Left To Run (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Two)

by Blake Pierce

  Two agents were standing outside the door in the hall—they’d come with the executive. One of them, a woman with short hair, raised her eyebrows at Adele.

  “Productive?” she asked, nodding at the interrogation door.

  Adele flashed a clenched smile. “Very.” Then she turned and hurried up the hall. Adele made her way down to the first floor and past the front desk, nodding at the clerk. The agent behind the desk returned the nod. She moved toward the hall where they kept the holding cells.

  In the holding cells, unlike the interrogation rooms, there was no audio, but there would still be cameras. She approached a row of bars set in the wall and flashed her credentials to the man behind the desk. The desk sat in a bulletproof, sealed glass room, and the man reclined in a small chair, reading a comic. He glanced up, then lowered his head, peering through the thin slit in the bulletproof glass. “Yes?” he asked.

  She pointed toward the metal door. “Have to talk with the doctor.”

  The attendant nodded once, glanced at her Interpol credentials—paused for a moment, frowning.

  “Foucault’s in an interrogation,” Adele said. “He’s fine with it.”

  The attendant considered this for a moment and then pushed the button. There was a buzzing sound, and the attendant held up a hand. “No firearm,” he said.

  Adele unclipped her holster and slid it in the slot beneath the bulletproof glass. The attendant took the weapon and placed it on the counter, jostling it up against a wooden box filled with folders. He nodded toward the door, then returned his attention to his comic.

  Adele entered through the metal door and continued down a hall framed by rows of barred cells. The DGSI didn’t keep many people in custody for long. All the cells were empty except for the one at the far end of the hall on the left.

  She heard a buzz and a click, and turned back to see a green light had turned red above the door she’d entered; she watched as it slammed shut. For a moment, she stood at the end of the hall and glanced toward the glinting lenses of the cameras above.

  She heard a voice murmuring ahead of her from the cell at the far end. Foucault had instructed them that he wanted to be present for all interrogations, but this, she determined, would only hold them back. Especially with the German doctor.

  “Hello,” said a voice in heavily accented French, “please, this is all a misunderstanding. I was just a volunteer. Please.”

  Adele move forward and then came to a stop directly in front of the cell.

  Whoever had placed the German had been kind enough to give him the only cell with a window. The window was high in the ceiling and sealed with bulletproof glass, but it still allowed a beam of sunlight into the dark hallway, illuminating the cell and mingling with the fluorescent light.

  “You,” the man said suddenly, switching to German. “Please,” he said, “it was all a misunderstanding. Just one big—”

  Adele held up a hand, rubbing at her palm. She thought of John’s injury—the scalpel he’d caught protecting her.

  “Look,” she said, softly, “I’m not going to lie to you. It’s not good.” She watched the German. Now, without his scrubs or operating mask, he just looked like a man. He had gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, but was in impressively good shape for his age. Perhaps he was a runner. Adele shook her head. “You’re in France now. Germany can’t help you. You broke the law—you were about to murder a man.”

  The German doctor began wagging his head wildly. He had a thin, trembling jawline—his chin like that of a woman. A large, pronounced nose protruded above pressed lips. Stubble had sprouted along his lip, but Adele judged, by the look of it, that he preferred to keep it shaved.

  “Please” the German said, “there has to be something you can do. You’re German? BKA?”

  Adele shook her head. “I work with Interpol. And others.” She leaned back, pressing her shoulder blades against the metal bars of the empty cell behind her. “I want to help you. Don’t believe me? What if I told you that if you admit to anything, somewhere else, it can be used against you. In here, there’s no audio. There is a camera over there,” she said, pointing, “but whatever you say isn’t being recorded.”

  The German doctor snorted, but tried to cover it in a cough.

  She frowned. “Let me give it to you straight. Your only shot of getting out of this without a life sentence is me. I don’t like you. I think you’re a vile human being. But I also know a greedy man when I see one. You did this for money, yes?”

