Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine)

by Blake Pierce

  Adele sighed, feeling a slow sense of relief. To have her own room, in a quiet neighborhood, away from the festivities and chaos around them seemed like a treat too wonderful to pass up.

  John, though, seemed even more annoyed.

  Adele frowned at him. "You're welcome to take your chance at the hotel. You don't have to come."

  The tall Frenchman scratched the back of his head, glancing from Adele to Christopher. Perhaps he was considering the prospect of her staying in an apartment in the city alone with the Italian.

  "No," he said at last, shaking his head quickly. "Probably best for the case we stick together."

  "For the case," Adele said nodding without batting an eyelid.

  "For the case," John said.

  Agent Leoni's lips formed a small smile, bordering on a smirk, but he strolled past the two agents, waving at them, and heading down one of the small streets. Perhaps it was just Adele's imagination, but it seemed like he'd chosen the smallest, most narrow of the streets to lead them, forcing John to turn sideways, and grumble as he followed along after the smaller Italian.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Christopher's place in the city was exactly what Adele had pictured in her mind, not that she'd ever admit to either of her colleagues she spent any amount of time considering such things. It was neat, small, overlooking a quiet, manufactured lake on the outskirts of Treviso only a thirty-minute drive from Venice.

  All the pictures on the walls were of animals or monuments and landmarks. Leoni didn't display photos of his family, nor did it show any of his achievements. A guarded, prim sort of décor.

  Now, Adele lay on the couch which she'd managed to barter from Agent Renee, staring up at the ceiling fan swishing overhead. Her eyes traced the fan, falling down to the two yellow eyes staring out at her from a small little burrow made of cushion and cotton.

  A cat. She wasn't sure why, but even this late at night, Adele found it telling that Leoni was a cat person. And even then, not a single strand of hair she'd managed to spot on the furniture or, God forbid, brushed under the chairs.

  No—even with a cat, Leoni kept his flat immaculate. Vaguely, she wondered if he'd known he would be having guests. But as she thought more, she decided it was far more likely that Leoni simply lived like this.

  She could just now picture his features twisting in a soft smile as he busied himself with vacuuming and dusting while the cat darted around his feet.

  Certainly not the most usual of bachelor pads, but extraordinarily like the Italian.

  Adele shifted, her head adjusting against the pillow she'd been provided and trying to find a comfortable position. She wiggled under the blankets, staring up at the still rotating fan and then blinked in the night, glancing across the room towards the old, carved wooden clock—an antique. Her eyes strained, aided only by moonlight drifting through the half open curtains by the jarred window.

  She winced, staring at the small hands—past midnight. She'd been tossing for nearly an hour now.

  Adele huffed, wondering if perhaps she ought to try and trade back with Agent Renee. He slept like a log, regardless of where they holed up. She groaned, twisting again, but as she did, she felt another sort of weight settling on her, equally as apparent as the blanket she'd been given.

  She swallowed, staring at the fan again, feeling the two yellow eyes fixed on the side of her face...

  Another woman murdered.

  Fiorella Lettiere dead.

  And nothing she could do to take it back. Perhaps it had been optimistic to think she'd be able to fall asleep knowing this...

  Dead...dead...dead.

  Three gone in a short matter of days, the killer clearly escalating, striking at the heart of Venetian youth and beauty. Not a tourist angle anymore—no. They were without a motive. The killer wanted something... But what?

  Clearly depraved, clearly with a screw loose. What else could explain the masks? Could explain the stalking in the dark?

  She sighed, her mind flitting back to the small apartment where they'd found Fiorella's corpse draped over her yoga mat, her neck cut, blood dried—only two hours old. The roommate had arrived only after the killer...

  Had the roommate seen anything?

  Adele huffed in frustration, wishing they'd been given the opportunity to speak to the witness. She understood shock could be a serious business, but at the same time, they needed to solve this case. The longer they waited, the more lives on the line.

