Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine)
Page 22
“We still have that rat-infested horror hole,” John said, nodding. “We could always stay there and take our chance with the lice.”
Adele smiled, then exhaled slowly. “I'm sure they'll have clean sheets.” She glanced back towards the body beneath the white cloth, shivered once, and then turned away, limping slowly from where her foot had crashed into the bathroom door back at Ricardo's. John sidled next to her, and her hand slowly slipped around his shoulders, using him for support as the two of them moved away from the crime scene, away from the corpse and back out into the city.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Adele heard John moving about the kitchen. She glanced over her shoulder from where she stood near the raincoat closet of her small French apartment. Back in Paris, now, the next afternoon, she was glad to be off the flight, glad to leave that horrible hotel behind them.
It was as awful as they'd been told. She scratched at her neck in annoyance, perhaps out of little more than concern, but part of her wondered if the promises of lice had been a bit more than accurate.
Still, she was glad to be back at her place.
And glad, somehow, that John was here too.
“Ready to go over that report?” he called from the kitchen.
“Yeah, one second!” she called back from where she stood by the closet, staring at the sealed door.
She shivered briefly, listening as her partner moved about the kitchen, heard the sound of a whisk as he began to stir the eggs he'd promised to make. A killer omelet, he'd said. She wasn't so sure. Especially after seeing him reach for the pickles in the back of the fridge.
She winced, but still felt a flush of gratitude, stepping past where both their suitcases rested by the front door.
The taxi drive to her place had given them an opportunity to split up, to separate. It had been John who'd asked if she wanted to spend the afternoon going over their report to Foucault.
John who'd asked, but Adele who'd said yes.
She didn't want to do work, but she also didn't want John to leave. A strange thought, perhaps. And yet she'd made up her mind. She'd give it a chance. Besides, free omelets were always a perk.
On top of it, while she'd rather get a nap, take a shower, or make sure she didn't have lice from that stupid hotel, she also found that simply having Renee around was worth the sacrifice of the creature comforts. At least for now.
The killer was out there. The man who'd been taunting her for nearly a decade. She wasn't about to give up the chase now. No, rather, instead of hiding, it was her turn to go on the offensive.
She was going to find him... She could feel it. She still needed to ask Foucault about that camera—to see if his contacts had any leads. One way or another, she'd seen his face. She knew what the killer looked like.
Where would he go next? Into hiding? Stay nearby in Paris, keeping an eye on her?
She shook her head, hearing John humming in the kitchen, listening to the sound of a saltshaker and, what she desperately hoped she was wrong about—the popping of a cap from a bottle of beer.
“John,” she called over her shoulder, one hand extended towards the raincoat closet. “You're not putting beer in the omelet, are you?”
A pause. “Umm. No?”
“That sounds like a question. What about pickles?”
“Adele, just trust me, okay?”
She sighed and wanted to retort. But she supposed a beer and pickle omelet was a small sacrifice to pay for having Renee over at the apartment. Only PG—she was determined. At least for now. But having him around made the difference.
The difference for what exactly?
Courage, she supposed. Courage enough to look at what Robert had left her. Did she want to know? She shivered, one hand resting against the handle to the closet.
But then, still listening to John behind her, strengthened by absolutely nothing more than the sheer sound of him, she slowly slid open the closet.
There, in the back, the brown parcel she'd received nearly a month ago. She'd left it, untouched, untended.
She'd intended to leave it there forever. But sometimes, things hidden in the closet were of little value unless exposed to the light.
She swallowed again, shaking her head slowly and then reaching out.
She pulled the package to her and carefully, meticulously, like unwrapping a Christmas present, peeled the tape away. She moved over to the sofa, sitting down and unwrapping the box, listening as John now whistled and then paused long enough to take a swig of something behind her.
She didn't roll her eyes as her gaze was now glued to the box on her lap. She opened the flaps, fingers—to her surprise—shaking from the motion. She swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat and then opened the box completely, staring inside.
She frowned, reaching in and pulling out a single manila folder.
On the front, was a small note which read. My love is yours forever, my dear. Trust your instincts.
She frowned. That was it. A simple, two line note on the front of the folder. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Robert had always been a sentimental sort. But then again, he also knew the truth of the saying: actions spoke louder than words.
And so, with hesitant, careful motions, she peeled open the manila folder, and froze.
Robert's actions were, indeed, far louder than any words.
She stared, her mouth open, at the multiple photos of a small man moving through sliding glass doors. A man she recognized.
She leaned in, staring, lifting the photos and shifting through them. She glanced at the back of the photo, reading a quick scribbled note. Agence D'enquête Privée.
Had Robert hired a private investigator?
She shivered, staring.
In one of the photos, the small man was staring at the camera, his eyes catching the light, one of them far brighter than the other, like a reflective piece of glass. He was small, frail standing against the steps as he did.
