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

by Blake Pierce

  She was now trying to track those cameras back to him. His contact had come through, at least. Of course, the cameras would be a dead end.

  He'd had plans in Paris, but now, it seemed, perhaps it would be best that he move again. Yes... No longer idling. One of his old acolytes, a man who he'd met once had gotten close to Joseph Sharp not long ago... Now it was the master's turn to succeed where the apprentice had failed.

  The Painter smiled, swirling a finger around and around in the warm water, lifting it and watching the droplets tumble from the tip, one at a time, splashing back amidst the bubbles.

  He'd intended to play some more while in Paris. Intended, even, to try and buy Robert's mansion through a proxy. He'd wanted the place to be the site of his final masterpiece.

  But now... She'd seen his face.

  He gritted his teeth, though not too hard—like his bones, his teeth were also quite brittle. No sense losing another over a little bit of misfortune.

  Adele Sharp had gotten lucky. That was all—pure luck.

  He winced, rising slowly from the tub, the hot water pouring down his body, splashing over the side of the basin onto the floor. Swallowing softly, he stepped delicately out of the hot tub onto a fluffy floor mat, feeling it soft beneath his toes.

  He marched towards the windows overlooking the city, proudly standing facing the glass, and watching his city.

  He hated leaving... But sometimes a cautious man had no choice. He hadn't made it this far, for this long without being cautious. He'd been careful, delicate, calculated. The police thought they had him pegged... But no. Even what they found was all charade, pretense.

  The duplicity itself was the art. They would never find him.

  And so, he couldn't allow his emotions to take control.

  He placed his wet hand against the darkened glass, streaking his fingers down and leaving a trail of beaded moisture in a semi-circle outline around the apartments across from him.

  No. He couldn't stay.

  Which meant he'd have to expedite his next location... He'd already decided.

  Joseph Sharp was next. Adele's father...

  Yes, that would be the target. He would just have to check how expensive tickets to Germany were.

  She'd seen his face, and it wouldn't be the last time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  “The gondola is part of the charm,” Leoni murmured over another series of grumblings from Agent Renee. Adele watched, mildly amused as the Italian agent used the paddle to carry them along the canal, edged against the buildings, heading towards the waiting dock of Ricardo's. The upscale restaurant seemed much like a greenhouse, made mostly of glass—glass ceilings, glass walls, glass doors. All of it, obviously, going the full mile to take as much advantage of the natural scenery as possible.

  And it was quite beautiful.

  With the sun above, winking through the buildings, reflecting off the water, Adele found her eyes leaving the two agents in their rented gondola, and flickering towards Ricardo's itself. The boat rocked a bit, though, and she glanced sharply back towards Agent Renee.

  John had gone stiff again, his hands gripping the rail, his teeth clenched. He was staring directly between his knees, refusing to look into the water.

  Adele tried not to smile, but it was difficult.

  She'd seen Agent Renee run head-first into gunfire. Seen him fly a helicopter up windswept mountains during a snowstorm without anyone nearby to help. She'd seen him repel down a rope from a moving helicopter onto a chugging train.

  But now, faced by a little bit of wet, he seemed frozen in panic.

  She reached over from where she sat on the middle bench, and patted the tall Frenchman on the shoulder.

  “Don't,” he said, firmly. “I'm fine.”

  “You're green.”

  “It's the reflection off the water. I'm fine.”

  “Is the reflection off the water making your fingers tremble too?”

  John looked ready to retort, but then, the boat rocked a bit in the wake of a passing outboard engine, and he cursed something fierce, glaring at Leoni.

  “See—here, just fine,” the Italian said, calmly. There was a soft bump of wood against rubber, and then Leoni danced off the back of the gondola, storing the attached oar, by twisting it and placing it alongside the wooden ridge. Then, he hopped onto the dock, tying off the front of the vessel to one of the mooring posts of the expensive restaurant.

  Leoni glanced back at the rest of them. “Coming?” he said, innocently.