  They would have to speak to the roommate soon. Maybe tomorrow morning—at least, so she hoped.

  Adele shifted again, pulling the comforter up by her cheek and trying to press her head deep into the pillow as if hiding in darkness.

  But still, sleep wouldn't come in the quiet apartment.

  She heard a sudden creak of a floorboard, followed by another. She went still, listening as softly padding feet—making as little noise as possible—moved from the hallway towards the kitchen. She heard the clink of a glass, a sudden swish of flowing water. The water stopped, and she heard soft sipping from the dark.

  She turned, staring in the shadows towards where Agent Renee—in boxers and a t-shirt—was trying to tiptoe back towards his room.

  The moment he spotted her, he went still like a deer in headlights.

  “Restless?” she said, watching him, propping up on her elbow.

  He blinked, frozen, wincing. “I—sorry,” he murmured. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

  She shook her head. “Wasn't sleeping.”

  John took another sip from his glass and sighed. “You too?”

  “Couldn't. Thinking.”

  “Lot to think about,” John nodded, slowly, carefully, easing himself against the wall, reclining and watching her.

  Adele sat upright now, her legs crossed beneath her, the blankets draping towards the hardwood floor. “Nice place,” she said.

  John grunted, unimpressed. “I'm more of a dog person myself,” he said.

  “Leoni's not that bad, John. You should give him a chance.”

  “A chance is exactly what I'm worried about,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shrugging and downing the rest of his glass in one long gulp.

  Adele glanced towards the cat in its burrow, watching the yellow eyes still fixed on her; she shivered briefly considering the thought of other eyes watching... Always watching. She needed to keep on her toes, keep alert. Perhaps, partly, her insomnia wasn't just due to this case.

  She'd seen too much, experienced too much in the last few months to not keep poised, ready at a moment's notice. This was a new place, a new location—new threats abounded. She winced, hoping that in part she was wrong.

  She didn't have the time to sweep every hotel room or guest home for cameras and surveillance. Was she being paranoid? Vaguely, she thought once more back to the small package Robert had left to her. She'd hidden it in the closet, hidden it out of sight. More paranoia? Or just good old-fashioned grief? Would she ever muster up the courage to open it?

  Adele closed her eyes, but gave the faintest shakes, just for herself. Fear was only paranoia if it didn't accompany a likelihood.

  And the thought of a threat keeping tabs on her was far more than likely. It was inevitable.

  “You're beautiful when you think, you know,” John said.

  She blinked, glancing up at him in surprise. For a moment, she waited for the stinging zinger to follow. But instead, he just watched her, his head sort of tilted as if trying to frame her just-so in the moonlight through the gap in the window.

  “I—thank you,” she said, hesitantly.

  “It isn't right what happened to you,” John murmured. “None of it.”

  “I...” she winced, thinking of Robert, thinking of Foucault's harsh words. She shrugged. “It is what it is. I'm a big girl—I can handle Foucault.”

  “Not that.” John pressed a hand against the back of his head but still didn't look away, something seeking, se
arching about his gaze which remained on her, his eyes tracing the slope of her nose, to her lips, to her hair, then to her eyes—holding, steady, unblinking.

  Adele felt her stomach twist, but this time not due to unease, nothing to do with the case, with any thoughts outside, before or behind. She thought only of the moment now, watching the tall Frenchman, wondering.

  He was always the more acerbic, more unruly of her partners. But she'd long known this was why she liked him.

  He wasn't safe. Not at all.

  Adele's job was to make things safe. To take monsters and put them behind bars...

  Sometimes...

  She hated to think in such terms...

  But sometimes it was nice to have a monster on her side...

  She stared at John, her eyes tracing his burn-mark, moving down to his fingers which curled around the glass he was holding. The same fingers so accustomed to his weaponry—to expertise as a war-maker in the field of death.

  The killers she hunted were nothing compared to the reaper that stood across from her.