  The German doctor studied her. Adele had to remind herself this wasn’t a stupid man. He was greedy, evil, perhaps. But not stupid. He stared at her, still frowning.

  She shifted. “I told you, you’re not being recorded. Look, let’s do this; I’m going to ask you a question. Say the French word for apple for yes and the French word for tomato if your answer is no. There’s no way even if you’re being recorded that a court would accept the words for produce in a foreign language as an admission of guilt.”

  The man looked bemused now, watching Adele as if he weren’t sure if she were joking.

  She tried to remain patient. “I need you to talk. I’m looking for information, not a confession, understand? If you answer my questions and put me on the track to find the person I’m looking for, then I’ll make sure you get a deal.”

  It twisted her insides to say it, but Adele meant it. If someone like Francis could get a deal, she had little doubt the French authorities would put up much of a fuss in providing a similar one for a German. There was no need for an international incident here. Sometimes the job had unsavory components to it, but as far as Adele could tell, the only way they could make sure they got the information they needed was to give the man something in return.

  He had been in that warehouse for the money, the same as the Serbians, but he didn’t have the spine the gangster did.

  “I’ll make a deal,” Adele pressed, “and I’ll speak to the executive. I’m with Interpol,” she said, flashing her credentials through the bars. “I have connections with the BKA too. If you’d like, I’ll talk with them. None of this is a confession. You just need to tell me yes or no. Apple or tomato. Understand?”

  Silence fell. The German doctor gnawed on the corner of his lip, and then glanced up the hall towards the cameras. He held a hand up to his mouth, and in as quiet a voice as he could muster, he said, “Pomme.”

  Adele tried to hide her relief. She stared unblinking through the bars. “Look, I’m tracking a killer. Someone who deals in harvesting kidneys. I need to know what you were going to do with that man’s organs.”

  The German doctor frowned at her and didn’t say anything.

  Adele closed her eyes, focusing, then said, “Did you have someplace you were going to take the organs?”

  “Pomme,” he said, holding a hand over his mouth to shield it from view.

  This time it was Adele’s turn to glance toward the cameras; she turned her back fully to them now, her neck prickling as if from a sudden chill.

  “Do you know anything about the murders of three girls from America?”

  The doctor scowled and shook his head rapidly from side to side. “Tomate.”

  Adele stared at him, considering his response. He had seemed intent on keeping the homeless victim alive back at the warehouse. The doctor, as far as she could tell, was a coward. He didn’t seem the sort to break into someone’s apartment, kill them, and steal a kidney all on his own. At the warehouse, he’d had privacy, protection, and assistance. No, she decided, the killer she was looking for was too brash. It was one thing to prey on the homeless, where no one would see them missing. But quite another thing to hunt Americans in their apartments, attracting all sorts of media attention. She asked, “Where were you last week?”

  The doctor’s eyes widened, but then he quickly said, “Home. Germany. Check my travels. I don’t know anything about killings!”

  “Have you killed anyone else?” Adele said, slowly.

  The doctor immed
iately shook his head again. “Tomate,” he insisted, a desperate look in his eyes. He stared at her through the bars. “Please, please, I’ve never. I’ve never. I was a volunteer. A volunteer,” he whispered.

  Adele studied him. The man was greedy, not stupid. Then again, how smart could someone be who got tangled up with Serbian mob? “All right, tell me everything.”

  The doctor frowned. “Tomate,” he said.

  Adele leaned in, pressing her face against the bars and glaring at the man. “I told you, nothing is recording.”

  The man just shrugged, his eyes wide like an animal in headlights. Panic emanated from every gesture.

  Adele tried to steady her temper. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “Were you going to take the organs to a hospital in France?”

  The man shook his head and then quickly stopped the motion, holding a hand to his mouth before whispering, “Tomate.”

  Adele’s eyes narrowed. “Not Paris?”

  The man kept his head very still this time. “Tomate.”

  She tried not to think how ridiculous this might look to anyone on the outside looking in. Instead, she pressed further. “Fine, if not here, then where?”