  Adele exited the boat second, somewhat disappointed to have her feet back on land once more. The ride in the boat had been a nice change of pace. John took his time about it. Moving slowly, carefully. No sooner had he landed back on the dock, though, then his countenance shifted. His shoulders set, he puffed out his chest and he shot a glare from Adele to Leoni as if daring either of them to say anything about it.

  Adele knew better than to tease John when he got like this.

  Leoni, for his part, was too polite, she supposed, to do any such thing and was already moving, strolling along the floating dock towards a hostess standing just within the glass door to the glass building.

  Leoni opened the door, causing the sun behind them to flash off the reflective material, and he bid a quick greeting to the hostess, who nodded in return, her eyes lingering on the handsome Italian when she thought he wasn't looking. Adele and John followed after as the tall Frenchman moved a bit more quickly away from the water than either of his colleagues.

  “Pleasure to see you,” the woman behind the greeting stand said, smiling pleasantly and bobbing her head in a practiced nod. Her perfectly manicured fingers swept up, extending towards the tables set closest to the glass wall. “Table for three?”

  She spoke English with a faint, charming trace of an accent. Likely, she was used to tourists and could peg foreigners with practice at this point. Her eyes moved towards John now, too, bouncing back to Leoni, then to John again as if she couldn't quite decide where to look.

  Adele went entirely ignored. She frowned momentarily, and stepped in front of John, clearing her throat.

  “We're here about a customer of yours,” Adele insisted, pulling out her phone and scrolling to the most recent photo of Fiorella Lettiere they had. She turned it, extending it towards the hostess, who was probably only mid-twenties herself. “Seen her?” Adele said.

  The hostess sighed, seeming reluctant to look away from John, but when her eyes landed on the phone, she blinked and nodded once. “A—actually, yes. Why?”

  “We're with DGSI,” Adele said. The woman's mouth began to open and Adele interjected, “Law enforcement. Interpol oversight. Look, this woman was here?”

  The hostess' eyes were wide now, round and she was staring directly at Adele, her entire demeanor shifting. She swallowed, nearly audibly and blinked a few times as if dazed. “I—I... Umm, yes. Last night, actually. I remember. She was quite,” the woman coughed delicately, “quite lovely in that dress of hers.”

  “Alright. Do you remember where they sat?”

  The hostess waved the same perfectly manicured hand towards the table she'd been indicating earlier. As one, John, Adele and Leoni all turned, staring at the furniture. Like the rest of the restaurant, even the table was made of glass. Instead of chairs, two semi-circle benches—see through as well—though perhaps a sturdy plastic, protruded from the ground. Beneath the table, as if staring down a well or through a portal, one could see the swishing waters below. The whole spectacle was quite enamoring, but Adele's eyes were fixated on the indicated portion of the restaurant.

  “Just there?” she said.

  “Table three,” the hostess replied.

  Adele moved, ignoring the eyes of a couple of other customers who were sitting beneath direct sunlight facing the canal. A waiter, with a tray covered in more drinking options than she'd seen in most mini-fridges was tempting his table with the offerings, but also paused long enough to shoot the newcomers a curious
glance.

  Adele ignored it all, coming to a stop at the glass seating, her eyes narrowed as she looked around, scanning the location for anything of import. Of course, she doubted Fiorella and her secret lover were the only ones to have come here. But fingerprints weren't out of the question.

  Still, fingerprints would take far too long, especially attempting to sort through all of them. On top of it, the roommate seemed to think the secret admirer in question was a wealthy one. Which meant...

  Adele glanced back, towards the hostess.

  Wealthy and egalitarian? She hoped not in this case. Perhaps old-fashioned manners and chivalry would help them find the guy.

  She moved away from the translucent seating once more. “I'm going to need credit card information from that woman,” she said, tapping her phone, “and her date. Do you remember anything about him?”