  But that wasn't everything he was... He was also a protector, loyal to a fault, and indifferent to the bureaucratic pulls and vices. Perhaps that's why she liked him.

  “It isn't right what happened,” John said, trying the words another way as if in a fitting room. “None of it. You were what, only twenty? Twenty-one when she died?”

  Adele blinked again. He was coming from all angles tonight. First beautiful, now wondering about her dead mother. To her surprise though, maybe it was the late hour, or maybe just the view she had of a handsome Frenchman in his boxers, but she didn't feel offended.

  She shrugged once. She'd spent enough time thinking of her mother's passing, she could find solid purchase on top of the scars... Just so long as she didn't press too hard and rediscover the festered wounds beneath. No... tonight was a night of scars. She felt nothing as she said, “About that, yeah.”

  “That's what I keep seeing with each of these girls,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Each of them dead, on the ground. Each of them as young as you when your mother died. Beautiful, like you. Deprived like you by a cruel world.” He spoke slowly, his voice raspy despite the water, his eyes hooded as if staring off into some far, unseen place. “It's not okay... I've seen what it did to you. I've tried to make it better. But there's no making it better, is there? It just is.”

  Adele shivered at his words, pulling the blanket a bit closer now. She stared up at him, listening, frowning as she did. She'd never considered John's reaction to these kills to have anything to do with her... Was that what he thought? Did he... pity her?

  “No,” John said, suddenly, watching her, though she hadn't spoken a word. “No,” he said, louder, a bit more angrily now. “Don't do that bullshit, Adele. Don't shut down. Don't you dare. It's not like that. What—let me guess, you're thinking I feel sorry for you, is that it? That's not what I'm saying at all.”

  Adele just watched him, wondering how close she'd allowed the man that he knew her thoughts before they were voiced. As she considered this, she felt another jolt of fear. Too close, perhaps... Maybe not close enough... Sometimes it was nice to have a monster on her side for a change.

  But not just a monster... A savior? A friend? A companion? All of it?

  Psychoanalysis wasn't her expertise—probably a good thing.

  She still just watched John, trying to keep up. Racing into a hail of bullets, or fighting for her life, covered in blood with John running to her aid was one thing. But to speak in the quiet of night in such slow, calm terms... It didn't suit her.

  It didn't suit them.

  “Are we a ‘them?’” she said, still quiet.

  John blinked. “Excuse me?”

  She watched him a second longer, considering what she said, considering if it mattered. Not everything needed her input, or her reaction. John had his own mind, his own thoughts—she was happy to leave him to them. She couldn't cure everything or solve everyone's pain.

  No...

  Such talks didn't suit them... The two of them were born in action, bred in chaos. Always on the move.

  And so, instead of speaking, Adele pushed off the couch, the comforter dropping to the ground at her feet. She strode towards John, practically scowling.

  For a moment, he winced, one hand flinching as if to protect his face, seemingly thinking she meant to strike him. Adele ignored this, gripped his arm, hard, holding him and tugging it down so his fingers lowered from his cheek. They weren't much suited for words in the dark.

  But action at night...

  Adele smiled—a leering, predator's grin. Then, she leaned in, stepping on her tiptoes and sliding her hand up behind John's head, fingers in his hair, pulling him down and close.

  She pressed her lips to him, hard, holding him in place and breathing softly through her nose.

  John's breath was warm against her cheek and he didn't recoil. He didn't bend, nor did he duck—no part of him made any effort to aid her. He remained upright, head very slightly bowed. Adele remained on her toes, still leaning in, feeling her calf ache in a strange way.

  Such an odd realization even as they shared breath.

  His lips were surprisingly soft, given how hard his arms were, his chest. She leaned against him now, her eyes closed, her nose brushing his upper lip. Her cheek pressed to his as she twisted her head just a moment, and the moonlight through the window flashed through the space between their faces...

