he was seated in scraped as Jacopo tried to inch away.
Adele, though, intercepted the large man, placing a hand against his chest and pressing against him. “Don't do anything Foucault will make you regret,” she said, firmly.
John glanced at her, shaking his head. “He did it, Adele. I can tell. Look at his stupid face. He did it.”
“Maybe,” she said, softly. “But what if he's telling the truth? What if he ran because of the stalking charges?”
“I... It's not...”
Before the words could form on her partner's lips, though, Adele's phone began to buzz. At the same time, John's went off, and a second later, Leoni's vibrated as well.
Adele frowned, and all three agents lifted their devices as one. Their countenances darkened in a near perfect sequence, their brows simultaneously furrowing.
“A third?” Adele murmured, the cold device to her ear. A similar, frigid sensation reached her belly, twisting it like a clenched fist. She swallowed, her back prickling. “When? Just now... You're sure? Alright. We're on our way.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Adele stared at the body. She wore pink workout clothes with a blue sweatband and lay on top of a green yoga mat, facing the window of the small apartment. The woman's colorful and crumpled form seemed like a wilted flower, and though the windows were closed, Adele felt a shiver up her spine.
Agent Leoni stood in one corner of the cramped space, speaking with the victim's roommate. The younger woman in question had a blanket thrown over her shoulders and was trembling, her eyes wide, her expression gaunt. She didn't seem to be answering any of Christopher's queries, and another police officer, standing next to the woman, was doing his best to hold off a paramedic, who was now speaking in louder tones, gesturing in frustration towards the woman, as if to say, look at the state of her.
Adele's sympathy didn't just linger with the roommate though. She glanced back towards the victim. Blood stained the yoga mat, the red liquid spreading across the green fabric and onto the carpet. The woman was laying on her back,
and Adele could see the single, swift cut in her neck. Outside the window, she glimpsed the coroner and two assistants readying a stretcher and spreading clear plastic over it.
She looked away, glancing back towards what remained of Fiorella Lettiere. John was by the window, glancing over the coroner's head, into the distance, his eyes deep and troubled.
"Another mask," Adele murmured, softly.
John didn't look back, he didn't grunt, he just stared through the glass out into the fading night.
This new mask was a simple, plain, pale covering just for the eyes. The victim's cold lips could be seen pressed in a hard line just below the pale half mask. The coloring was a bit different, but the shape and style was the exact same as the first two masks. And again, as Adele leaned in, she realized the mask wasn't strapped to the woman's head, but rather just laid over her face. And this time, the red lipstick mark was over the woman's lips, crisscrossing down her chin and up to her cheek.
"He's taking one every day," Adele said, softly, "he's escalating."
"She was Venetian," John said, bluntly, still facing the window.
Adele looked up, frowning. "Excuse me?"
"The girl, she was Venetian. Not a tourist."
It took Adele a moment, but then she glanced around the rented apartment, glanced towards the Italian roommate. She winced, realizing the implications of John's words. "Shit," she said.
"Shit is right," John said, glancing back. His eyes landed on the body, and his face creased in pain. He gritted his teeth, looking away sharply. "Double shit. We're slow, Adele. Way too slow.”
Adele felt a jolt of worry, anxiety swirling in her stomach. She felt grief wanting to settle across her shoulders. "I know," she murmured. Images flashed across her mind's eye. Bleeding... always bleeding... Always late. Just a second too slow. Adele wanted to shout, but she kept her temper in check, one hand balled at her waist. Vaguely, as she stood there, her mind wandered back to the raincoat closet in her apartment. Back to the little brown package Robert had left her, where she had hidden it out of sight in the little, dark corner of the space. Maybe it was her fault these killers kept getting away. Her refusal to accept help from others... Maybe she was overthinking it.
Adele watched the paramedic, who had now managed to extricate the roommate from Leoni, guiding her towards the door, but pausing, as the coroner with the stretcher tried to navigate around them.
Adele looked away from the body, her eyes scanning the sparse furniture for any sign of a weapon, any sign of anything. But the room was clean; even the furniture hadn't been knocked about.
Leoni approached from behind, murmuring, "She's in shock; the paramedics won't let anyone speak with her now."
Adele looked up, "Did she see anything?"
Leoni shrugged. "It doesn't sound like it. Sounds like she got back pretty close to the kill, though. Paramedic says the victim couldn't have been dead for more than two hours."
"From when she found her?" Adele asked.
"No. From when we arrived."
Adele's eyes widened at the significance, and John voiced the realization. "That means the girl found her roommate dead almost instantly after the kill," he said, quietly.
All three of them stood over the body, facing each other, but lost in their own thoughts.
For Adele, she knew the killer was escalating, and now they would have to rethink their approach. He wasn't targeting tourists. Venetians now too. Fiorella Lettiere was a native.
"How old was she?" She asked, looking to John.
"Twenty-three," he said, shaking his head in disgust.
"See anything by the window?"
John shrugged, glancing again towards the window, but then looking back at her. "Nothing. He's not gonna leave a clue. He's already done this three times, maybe more. He's getting better as he goes and picking up the pace."
Adele breathed slowly, glancing around the room. "Another young, beautiful woman. But a Venetian. He doesn't care about nationality. It's their youth, their beauty that seems to attract him."
