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

by Blake Pierce

  Still speaking moving back and forth, translating herself between Italian and English, likely for the sake of any tourists in the crowd, she moved towards the platters of food, along with the majority of the gawkers and onlookers.

  Adele, for her part, shook the shoulder of the small assailant. "You attacked her because she fired you?" The man just stared at her, sullen and frustrated. He muttered something in Italian, and Adele turned sharply towards Agent Leoni. "Can you keep an eye on him," she said, quickly.

  The small man's hands were already behind his back, and there was a sound of a click as Renée cuffed him.

  Adele was already glancing around the crowd, some of the faces still turned towards them, the others attracted by the promise of food. She couldn't see the young woman she spotted earlier.

  "Where is she?" Adele said, softly to herself. "Where is she?" she repeated a bit louder this time.

  "Who are you looking for?" John said, leaning in.

  "A girl. A young woman. Looked like the sort of person our killer might target.”

  John frowned, glancing around, and trying to follow Adele's sweeping gaze. "Do you think he got her in the confusion?"

  Adele hesitated, and then pointed. "There, see, by the drinks. I think that's her."

  She moved in that direction, but then paused. The young woman looked safe enough. If indeed it was the same blonde-haired beauty from before. Still, there were no other crowds, no onlookers, no cries of further violence. The room was settling once more back into a swing—the music, the spectacle glossing over the random act of violence. Agent Leoni still had a hold of the suspect.

  "Can you keep him," Adele said. "Get him somewhere quiet, question him."

  Leoni dipped his head.

  "And John," she said, turning towards the large Frenchmen. "See that girl over there, can you keep an eye on her?"

  Renee frowned. "What are you going to do?"

  Adele's mind was racing as she stood by the front of the stage, glancing after Harmony, whose tall form still stood proud amidst the gathered audience.

  Three murders. All of them on the guest list for this particular ball.

  And yet something didn't sit right. Where was the killer? Not this small, drunk man, surely. There never would have been a better distraction than this sudden attack. And yet as far she could tell, the killer was still in hiding. Which meant what, exactly?

  Was he even coming?

  For a moment, frozen in place between the two agents, she closed her eyes, thinking. Her fingers trailed absently towards the mask, touching the cold, smooth surface.

  And then she froze. Her mouth opened, just a bit.

  She frowned, thinking back to the mask maker. Thinking of that sales pitch the first time she had visited his story.

  "Seventeenth-century masks," she murmured, softly.

  "Excuse me?" Leoni said.

  Adele glanced at the man where he stood, seeming awkward without a mask of his own surrounded in a sea of covered faces. She looked around and closed her eyes again, thinking. "Those masks. The ones the victims had. Angelo, the mask maker, said they were seventeenth-century French aristocracy."

  "Yes?" Leoni said, phrasing the word as a question.

  Adele felt a shiver along her spine. "What if we're at the wrong ball?"

  Neither of her partners blinked. She could feel her own mind racing, thinking desperately. Maybe it hadn't been a trail of breadcrumbs at all? Maybe the bodies from the guest list of this ball had been exactly intended to damage the ball. Maybe, even, the killer had hoped it would close the ball. She had been close to doing that very thing hadn't she? If Harmony had been more cooperative, they would've postponed the ball entirely.

  What if that's what the killer had been anticipating?

  Seventeenth-century French aristocracy.

  All three of the masks had been similar. The ones around them were more ornate, some of them translucent, some of them with entire head coverings. Many of them beautiful, but all quite different. The masks on the victims, though, had all followed a similar pattern. Coloring was different, yes, and some etchings were strange, but in general, according to the mask maker, they were all from the same time period.

  "What do you mean?" Agent Leoni said. "A different ball?"

  "What if he was trying to shut down this one? Or, what if he was just trying to throw us off the scent?" Adele could hear her heartbeat pounding now. "What if this was a ruse? He's not here," she said this last part breathlessly. "I don't think he's here."