  “Adele?” John whispered, pulling away briefly. “I—I didn't mean... I wasn't trying—”

  She pulled him in again, sharing a deeper, harder, almost violent kiss, willing him to just shut up.

  This time, it wasn't as long, and she stepped back, feeling her calf aching from being on her toes to reach the tall Frenchman. Her eyes lingered on his lips for a moment, along his chin, not quite looking to his eyes.

  Whispers in the night were for others...

  Not for them. At least not now and not yet. Maybe never.

  “I... Well...”

  “You get the couch,” Adele muttered. She patted him on the arm, then brushed past John, marching towards the bedroom. She reached the first door on the left. For a moment, it seemed like John wasn't sure if he should follow or not.

  She helped aid his decision, stepping in, without looking back and shutting and locking the door in one quick motion.

  Now was time for sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Adele woke to the scent of coffee drifting through the quaint apartment, followed by a sudden pressure as the small, golden-eyed feline stepped across her head and down to her feet.

  Adele winced, slowly shifting and glancing around, emerging from beneath the blanket of the bed she'd stolen from John the previous night. The cat had managed to slink through the open window, it seemed, along a narrow ledge. It rubbed against her cheek, and, wearily, Adele got to her feet, massaging the back of her neck and tilting her head to exhale at the ceiling.

  The cat reached the door and began to stalk back and forth beneath the brass knob, mewling over its shoulder in Adele's direction. Adele sighed, and resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she kicked off the bed, dumping her blankets on the ground and, with stiff motions, approached the feline.

  “You want out?” she muttered.

  The cat continued to stalk, mewling even louder now.

  Adele turned the handle and stepped into the hall, proceeded by the cat who scampered down the hall. Adele followed, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes just in time to spot the cat hopping onto the kitchen counter next to where Agent Leoni was standing, brewing a pot and, by the look of things, pouring himself a bowl of bland oats. Leoni was already fully dressed.

  “What time is it?” Adele asked.

  Leoni turned, his eyebrows rising. “Oh, good,” he said. “You're up.” He flashed a million-dollar smile and gently patted his pet's ears, scratching the cat under the chin before shooing it off the counter.

  Adele gla
nced at the antique clock on the wall and her eyes narrowed. “Seven already?” she said, feeling a flash of irritation. In a defensive voice, she muttered, “I normally get my jog in before seven.”

  Leoni nodded, only half-listening as, still standing, he began working on his bowl of oats.

  Adele felt an odd sort of competitiveness with Leoni. It took a moment for her to realize why: she had always been the most active in the mornings of anyone she knew. Normally, going for an hour or two run before eating a quick bowl of cereal and heading to work.

  Now, seeing Leoni fully dressed, already pouring oats, she felt a flicker of a frown across her features. At the same time, she glanced towards the couch. John was still a giant lump beneath the blankets, a soft snoring sound echoing from the pile of pillows and comforters.

  Adele smirked, feeling a bit better now. “Any news on the roommate?” Adele asked.

  Leoni swallowed a spoonful of oats, then turned to her, nodding quickly. “Looks like she's out of the hospital,” he said. He tapped his phone which rested on the counter next to the coffee pot. “Staying with her parents not far from here,” he said.

  Adele nodded. “Next stop?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Got an appointment?”

  Leoni shrugged. “They're sitting still until we can speak. Any time, honestly. Just waiting on sleeping beauty over there,” he said, jerking his head towards John.

  Adele tried to hide her chuckle. The phrase was a very Johnesque thing to say. Leoni's eyes were half-hooded as he took another sip of coffee and another spoon of oats. He hid his emotions well enough, but even a polite, professional agent like Leoni would have picked up on John's hostility by now, no doubt.

  “Hey, you big lump!” Adele called across the room, doing her best to forget the brief interaction they'd had the night before. She felt a lance of embarrassment as she pictured the scene in her mind, pictured the quick pressure of his lips against hers, pictured—even—the soft rising and falling of his chest.