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

by Blake Pierce

  In English, Leoni said, “Ms. James' friends didn't mention anything about a lover here,” he said.

  Adele winced, but leaned back now, unfolding her arms, and placing her hands against her legs, holding them still. Briefly, she allowed her mind to trace back to their interview with the American woman's friends. They'd said Rebekah had a boyfriend back in the States—someone she loved. They seemed to have thought it impossible she'd cheat on anyone...

  But secret lovers weren't secret if everyone knew about them. Perhaps Rebekah's friends had been duped. Perhaps she'd also been seeing Paul Krupp behind closed doors.

  But there was no evidence of it.

  “When were they killed?” Krupp said suddenly, his eyes wide, his eyebrows high. “Yes, tell me, when?”

  Adele frowned. “Why?”

  “Because,” he said firmly, “I've been with each of my,” he coughed delicately, “acquaintances every night I've been here. We've gone to theaters to restaurants—we've been seen! There should be bills. Credit card statements,” he said suddenly, nodding fervently now. “Have you checked credit cards? Have you thought of that?”

  “Interesting idea,” Leoni said, hiding a smile from where he leaned.

  But Krupp seemed unwilling to let this thread go. He was nodding firmly now. “Yes,” he said, insistently. “Five days ago, when I first arrived, I was at a small production of Othello and then had drinks at a local place. The next day, I was...” He paused, but then looked at Adele directly in the eyes, “Making passionate love with Fiora in my hotel. We didn't leave for nearly six hours. You can ask room service.”

  “One order of room service doesn't prove anything,” Leoni said, quietly.

  The Italian seemed to realize the same thing as Adele. Six hours in a hotel room on Tuesday would mean that Krupp couldn't have been out and about, lurking Venice to kill Rebekah—the same woman he claimed to have no connection with.

  “It wasn't just one order, though,” Krupp said, delightedly. “Definitely wasn't.” He was wagging his head up and down now, as if excited. “We ordered every hour.”

  “Ordered what?” Adele said, allowing her distrust to seep into her tone.

  Krupp replied without batting an eye. “Chocolate, whipped cream and cherries. Every hour. The caterer will remember me—I promise that.”

  “Why?” Leoni asked.

  Krupp winked at the Italian like a couple of old pals sharing an inside joke. But Leoni didn't smile back. Krupp shrugged, though as if to say your loss, and said, “Because she was a round, but pleasant little thing. I asked her to join us.” He shrugged again. “She declined. But still, she'll remember me. Just ask her about the man...” he coughed again. “Covered in chocolate. She'll remember.”

  Adele shared a look with Leoni. “And this was Tuesday?” she asked, firmly.

  Krupp nodded, bobbing his head again, the relief practically emanating from him—he seemed to be able to read the disappointment in her tone. He was acting too confidently, too certain for this to be a bluff. What would be the point? They'd be able to check within the hour if he was lying.

  As if sensing he'd made his case, Krupp doubled down again, declaring, “I have pictures, too. Timestamped. But yes, it was Tuesday. All night. Is that when that poor woman died? The one I don't know? Because there is no way I could have killed her. I was with Fiora the entire time.”

  “Ms. Lettiere is dead,” Adele said, quietly.

  “I... Yes, I suppose she is. But still, the room service will remember me. Credit card bills—hotels keep those for room service. Yes, I was there—they'll remember.” He seemed a little more nervous now... But then nodded to himself, as if, it seemed, to convince himself more than Adele.

  She watched him closely, frowning as she did. He had the demeanor of a sleazeball, or a rat. But a rat fleeing a sinking ship. A rat who knew he hadn't stolen the cheese.

  She hated the possibility that he might be telling the truth. That his deviancy might be the very alibi that cleared his name. Rebekah James' friends hadn't mentioned anything about a secret lover—they seemed to have thought it extremely unlikely... Still, Adele wasn't ready to give-in just yet.

  She looked to Leoni and said, “I'll wait here with John. Do you mind checking with the room service? Six hours... If there's even a chance he's lying...”