  Now, she turned towards the small man in Leoni's grasp; she gripped him by the lapel, looking him square in the face. "Marlowe," she said, firmly, "you're in trouble. Did someone set you up to do it?"

  The man blinked, his features still reddish. "She fired me," he said, softly.

  "Did someone put you up to attacking her?" Adele said, firmly.

  The man just shrugged, glancing off. In Adele's mind she wondered how much it would've taken for someone to coerce an unhinged, fired actor to assault his perceived source of grievance. Had someone maybe slipped him some money? Riled him up over beers at the bar? Maybe she was overthinking it.

  "You're familiar with the area," she said, shaking his suit and causing his frame to rattle. "Seventeenth-century French aristocracy. Any other balls that follow that?”

  The man winced, shrugging once, but then pausing. "I didn't mean to hit her."

  Adele held her tongue. "Are there any other parties like that?" she insisted.

  The native Venetian shrugged again, but then glumly said, "There are all sorts of balls. But yes, there's one old, stodgy sort. It's not nearly as popular as this one. I wouldn't act for them even if they paid me."

  "There is one? Where?" Adele said, firmly.

  The wounded actor glanced off to the side, and after a muttered encouragement from Agent Leoni, he looked up, and said, "They're hosted out of Ricardo's. It's a restaurant—"

  But Adele was already turning, moving. "John, just keep an eye on that girl. Leoni, the suspect is yours."

  Both of them called after her in perfect synchronization. "Where are you going?"

  In answer, though, Adele stalked away, ripping the stupid mask off her face, and tossing it onto one of the tables, where it clanged against a silver platter. "Following a hunch," she called over her shoulder. She picked up pace, grateful again she hadn't worn high heels, hefting her purse, and keeping it close to hand in case she needed the firearm kept within.

  What if the killer had been playing them all along? What if he wasn't at this ball at all. The masks. The masks were the clue. They had to be. Which meant she was already running late. For all she knew, the killer had already claimed his prize.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  He watched her across the room. The restaurant on the water had often served as the space for the Seventeenth century styled masquerade—Danza dell'aristocrazia.

  . They weren't as flashy as some of the other parties during the final week of the festival, nor were they as populated.

  Something like sixty people meandered through the room, all of them dressed appropriately for the time period, powdered wigs, and big hooped dresses for the ladies with neckerchiefs and long sleeves for the men.

  As for himself, as he moved slowly, walking along the glass wall which faced the canal, he adjusted his suit. His barrel chest protruded against a tight, silver-buttoned jacket.

  He wore a simple mask, pale and ghostly, again appropriate to the time period.

  Behind him, he could hear stringed instruments coming from Ricardo's small performer stage. He could smell the food, wafting on the air from the direction of the kitchens. He allowed himself a small, contented smile, all the while staring through the glass at the small boat which had just arrived, docked near one of the mooring posts. A woman stepped out, followed closely by an older man and woman.

  Her parents had come with her.

  He stared through his mask, his face beneath becoming rather fixed as well. Wh
y had she brought her parents? They didn't need to see what came next.

  He shivered, shaking his head and glancing off through the glass.

  He turned, nodding politely at a group of guests crowded around one of the small tables, with the swishing blue waters visible through the translucent floor.

  He moved until he was on the far side of the room, his arms crossed over his barrel chest, his eyes hooded.

  She hadn't known he would be here. Of course, if she had, she never would've come. But the invitations had worked, as he knew they would. The invitations for a month, dropped off, not by the postal workers, not even by an event organizer. Hand-delivered, personally, assuring just this moment.

  So what if she had brought her parents? Like a little girl, a child, needing the hand holding. So what?

  He would continue with the plan anyway. She deserved what happened next.

  And so, he lay in wait, watching, moving with the flow of the gathered guests. It felt like being a bottle on waves, swishing back and forth, but through his mask, his eyes fixed on her. He gestured towards one of the waiters, and the man approached, quirking a quizzical eyebrow behind a thin mask.