But also, he had hair. Thin, curling hair, and eyebrows too. This photo was taken before he must have shaved them, then.
“Robert, what did you stumble on?” Adele whispered softly, wondering now if her old mentor had touched a stove too hot to handle. Why hadn't he told her what he'd found?
She flipped another photo. The only other one with writing on the back. It read, “Suspect? Outside Adele's, watching. Followed. Thought you'd be interested where he went, Robert.”
The handwriting was cramped, blocky—not Robert's. The private investigator's?
She turned to the final photo and then went suddenly still.
The man was entering a building and now, the title of the structure was visible over his diminutive form. She stared, unblinking, trying to make sense of it.
A police precinct in Paris.
The man was entering the sliding doors, entering a police station...
She shivered, remember now back to the copycat killer who'd captured her father, more than a year ago now. She remembered how he'd taunted, whispered and hinted...
Something about the killer's connections had given him an advantage. Now, it all was starting to make sense.
Was her mother's killer a policeman?
Impossible...
But maybe...
She shivered, wide-eyed, staring at the photo and shaking her head.
“Adele?” a voice called from the kitchen. “Do you like mustard on your eggs?”
She swallowed, her throat dry, her fingers still all of a sudden. She flipped the photos over a second time, but then forced her eyes away, looking up and out the window, facing the city. She watched through the glass, eyes on the horizon, past Paris itself.
Slowly, she closed the lid to the box, tucking it gently against the armrest. Robert had hired a private investigator. His parting gift to Adele, helping her with the thing she cared most about. Robert always knew what to do.
She shivered, shaking her head side to side. He'd hired someone who'd followed the killer to a police station. W
hat did it mean? Had the small man been making a report? Was he on the force? Did he have friends there? It would explain so much if he had those connections.
She leaned back, resting her head against the top of the headrest, feeling a slow chill down her spine. Robert, even from the grave, was helping.
“Thank you,” she murmured at the ceiling, feeling tears suddenly in her eyes.
“I went ahead and added mustard!” John called. She heard the soft clink of plates against the kitchen table. The scrape of a chair. “Trust me,” her friend called, “these are to die for!”
Adele blinked, feeling a tear trickle down her cheek. She glanced towards the box on the couch, wanting to reach out, to rip it open, to stare at those photos and memorize every pixel. She wanted to go through each one with a fine-toothed comb...
Trust your instincts.
She would do that... All of it. She was more determined now than ever.
But, listening to John prattling behind her, listening to the clink of plates being set, she supposed it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to wait until after brunch. No, perhaps a little bit of patience would go a long way.
Besides, those pictures weren't going anywhere. They were hers. Not Foucault's, not the DGSI's. They were hers. The killer had made a mistake. She was closing in. He would feel the same icy shiver down his spine now. He didn't realize how close she was.
She reached up, wiping angrily at her face, wiping her tears away and then rising, sniffing once. With almost an air of disdain, she purposely looked away from the brown box with the pictures.
They could wait, at least for a moment.
Mustard, beer and pickled eggs were waiting. More importantly, though, the chef was waiting, watching her over his own plate, waiting politely for her to join before tucking in. She met his gaze where he was grinning across his breakfast creation, watching her approach with excitement.
One way or another, the killer was on his own. Alone, isolated. Adele didn't have to be. She had others to rely on, to count on. Others who would help. Others like Robert. Like John.
If she had to lie about some stupid eggs, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
Her smile was rather fixed as she approached, smelling the creations from the plate. But as she met John's own grin, his eyes flashing in delight and some mischievousness, she found her smile became a bit more eased.
“Thanks,” she said, quickly, looking determinedly away from the small brown box against the arm of the couch.
“Well?” John said, gesturing at the food. “Thoughts?”
She glanced down. “No pickles,” she said, suddenly, relieved. The omelet had cheese and onions and mushrooms. And in fact, smelled quite good. She looked up. “No mustard either.”
John winked, grinning. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Agent Sharp. So, about that report...”
She listened vaguely as he trailed off, running over the details of their case in Venice. John had been on particularly John-esque behavior over the last few days. This case seemed to have brought out some of his more furious tendencies. She thought back to their conversation in the old theater. He'd been about to tell her something... It had seemed important.
Now, though, there he sat, smiling, winking. Back to his good-natured self. She felt a chill along her arms accompanying a note of worry on John's behalf.
But perhaps now wasn't the time. No... She couldn't solve every case.
She watched him—a man in her apartment. He'd even made her breakfast. Without pickles.
The chill faded and she smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth through her chest.
The killer would have to wait. At least for a moment. After breakfast, though, she'd hunt him. And she wouldn't stop until he, too, was a lump beneath a white sheet.
***
“Would you like some juice? Oh—oh, so sorry, sir. I mean, what can I get you?”