  The man frowned again and said nothing. Adele breathed heavily, half wishing she had John here to beat the truth out of him. “Germany?”

  The doctor fidgeted uncomfortably. “Pomme.”

  Adele felt a flash of excitement. “You are working with the Serbians, for money. The organs would be harvested here, then taken to Germany? Where? A lab, a hospital?”

  “Tomate.”

  Adele set her teeth. “How many people are in on this?”

  The doctor stared at her.

  “A hundred?”

  The doctor continued to stare.

  “More than a hundred?” she said.

  “Pomme,” the doctor said, and then gave a slight shrug. “Even medical students need money,” he said, quietly. He glanced toward the cameras again and shifted.

  Clearly he didn’t trust her. Adele leaned in. “What do you mean? There are other doctors in France doing this?”

  “I didn’t say that,” the doctor said, loudly now, glancing toward the cameras. He lowered his voice again. “What sort of deal are we talking about? I don’t want jail time. Promise me that. I want it in writing. I’m not saying another word.”

  Adele glared back. “Answer me this then. You said medical students. Why are they doing this? The money can’t be that good, is it?”

  The German doctor said nothing.

  “Fine!” she said, frustrated. “So who was that young man back there? A med student? Someone you knew?”

  Still no reply.

  “Are there others?”

  The doctor scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if I did, I’d say that medical students often have large loans. Not all of them can afford those loans.”

  Adele stared, sick to her stomach. “Students are doing this with you? Why?”

  The doctor just shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need something in writing.”

  Adele set her teeth. “I’ll get you your deal.” She hesitated, then looked up, her eyes narrowed. “You and your accomplices have to know what you’re doing is wrong though, don’t you? They pay off loans with the organs of homeless people? Don’t you get how sick that is?”

  The German doctor returned her glare. “Tomate,” he said, without flinching. “They volunteered.”

  “Fine,” said Adele, attempting to hide her disgust. “Tell me, what hospital in Germany? Tell me that, and I’ll go get you a signature right now. I’ll talk to my executive; he’s in the interrogation room next door.”

  “Look,” said the German. “Here.” Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin piece of paper. Adele frowned; normally possessions weren’t allowed in the cells. She supposed whoever had frisked him had missed it. He was still in his own clothes, minus the scrubs.

  She glanced at the paper and realized it was a business card. She accepted the paper and turned it over. “Berlin Medical Depot?” she said, reading the generic name. “Never heard of it. This is where you work?”

  The doctor just stared at her. “Where’s my deal?”

  Adele waved the business card. “Clarify this. What is it?”

  The doctor hesitated, then said, “A facility in Germany. Near a hospital. Obviously… the main hub of the,” he cleared his throat and glanced away for a moment, unable to meet her gaze, “business,” he continued, “can’t take place in the hospitals. Too much oversight.”

  Adele examined the business card again, then tucked it into her pocket. She turned and began to march away.

  “What about my deal?” he called after her.

  Adele gritted her teeth. Everything in her wanted to deny the man his deal. To leave him hopeless, like he left his victims bleeding, terrified, on the verge of death. She’d seen firsthand that he’d been about to operate on a man without anesthesia. He had hesitated, though. He had tried to reason with the Serbians. There’d been a glimmer of humanity, though not much.

  “I’ll talk to the executive,” she said. “But look at me,” she said, from across the hall. He did, staring through the bars. “You’re going to tell them everything. What medical students are involved, where the Serbians work out of, every facility, every hospital. Everything you know. Understand?”

  The man winced and said, “No prison time, and I’ll give you everything.”

  Adele felt a surge of disgust, but said nothing further as she turned and left the holding cells, waiting for the metal door at the end of the hall to buzz and the green light to flash over the frame.

  She pressed her hand against the pocket with the business card. They were headed back to Germany.

  ***

  “Funny that,” said the voice echoing in her mind. “Especially given where you worked.”