  "Her drinks," said the man, "make sure they're filled. Sherry," he added. "She likes sherry, and..." he added, catching the waiter's arms and holding him tight. The man frowned, his wrist going rigid. "Don't tell her it's from me, just keep them coming.”

  The waiter looked hesitant for a moment, but then the large man slid a €50 note into his pocket and patted him on the chest.

  The money seemed to assuage any sense of hesitation, and the waiter nodded happily, turning on his heel to fulfill the request.

  Now it was a waiting game. He wasn't the sort to accost someone out in the open, no. He preferred to approach when they least expected him.

  His teeth gnashed behind his mask. He was the composer, and this was the composition. All of them were the same after all... The whores. Rotten to the core. Every single one. The way they had bled out beneath his fingers, only a practice for this true culmination.

  Hadn't she been the one who'd started it? Hadn't she been the one who sealed their fates?

  He glared towards where she was laughing at the table, accepting the brought drink without question, and already taking a sip. He'd spent enough time with her, watching her, even talking with her, that he knew her habits. In fact, they'd gone on a date once before, nearly two months ago.

  She shouldn't have treated him like that. Shouldn't have laughed at him. He had thought it was a date. But she had said she thought it was an interview.

  He wanted to smash his fist against the wall, but instead remained with his arms crossed, watching as the glass was emptied and another was brought out.

  The girl and her parents were settling at a table, next to some people they seemed to recognize despite the ensembles.

  "Come here my love," he said softly. "Come on." He spoke with the gentle, coaxing tones of a master wrangling a hound. "Come here," he said, now through gritted teeth, his voice muffled by the mask. Freedom be damned, witnesses too. Some things were more important than self-preservation. Self-respect for one. But more than that... sending a message. Besides, no one would suspect him. They'd already missed it three times. Just one last one—one more time. That's all he needed.

  The second glass wasn't emptied nearly as quickly, but it had the effect he'd known it would. She had never been one to hold her drinks. And now, he watched as she excused herself from the table with her parents, her perfect blonde hair swishing above the mask. Even from here, the sloped angle of her cheekbones was obvious. She had always been gorgeous. Gorgeous and cruel.

  He waited, watching as she approached, passing by him towards the powder room. She didn't even recognize him.

  This back portion of the restaurant was the only part not covered in windows. The darker concrete allowed for the privacy of the guests. The walls were painted green with a crimson stripe and had tasteful portraits of Venetian scenery lining the corridor that led to the bathrooms. Two candles spluttered in brackets, exuding the faint aroma of apples.

  He waited until he heard the footsteps pause, and then he turned around the corner as well, stalking towards where her small form stood.

  She was glancing from side to side, navigating the restrictions in her peripheral vision due to her own mask. She wore a flowing teal dress that spilled all the way to the ground and long pale gloves. She looked positively... scrumptious.

  She finally seemed to decide which of the doors was to the lady's powder room, and she pushed in; as the door began to swing shut behind her, the man stuck out a hand, catching it.

  She didn't ask, didn't react. Suggesting again, she hadn't seen him.

  He slipped quietly in behind her, where she approached the sink, and glanced in the mirror, reaching up and slowly removing her mask to reveal her young, eye-catching features.

  He stared from the side, catching the smooth angle of her jawline, the perfect counters of her nose and cheeks, and the composition of her facial structure, allowing her long eyelashes to flutter in the mirror. She seemed a moving sculpture like from some museum.

  He could feel his stomach twisting as he stared at her, allowing the door behind him to ease shut completely now, without a sound. He reached back with his fingers and twisted the lock on the door. It clicked quietly.

  For a moment, he stood there, watching her, his head slightly tilted, so he could stare at her through the gaps in his mask—he could hear his own labored breaths now echoing in the still, quiet space.