  “He was much uglier than her,” said the hostess without batting an eyelid. Then, she blinked, a hand half moving towards her lips as if worried she'd said too much. Her eyes shifted to John apologetically and then back to Adele. “I—I mean... Well, she was quite pretty.” The hostess nodded towards the phone. “Which meant... And I don't know anything mind you, but it meant he was probably wealthy. Or some athlete. That's how it usually goes, isn't it?”

  Adele shrugged. “Do you have the credit card information or not?”

  “I... I one moment. Let me go speak with my manager.”

  The hostess held up another perfectly manicured finger on her opposite hand, and then turned sidelong, stepping away from the greeting stand and hurrying towards two swinging doors in the back of the glass restaurant. Adele considered following for a moment, but then decided to stay put.

  Where would the girl run to on a practically floating restaurant anyway?

  A few moments later, the girl returned, accompanied by a man wearing a scowl and a white chef's hat. The man was muttering beneath his breath, a pile of receipts clutched in his fingers as he approached.

  “This is my manager,” the girl said, quickly, extending a hand in the same way she'd done to display the tables. “He has what you need.” Then, just as quickly, and seemingly grateful to escape the focal point of attention, she moved back behind the podium like a soldier behind a bunker.

  The man in the chef's hat was puffing breath, his cheeks red from a hot kitchen. He glanced around the three agents and then pointed at Adele. “Law enforcement?” he asked. His English was much harsher and more grating than the hostess'. Adele decided sticking such a man in the kitchen was probably a wise move.

  “Yes,” she said, simply. “We're looking for credit card information from one of your customers.”

  Leoni pulled out his identification, flashing it towards the manager, who barely glanced at it. The man shrugged, muttering to himself and glancing at the roll of receipts he had in one thick fist. He began to methodically and quickly, with sharp movements, flick through them, grumbling as he did.

  He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Table three?” he said.

  Adele nodded.

  The manager chef continued sifting through the receipts. For a moment, he paused and asked something in Italian to the younger woman across by the doors.

  “At eight,” she called back. “Enrico was on shift,” she added.

  The manager sighed, pulled a long receipt from the pile, examining it like a banker checking a euro note. For a moment, as he paused his flurrying fingers, like a magician with a deck of cards, Adele was given a brief glimpse at the numbers on the bottom of the receipts. Her eyes bugged. One of the bills was for nearly a thousand euros. Another, as he flipped it over—she nearly gasped—was for more than five thousand.

  Suddenly, the beautiful view of the canal, and the restaurant's atmosphere felt a bit more jarring than when she'd first stepped off the gondola.

  The manager, at last, clicked his tongue, pulling out one of the shorter receipts from the pile. “Here,” he said, quickly. “Let me check, one moment.” He paused as he spoke, clearing his throat briefly and then stepping sideways until he was out of view, blocked by the hostess' silhouette from the other customers who were watching curiously. Loudly, he declared, “I'm afraid we can't provide client information!” He said it loud enough for the rest of the patrons to hear. Then, just as quickly, before Adele could even frown, he handed the receipt in question to Leoni and shrugged. “That's what we have.” He tapped a finger towards an order number at the bottom of the receipt and murmured something to the hostess.

  Quickly, she looked behind her stand and Adele listened to the soft clacking of keys, suggesting there was a registration computer back there. A second later, she nodded, turning the computer and the manager jerked his head towards it.

  “Information for payment, there. Please take what you need,” he said in a much quieter voice, “Then leave. Thank you.” Just as abruptly as he'd come, the man turned and left, swift of heel.

  Adele watched him go, frowning, but then noting a quiet gesture from Leoni, she joined both him and the hostess behind the stand. Leoni's finger pressed to a clean, wiped-down computer screen hidden behind the wooden stand.

  “There,” he murmured. “Card number and name.”

  Adele leaned in. “Paul Krupp,” she murmured, then glanced towards Leoni.