"Sexual sadist?" Leoni asked.
But Adele shook her head. "Doesn't seem to fit. He's not doing anything with the bodies. He's not even posing them. The only adornment is the mask, which he provides. He kills them quick, mercifully, if such a thing could be said. He's not trying to exact pain. It doesn't fit with a sadist. Sex doesn't seem to be the motive."
"They're young and they're beautiful," John murmured. "Sex has something to do with it."
Adele wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. "Perhaps tangentially. But this is more about him than them. Something else is going on. It's not money, either. He doesn't rob them. Look," she said, nodding towards the television, and a laptop on the table. "He could have taken either of those but didn't. With the other victims, he left them with cash in their wallets."
"Alright," said Leoni, "so what's the killer after?"
Adele shivered as the coroner's two assistants rolled the stretcher towards them.
She didn't like thinking like this. There was no benefit to it. But what more could she do? Standing over the body as they were, discussing it in such callous terms, it was enough to turn her stomach. But then again, the killer was operating with cold calculation. There were no defensive wounds. He wasn't stalking people to try and scare them. He wasn't inflicting pain.
"I don't know," Adele said, quietly.
John growled and turned, brushing past the coroner, and pushing towards the door. "We damn well better find out," he snapped. "Or this is just the beginning."
Adele stared after her retreating partner as he slipped through the door into the night. She could feel Agent Leoni's gaze on her. "He seems to be taking it personally," Christopher murmured.
Adele shook her head. "I don't know why. He doesn't normally get like this. Something about their age, their youth, it bothers him." She shrugged.
"And perhaps it should bother him; maybe I'm just too use to it," Leoni said, shaking his head sadly. "I wish I could say this was the first young victim I've encountered, but we both know that to be a lie."
Adele looked at the Italian agent, forcing herself not to watch as the body was lifted from the ground and placed on a plastic sheet. For her, it wasn't a lie. And it did bother her. But for Adele, she'd learned to live with the bother, the pain, the grief. Live with it like a chronic pain in her gut. Some things couldn't be avoided; they simply had to be managed.
"The victim's roommate, is she going to the hospital?"
"Giovanni e Paolo, yes."
"Will we be able to speak with her in the morning?"
"I'll see what I can do...” Leoni trailed off, glancing at his watch, then back at her. “Say, it's getting late, and I know you two have rooms here, but I should warn you about the hotel you're at," he said, wincing. “John mentioned it. The Bisanzio Flora Hotel right?”
Adele frowned. “Yeah. What about it?"
Leoni scratched his chin. "The place is notorious for being frequented by lice and mold." He winced and held up his hands as if to prevent protest. "I'd hate to see you lose sleep, especially since in that part of Venice, there are often impromptu firework shows throughout the night during the festivals.”
"You're serious?"
"Look it up online yourself; that hotel has a one-star rating with five hundred customer reviews. Mostly college students and young tourists use it because everything else is out of their price range," he said with a shrug. "Just warning you."
Adele massaged the bridge of her nose, then began to move towards the door, away from the body, and away from the stretcher.
Agent Leoni fell into step next to her. She exited the small apartment, back out into the streets, the scent of canal water wafting on the air. John was standing as far away from the railing to the river as he could, his shoulder blades placed against the brick wall of the apartment. His arms crossed, and he watched Adele and Christopher step out into the night.
"What next?" He called out.
"Sle
ep?" Adele countered.
John exhaled softly, but not in frustration. If anything, he seemed relieved she had said it so he wouldn't have to.
"Got the address for the hotel?" He queried.
Adele winced, looking to Christopher and back at John. "Apparently it's a hellhole," she said. "And I need my sleep. If we want to catch this guy, we can't be waking up in the middle of the night to lice and fireworks."
John stared. "Lice and fireworks?" If anything, he almost sounded excited, some of the glower in his gazer receding.
"Perhaps I have a compromise,” Agent Leoni said, quickly.
Adele glanced at him.
He continued, transitioning smoothly, "As I mentioned, I do have a place nearby in the city. Both of you are welcome. I have a spare room, and the couch," he said, glancing at John with this last word. He shrugged, returning his attention to Adele. "Of course, it's completely up to you.
"That's quite all right," John said, before she could, "we have rented rooms."
Adele paused. She glanced towards Leoni, trying to study him. He'd assured her they would solely work on the case... Was he up to something? Did he think by getting her alone it would rekindle things? Or was she just being cynical? Perhaps a bit of both. Still, sleep sounded nice. Adele sighed softly, but then reached a decision and shook her head. "Hang on, if what Christopher says is right about this place I don't want to be worrying if someone's going to break into my room and steal my shoes, or if I'm going to wake up with rats nibbling my toes."
John grumbled, but instead of seeming frustrated at her, he was now shooting daggers towards where Leoni stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels and waiting with a polite but quizzical expression.
"You're sure it's not too much trouble?" she said, glancing at Leoni. "We could always pay you."
"Don't be silly, of course not. And yes, I'm sure. You're welcome. Like I said, I do have a spare room... and a couch.” He glanced at John. “The shower works perfectly fine, and it's not attached to my bedroom or anything.” His tone betrayed nothing at these words. “There's plenty of privacy, and it's a quiet, safe neighborhood. Not too far from here either. I have a squad car coming to pick me up nearby."