  She stared into the eyes of the man with a knife to her father’s throat. She heard the laughter, the jeering tone. They’d locked gazes for a moment, then a gunshot.

  Given where you worked.

  Funny that.

  A new scene confronted her, playing across her mind’s eye.

  Three women, lifeless, their eyes vacant, their necks slit, all of them missing a kidney, standing naked before her in the black, staring out like ghouls in a graveyard.

  “Funny,” the corpses kept repeating, “Funny that. Funny. Funny.”

  Adele turned away, trying to hide her eyes from the gruesome sight, but her gaze only leveled on a fourth person. Another woman. Also young, also dead.

  Her mother. Elise.

  “Given where you worked,” her mother said, her voice crystal clear, exactly how Adele remembered it. A soothing, gentle voice. Coming from dead lips above a tapestry of cuts and slits and scars and swirling patterns gouged in her mother’s flesh. A corpse whittled from tortured remains.

  Adele tried to close her eyes, and it took her moment to realize she was sleeping. A nightmare. But still she couldn’t wake.

  “Funny,” the voice kept echoing behind her.

  Her mother had been brutalized. A sadist had set to with a knife, a psychopath creating some form of hideous art on her mother’s flesh. She’d been left to die, bleeding out in the park.

  But those three other women, their throats had been slit clean. They had died quickly. There’d been no joy in it, no pleasure.

  Adele gritted her teeth, and she heard the voices now, louder, coursing in her skull; at last, she jerked away, trying to sprint free.

  She heard someone in the darkness, drawing nearer. She couldn’t tell how she knew, but she could hear ragged gasps. She glimpsed a flash of silver, of metal in the night.

  “Who is it?” she shouted.

  “Funny,” a voice whispered out at her, like tendrils of mist in a graveyard, creeping through her ears and sending chills across the back of her neck.

  She jerked upright, gasp
ing.

  The airplane. She was on the plane.

  She continued breathing heavily, her head pressed against the slight incline of her headrest, her eyes fixed on the seat in front of her. She could feel a cool jet of air gusting down from the small nozzle vent above, and a glimmer of sunlight ushered through the open shutter of the small, oval window to her left.

  She struggled to compose herself, inhaling the odor of peanuts and pretzels from the seat ahead of her, listening to the overly loud sound from the headphones of a passenger in the seat across the aisle. Ahead, near first class, she heard a stewardess offering drinks, followed by the quiet clink of glass.

  Adele kept her head stiff, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand sliding into her suit pocket.

  She pulled out the thin piece of paper, struggling to push the nightmare fully from her mind.

  The Berlin Medical Depot. She examined the business card again, listening to the sound of the engine. The plane inclined a bit, suggesting they were preparing to land. Some folk disliked landing, but to Adele, the noise of the engines was a welcome familiarity—an appeasing hum heralding their descent from the clouds. She peered out the window, across John’s chest, watching the great span of blue, then, eventually the patches of cottony white flit by.

  Her weapon was back on her hip. A comforting weight. At her side, John provided a similar comfort, though a bit less predictably. She studied him. He had an almost peaceful air about him as he slept; his eyelashes were quite long for a man.

  Her gaze traced his cheeks, down his bold nose, along his chin, and toward the edge of the scar beneath the hem of his shirt curving the underside of his neck.

  Executive Foucault had every intention of punishing John for slapping their suspect. He’d approached the table, according to John, all brooding and bluster… And then the Serb had bitten the executive’s hand.

  Adele tried not to smirk at the memory of John’s recounting. The nightmare had nearly faded completely from memory now.

  Executive Foucault had forgotten all about John’s indiscretion in the face of his own pain. The executive had kicked the Serbian’s chair over, screaming for antiseptic and demanding they rush him to the hospital. Adele had only arrived as he’d rushed out of the room, his two lackeys flanking him as he muttered continually about germs and infections. The sound of the Serbian’s laughter had spilled out from the interrogation room behind them.