  “Hello, Mona,” he murmured quietly.

  The young woman in front of the mirror yelped, dropping her mask and whirling around. Her foot stamped into the mask where it had fallen as she tried to reorient.

  She stared at the man in the powder room with her, the blood fleeing her cheeks all of a sudden. She stammered a couple of times, staring at his outfit, staring at the golden name tag on his lapel, clearly confused.

  He took two quick steps towards her now but didn't reach out to touch—not yet. He towered over her, his shadow swallowing her like some whale at night.

  Beneath the glow of the fluorescent lights above, her long eyelashes fluttered, and her porcelain features scrunched in a frown, her smooth brow just furrowing as she tried to make sense. Her eyes glanced towards his golden name tag, designed to trust someone with such a simple apparatus.

  Then again, he was involved with this ball. A master of ceremony, in fact, hired two years ago. Long before he'd met Mona. Long before she'd cursed him with an askance glance and a tilted smile of those full lips.

  He realized he was still breathing heavily.

  “I—I, am I in the wrong room?” she stammered, shaking her head and glancing over his shoulder. Of course, she didn't know the door was locked, not yet.

  This was always the most delicious part. The way the mind churned in search of some hope, some unlikely release from the reality of the situation.

  He smiled behind his mask, enjoying every moment.

  “Not laughing now, are you?” he said. “Are you Mona?”

  Her eyes widened and she took a hesitant step back, her blue dress dragging over the crushed mask on the ground. She reached out a steadying hand against the cold sink, blinking and hesitantly shaking her head.

  “I'm sorry, do I know you? This is the woman's room—I think. Are you in the wrong room?” her eyes glanced towards his name tag again. But some of the trust and confusion was now leaving her cheeks along with the blood. Pale and scared.

  Just how he liked them. All of them. They were all the same.

  “No more laughter, hmm?” he said, repeating the phrase he'd rehearsed so many times leading up to this moment.

  “I don't understand,” she said, her voice trembling. He was so close now, and she began to inhale slowly, sucking air as if preparing to scream, just in case. She was still uncertain of the danger she was in. So stupid—all of them were. Their stupid, pretty faces. Pri
ncesses protected by daddy and money. Protected by a world fawning over symmetrical flesh and bone. Nothing besides a gift from birth. And yet they flaunted it like it made them special. Not effort, not work, not character—no, stupid beauty and youth. Nothing they'd earned at all.

  He felt his hand clenching at his side, his teeth gritting. The pompousness of it all. Little more than a spoiled brat driving around a BMW their daddy bought for them, thinking somehow it made them special. But no—pure genetics. Pure luck.

  So why had she ensnared him so? Why did she turn so many heads? A sculpted face, like some artistic declaration from existence itself. A masterpiece of art slipped into by sheer chance... Just like those masks he'd left behind. Of course, everyone would be too stupid to realize the origin of those masks. His masquerade ball was nothing to most Venetians. Nothing to the beautiful things in the city.

  Well, he'd shown them. He'd claimed them as unwitting participants in his own ball.

  In the same way he was about to do with Mona.

  Yes. When it all ended, even their ghosts would dance to his tune, subject to his masquerade. The ultimate underdog story, starring him against the fashionistas, the theater types, against expectation, pomp and ceremony. His hands had claimed their lives for himself. The masks had claimed their beauty, hiding them in anonymity. Anonymity under his authority, under his masquerade ball. Besides... He smiled. They weren't laughing now.

  “You... shouldn't... have laughed,” He said, breathing heavily now, panting like a dog with a bone between his teeth.

  He reached up, lowering his own mask and staring at her now. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror. He had never considered himself an ugly man. The surgical scar above his lip from where his cleft pallet had been worked on still displayed beneath an attempt at a mustache. His eyes were perhaps a bit deeper than he would have liked—perpetually giving him a look of tiredness. His cheeks—well, he stored fat in his face. Nothing he could do about that.