  He already had his phone out, though, and she could hear the quiet dial tone past his cheek. Everyone waited for a moment, standing in stray beams of sunlight reflected through the glass walls above. At last, Adele heard a faint voice on the other end, and Agent Leoni spoke quickly in Italian. She couldn't quite understand the words, but she gauged the pause followed by Leoni leaning in. The Italian nodded once to himself, waited a second as the voice on the other end spoke and then, he began to read the credit card number.

  Leoni said something again, and this time, Adele could easily make out the name. “Paul Krupp.”

  She faintly heard more murmuring on the other end. Leoni frowned, leaning back from the computer screen and, despite whatever he was hearing, he took a moment to nod in polite gratitude towards the hostess.

  The younger woman smiled at the acknowledgment from the handsome man, and cleared her throat delicately, watching Leoni's every movement. The Italian agent spoke a bit longer.

  Adele could feel her patience wearing as everyone waited, watching... At last, though, the Italian glanced towards her and made a wiggling motion with his fingers. In English, he murmured, lowering the phone briefly, “Number?”

  “What?” she said.

  “Your phone number?” he asked.

  Adele rattled it off and listened as the digits were translated into Italian. A few seconds passed and then, her phone vibrated a single time. She glanced down to find an attachment from an unknown caller.

  “Get it?” Leoni asked.

  Adele clicked the attachment and a file suddenly opened. It looked like a combination between a passport and a driver's license, with some additional information thrown in. She blinked, then nodded, reading the name at the top of the file. “Paul Krupp,” she murmured. “Forty-five years of age. German citizen. Yes—I got it.”

  Leoni thanked his contact then hung up, turning towards Adele.

  She was already scanning the document from the unknown number, frowning as she did. She felt all too aware now of the attention from the hostess and the other patrons. With a surreptitious nod, she moved back towards the glass door to the restaurant and out onto the dock. Leoni gave another murmur of gratitude to the hostess before following them back out into the breeze.

  The door was still swinging shut, the soft flutter of wind lifting her blonde bangs as Adele frowned, her eyes glued to the information in front of her. “Well then,” she muttered. “That's not a coincidence.”

  John seemed happy to be distracted by anything save the inevitability of another boat ride. “What?” he said, quickly.

  “His travel records,” she said, looking up. “He comes to Venice every year. During the festival.”

>   “We don't have records of any other kills from previous years,” John pointed out.

  “No... Not that, but also...” Adele trailed off, scrolling down the document towards bank records. “He's a major benefactor of the festival,” she said, frowning. “I have at least five deposits totaling nearly half a million euros over the last six years...”

  John frowned. “Deposits? To whom?”

  “Compagnia dei Cielo,” Adele said, looking up, her eyes wide. “Specifically, it seems, according to the transfer notes, in service of funding the masquerade ball.”

  Leoni crossed his arms next to John, and both men watched her closely. “The same ball all three of our victims were going to attend?”

  “The one and the same,” Adele replied, looking up now. “The first day of the ball is tonight,” she said. “He'll be there, no doubt.”

  “That ball is tonight?” John asked, frowning. “Why does that strike me as ominous?”

  Adele shook her head, lifting the phone again and then pausing. “Mr. Krupp also has records of staying at the same hotel, every time he's here.”

  “Where?” John and Leoni said simultaneously.

  “The Fauna Hotel,” she murmured, reading the bank statement again. “In fact... it looks like he's checked in there now for another three days... Think if we pay his room a visit he'll want to entertain guests?”

  John grunted. “I don't think he has a choice. He went on a date with one of our victims the night she died. He comes from money, knows the festival well...”

  “He's from Germany,” Leoni added. “And our second victim was German.”

  “And Lorraine was also dating a mystery man,” Adele murmured, nodding slowly. “Could have been the same guy...”

  “German millionaire turned serial killer?” John asked. “Think it’s likely? How come he's been visiting the festival for six years and only now started killing?”

  “We don't know that,” Adele murmured. “Maybe he hid his murders better before. Now... though... our killer is sending a message. The masks, the women all on the same guest list of the same masquerade ball—which he happens to be a benefactor of? That's a touch too coincidental for my taste.”