  Leoni sighed but nodded. In English, he said, “I'll do that as long as you look through those photos.”

  Then, before she could protest, he moved towards the door with haste, as if fleeing a crime scene himself.

  Adele sighed, softly, glancing out into the hall as Leoni lifted, looking in the direction of the Sergeant who was safe-keeping Mr. Krupp's personal items, including his phone. A phone filled with horrific photos.

  Yet... if Mr. Krupp was telling the truth, then found somewhere in chocolate and whipped cream and depravity, she'd also find his alibi.

  Which meant they had the wrong man. The killer was still out there...

  She sighed, pushing slowly to her feet and tapping John on the shoulder to rise as well. She looked Krupp directly in the eyes and said, “I hope you're lying.” She didn't need to say it, but it felt good to do so. She turned on her heel, with John following close behind, watching as Leoni left the precinct out the front, and then moving towards the sergeant who had Mr. Krupp's phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  The final weekend of the festival had arrived, and with it the Compagnia dei Cielo masquerade ball would dawn in final culmination.

  He smiled to himself, considering what came next. He hummed softly in time with the music from the stage, his legs crossed over the top of the seat in front of him, his arms spread across the empty seats on either side of him.

  He watched the stage as the singers practiced for the ball itself. He'd strode in with a nametag and a stolen workman's hat. It was amazing how a little effort opened even the most sealed doors.

  He hummed along with the star's part, reciting it from heart.

  He watched a woman in a flowing gown cross the stage, her bare feet tapping against the wooden boards. He listened as a man replied in music to the harmonizing query. Question, answer, question, answer—every good musical composition had questions and then left the listener satisfied with an answer.

  And so what would the next question be?

  And who would provide the final answer?

  He smiled at the thought, his arms still spread behind him, his eyes still fixed on the stage. He continued to hum as he played the scene in his mind's eye, allowing the thoughts to spread, to expand with the music itself, to fill his imagination full and complete.

  Tonight was the culmination of the festival and the first day of the grand ball. And then, they would have their answer to the questions he'd posed up until now.

  The guest list had practically been given to him. Everyone involved in any way with the festival was able to get their hands on it.

  Sometimes, it felt like people were willing participants in his creations.

  Questions demanded attention.

  If he'd done everything right, it meant all eyes would now be on the ball.

  And then...

  He hummed a bit more, waving a finger beneath his nose lazily like a conductor.

  ...Then she would die. The final answer to it all.

  They were all the same after all...

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Adele stood outside the interrogation room nearly two hours later, wishing she could scrub soap across her eyes, but also staring in frustration towards where Leoni was nodding, and repeating his findings. “I'm sorry,” he said, softly, in response to her disbelieving look. “But it's true. Two separate staff at that hotel recognized Mr. Krupp. One of them filed a harassment complaint which the hotel has promised to look into. It isn't him, Adele. He was at the hotel during the time of the first murder.”

  Adele practically collapsed against the sealed interrogation room door, refusing to glance back and hoping desperately Krupp
couldn't hear them from within. She'd let him stew in it a moment longer. A man like that...

  She shivered, shaking her head.

  Sometimes, it was hard to remember it wasn't her job to right every wrong in the world. She couldn't possibly do that. A small, vindictive part of her wanted to at least let Mr. Krupp's wife know, back in Berlin what her husband was up to in Venice.

  But again, it wasn't her place. Not to mention, the lawsuits she'd open herself up to would likely permanently crease the Executive's brow in a frown as deep as they came.

  No... No Krupp was a bad memory.

  She winced, picturing the photos and the time stamps on his phone. Far too much chocolate and whipped cream, for her liking. But at least, mercifully, it had disguised some of the actions in the pictures themselves.

  Worse, though, if such a thing were possible—the timestamps corroborated what Leoni was now telling her. And what Krupp had said.

  Not guilty.

  He couldn't have done it. He had slept with two of the victims—he'd admitted as much. But he couldn't have been there to kill Rebekah James.