The painter leaned back in the airplane seat, looking up at the stewardess from beneath his hat. He hated it when people mistook him for a child, but then again, it had often been his greatest weapon. He smiled sweetly, allowing his features to arrange like an artwork themselves.
“Water is fine,” he said, softly. “Merci. Say, how much longer is it until we arrive?”
The stewardess turned towards her cart, pouring the water into a glass with ice. He watched, frowning at the ice. It would hurt his teeth. He wasn't thirsty anyway, at least not for water.
He glanced towards the window of the plane, across the empty seats between him and the side of the plane. He'd purchased all three seats of course—he hated flying with others. Besides, a man from his means needed something to invest in.
And invested he was.
“Only another hour until Berlin,” the stewardess said pleasantly, placing the cup on the upright table.
The Painter nodded once, and leaned back, glancing out the window, allowing a small smile to curve his lips.
Germany—it had been a while.
He wondered what Adele's father was doing now. Soon, very soon, he wouldn't have to wonder at all. Very soon, neither would Adele.
The cat was out of the bag. She'd seen his face.
Now, like many of the great artists of old, he was on a timer—a contract was due, a masterpiece and commission waiting for completion, an excited audience on the edge of their seats waiting for the grand revelation.
Soon, very soon.
He continued to smile and reached into the small cup, removing the ice cubes, and placing them gently on the seat next to him. Sometimes, it was just nice to watch something melt. Then, he took the plastic cup and sipped softly, enjoying the view of the sunlight coming through the open window.
So very, very soon.
NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!
LEFT TO FEAR
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 10)
“When you think that life cannot get better, Blake Pierce comes up with another masterpiece of thriller and mystery! This book is full of twists and the end brings a surprising revelation. I strongly recommend this book to the permanent library of any reader that enjoys a very well written thriller.”
--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Almost Gone)
LEFT TO FEAR is book #10 in a new FBI thriller series featuring Adele Sharp (the series begins with LEFT TO DIE, book #1) by USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews.
As bodies turn up dead in ports around the Mediterranean, FBI Special Agent Adele Sharp—triple agent of the U.S., France and Germany—is the only one who can navigate the thorny jurisdiction issues between all the countries.
She is also the only one brilliant enough to enter the mind of this psychotic killer and hunt him down.
Why is he criss-crossing the Mediterranean? Why is he leaving a victim in each port? Is water his common theme? The vessels he uses? Or something else entirely?
Time is running out, and if Adele makes a wrong choice, the life of the next victim—or her own—may just depend on it.
An action-packed mystery series of international intrigue and riveting suspense, LEFT TO FEAR will leave you turning pages late into the night.
LEFT TO FEAR
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 10)
Did you know that I've written multiple novels in the mystery genre? If you haven't read all my series, click the image below to download a series starter!
Blake Pierce
Blake Pierce is the USA Today bestselling author of the RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes seventeen books. Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising fourteen books; of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising six books; of the KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising five books; of the MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE mystery series, comprising six books; of the KATE WISE mystery series, comprising seven books; of the CHLOE FINE psychological suspense mystery, comprising six books; of the JESSE HUNT psychological suspense thr
iller series, comprising nineteen books; of the AU PAIR psychological suspense thriller series, comprising three books; of the ZOE PRIME mystery series, comprising six books; of the ADELE SHARP mystery series, comprising thirteen books; of the EUROPEAN VOYAGE cozy mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the new LAURA FROST FBI suspense thriller, comprising three books (and counting); of the new ELLA DARK FBI suspense thriller, comprising six books (and counting); of the A YEAR IN EUROPE cozy mystery series, comprising nine books); of the AVA GOLD mystery series, comprising three books (and counting); and of the RACHEL GIFT mystery series, comprising three books (and counting).
ONCE GONE (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #1), BEFORE HE KILLS (A Mackenzie White Mystery—Book 1), CAUSE TO KILL (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1), A TRACE OF DEATH (A Keri Locke Mystery—Book 1), WATCHING (The Making of Riley Paige—Book 1), NEXT DOOR (A Chloe Fine Psychological Suspense Mystery—Book 1), THE PERFECT WIFE (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book One), IF SHE KNEW (A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 1), and MURDER (AND BAKLAVA) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 1) are each available as a free download on Amazon!
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
BOOKS BY BLAKE PIERCE
RACHEL GIFT MYSTERY SERIES
HER LAST WISH (Book #1)
HER LAST CHANCE (Book #2)
HER LAST HOPE (Book #3)
AVA GOLD MYSTERY SERIES
CITY OF PREY (Book #1)
CITY OF FEAR (Book #2)
CITY OF BONES (Book #3)
A YEAR IN EUROPE
A MURDER IN PARIS (Book #1)
DEATH IN FLORENCE (Book #2)