  “Maybe he has a partner,” Adele said, hearing how desperate her words sounded even as she spoke them.

  John was standing by Leoni, his gaze flicking towards Adele and staying on her. Over the last hour, she'd filled him in on the translation of Krupp's words. To her surprise, he seemed less angry than he had before. John was unpredictable in these things. It almost seemed to excite him to think the killer was still out there, where John could get at him. Rather than safe behind bars in a police station.

  She shivered. Hopefully he wasn't feeling too trigger happy, one way or another.

  “So what now?” Renee said, crossing his large, muscled arms. “It's not that sleazeball, so who is it?”

  Adele shared a look with Leoni, as if in that final glance, he might change his words and provide some brief glimmer of hope that the German millionaire was the actual killer. But Leoni just shrugged, wincing and shaking his head apologetically.

  Adele pushed away from the interrogation room, door, stalking—more than walking—towards the twin doors at the end of the hall which led out into the afternoon.

  “Tonight's the culmination of the main portion of the festival,” Adele said, softly. “The first week ends, and with it, most of the festivities.”

  “The ball too,” Leoni added, walking briskly to keep pace as they moved together towards the doors.

  “Yes, the ball too. Clearly, the killer is pointing towards the ball. Whoever it is—he's careful, not stupid. He knows he's guiding us towards the masquerade ball. The Compagnia dei Cielo are well known enough,” Adele said, quickly, “He'd know the kills would attract attention. All three were on their guest list.”

  Leoni paused, holding out a gentle hand, his fingers grazing her arm but causing her to turn, looking him in the eye.

  “Maybe he wanted us to release that to the press,” Leoni said, quirking an eyebrow. “Maybe it was part of his plan. Perhaps he's frustrated we sat on that.”

  Adele shook her head. “The media still doesn't know the identities of the victims. Foucault wants to keep it that way. I don't see how informing the public will help anything.”

  Leoni frowned. “Not informing. Warning. If the killer is targeting that guest list—then others will be in danger too.”

  “This masquerade ball...” Adele murmured, “How big is it, exactly? Ticket sales are in the hundreds. But the night of?”

  “At least a few hundred,” Leoni said, without hesitating. “It's one of the more lucrative and most exclusive balls in the city during the end of the first week. It's the culmination, the climax of the festival itself.”

  “Well... You're right,” Adele said, turning back to face the doors and reaching out a hand. She paused, though, her fingers against the metal L, her eyes peering through the glass, but her posture frozen for a moment as she considered. “It would be a warning... The killer is going to strike at this ball next. It seems obvious—everything has been leading up to this. He wants us to know where he'll kill next.”

  “So what do we do?” John chimed in, again, an eager edge to his tone—it seemed—at the thought of getting another shot at the real killer.

  Adele kept her gaze through the doorway, her mind spinning, thinking, placing pieces together. “Everyone will be in masks, dancing... There will be noise and music and revelry...” She trailed off.

  “We won't be able to find him in all that,” Leoni murmured. “We'll have no way. He might kill someone in front of our eyes without us being able to stop him. The masks alone will make it impossible to narrow down potential suspects.”

  Adele nodded once and then pushed the precinct door open, stepping out into the street. Leoni was right. The killer was planning for this. He'd practically laid a trail of breadcrumbs to the doorstep of whatever he planned next.

  But... They would only lose if they agreed to play the killer's game. She couldn't allow that to happen. No. The masquerade ball was the target, the disguise and the means and opportunity all rolled in one. Someone's life was forfeit if they allowed it to proceed.

  Which meant one thing. They would have to stop the ball. They had to shut it down completely.

  ***

  It was nearing evening by the time they managed to reach the Compagnia dei Cielo offices for a second time. The car ride, parking, then the brisk ten-minute walk, led by an eager John Renee, brought them back to the old, wretched office space. Now that Adele knew how ornate and pristine the structure was on the inside, she wondered if perhaps the external dilapidation in contrast was some sort of artistic statement.

  She had never much understood the theater sorts.

  Now, Harmony—or Ms. Herrera—was waiting outside the door to the office space, flanked by two new lackeys Adele didn't recognize. Both of them had pristine physiques but wore brightly colored Venetian masks covering their faces.

  “Well?” Harmony called out across the street. She was, to Adele's surprise, no longer wearing her ridiculous snowflake and icicle dress, but now was clad in flowing, black gown with pieces of stained-glass, it seemed-sewn into the fabric itself. She no longer had hair, suggesting, Adele thought, it had been a wig earlier, but now was completely bald save a single patch of hair buzzed in the shape of a swirling circle with reds and blues dyed through the odd symbol.

  Adele met Harmony's scowling gaze. “Ms. Herrera,” she said.

  “Harmony!” The woman snapped.

  “Yes, Harmony. Director,” she added, clearing her throat and coming to a stop in front of the woman. “I need a moment of your time.”

  Ms. Herrera shook her head fiercely, though, causing two matching stained glass fragment earrings to swish. She gestured from side to side towards both of her escorts. One of them had his arm hooked through hers, the other was waiting, his elbow crooked, it seemed, to do the same on the other side.

  “I'm quite busy,” Ms. Herrera said, testily. “I'm sure you don't know, but the ball—my ball—is about to start. And while fashionably late is always my mode of introduction, I have to be going. So if you don't mind... On the phone you said it was urgent. Well?”

  “We've had three dead now,” Adele said, stiffly. “Three,” she added with emphasis. “The killer is targeting your ball.”

  Ms. Herrera sniffed, shaking her head and causing the stained-glass fragments of her dress to reflect the dipping sunlight.

  “The ball starts in an hour,” Harmony said, firmly. “There's nothing we can do. I'm sorry to hear about these women. But most people of import are going to be at the Masque Cielo. I'm sure it's a coincidence.”

  Adele shook her head. “I'm afraid not,” she said. “We think,” she glanced towards Leoni if only to strengthen her case with corroboration before returning attention to Ms. Herrera, “that the killer is targeting your guest list. Young women—beautiful, successful... He's going to continue, Ms. Her—” she caught herself, coughed and said, “Harmony. He's goin
g to continue.”

  The woman wrinkled her nose, a gesture that did not suit her perfectly applied makeup. “It sounds like you're describing your job to me. And it sounds like you're doing poorly at it. I still don't see why you called ahead to leash me like some hound.”

  “We didn't leash you,” Leoni interjected. “I called as a courtesy. But while it is our job to find this murderer, we need your help.”

  “Oh? What do you want?” Harmony seemed more willing to hear the words coming from Leoni.

  Adele, though, said, flatly, “Cancel the ball, call it off. Postpone it. Whatever you need to, until we can find who’s behind these murders.”

  At this, Harmony actually snorted laughter. She shook her head side to side, bending over and snorting again. She glanced open, her eyes practically shimmering with tears from mirth. “You're—cancel? Good one.” She said, scathingly. She laughed again, this time clearly forcing the sound, a harsh, grating guffaw. “Is that all?” she asked, firmly. “Hmm?”

  “I'm serious,” Adele countered. “Your guests are in danger.”

  “Is that what you think?” Herrera snapped. She now had both her arms looped through the arms of her escorts on either side, her neck straightened, her multi-hued earrings swishing. “I'll have you know, half of the higher-ups in most law enforcement will be at the ball. I personally invited them. Understand?” She said, firmly. “We have private security. The guests are near drunk by now, no doubt. Can you imagine canceling? We'll have a drunken riot in the streets. No, Agent Sharp, I'm afraid I will not be canceling anything without a direct judge's order. And as it happens, there will be three judges at the event. Maybe you can ask one there.”

  Adele stared, feeling her frustration mounting. She glanced at Leoni who shrugged. “Without a judge's order,” he murmured, softly, “We can't bend her arm.”

  Adele looked back at Harmony. “If you go through with this, someone's going to die.”