Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  Another one of the valets waited, watching expectantly for the signal from the ticket collector that he should grab the luggage.

  The passengers idled by, waiting for the permission to start boarding. Adele sighed, still watching, her breath steaming the glass. As she stood, she thought back to Paris, back to her apartment. She felt a flash of guilt at having left her father alone after making him fly from Germany. She’d needed to tell him everything in person—but the timing of this new case hadn’t been ideal… Maybe she owed him a call.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the passengers as they also waited, watching the ticket collector. As she did, she reluctantly reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She swallowed, lifting the device. For a moment, she paused, but then, instead of calling her father, she dialed Robert’s number from heart. So many times, in the middle of a case, she’d had to contact her old mentor. He was a well of information, a crack detective, but even more than that: a dear, dear friend.

  She waited, listening as the phone rang. Her stomach twisted a bit as unease settled on her. “Come on, Robert,” she murmured.

  No answer. She waited for the automated voice and then after the beep said, “Hello, Robert. I’m sorry I haven’t called. Busy with the case. Just… I imagine you’re in treatment or something. When you get the chance, if you could… please shoot me a message or something. I’ll come to see you first chance I get after the case. Have a good day.”

  She lingered for a moment, still holding the phone, wondering what else to add, but then just hung up. Anything else could be said in person.

  The phone didn’t stay lowered, though. Now, she did call her father, his name stored in her device only as The Sergeant.

  The phone began to ring and her father picked up quickly.

  “Adele?” he said.

  “Hey,” she replied. “Hey, sorry. I just had a moment here. Was wondering how you are.”

  “Fine. You?”

  “I’m—I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry for just leaving you. I’ll be back from the case as soon as possible. Like I said before, make yourself comfortable at the apartment. If you’d like—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the Sergeant said. “I’m heading home anyway.”

  Adele swallowed. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Oh. You sure? You don’t have to. You’re welcome to—”

  “I’m sure. Look, sorry, Adele, my taxi is here. Have a good day.”

  “Goodbye…”

  This time, the Sergeant hung up and Adele slowly lowered her own phone. She continued to stare through the glass at the milling passengers, some of them growing impatient in the interim. She glanced at the phone, wondering if she should have insisted he stay. But her father was a decisive man. If he wanted to leave, then he wanted to leave. Nothing she could do…

  She felt the stirrings of disgruntlement, but forced herself once again to stare through the glass and fixate on the passengers nearest the front.

  There were only about six first-class passengers joining them for this next leg of the trip. One man in particular stood out to her. Not so much because of his appearance, but because of the way the other passengers had given him a wider birth. Perhaps he smelled. But as Adele watched, she glimpsed a surly, frowning expression across the man’s face. He had no facial hair, and a dark shock of fading hairline that was clearly dyed. The man’s eyes stretched in folded frown lines, and his lower lip seemed to be permanently jutting forward as if he tasted something sour.

  As the surly man regarded the other passengers around him, the source of the sour taste seemed to become evident, as his scowl only deepened near other humans.

  One of the valets reached out, nodding politely, and tried to grab the man’s bag, but the angry man suddenly shouted. Even from within, through the glass, Adele heard the words, “Get your dirty paws off,” followed by a dark muttering, “Stupid bastard.”

  The man with the dyed, receding hairline glared at the valet until the young man retreated, apologizing profusely, his face red.

  A few of the other first-class passengers looked on in disapproval, but instead of quelling his behavior, the surly man turned on them and demanded, “What? Mind your own damned business.” And then, jamming a crumpled ticket hard into the hand of the collector, he pushed past, entering the train.

  Adele noted the way he protectively gripped the brown satchel the bellhop had tried to grab. Curious.

  But there had been no murders in the night. Which meant what? Was she just looking for a needle in a haystack? Trying to find someone to blame?

  Maybe they had gone about this the wrong way. Maybe the murders weren’t tied to days, but trains. Maybe the murderer had to move to another train before he killed again. Or, perhaps, not the trains, but the countries. A death in Italy, one in France, and the next one?

  Adele bit her lip. They were at the last stop before the German border. What if the killer was waiting for them to enter? She watched the old, surly man clutching his brown bag as he disappeared behind the ticket collector into the first-class compartment.

  Adele’s countenance darkened a bit, but as she peered through the window, toward the passengers, she recognized a different face. Her eyes went wide, and her lips formed a sudden smile. This face was much friendlier and handsomer than the one prior.

  Her breath suddenly fogged the glass a second time, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure why she couldn’t see, but then quickly, feeling embarrassed, her cheeks heating up, she reached up and wiped hurriedly at the misted surface.

  The person in question spotted her also, it seemed, and was now waving in a good-natured, easygoing sort of way. She tried to suppress a grin and waved back before pushing away from the lacquered counter and moving quickly through the car toward one of the entrances.

  Adele brushed past one of the valets, who was lugging a particularly large suitcase aboard, and smiled down toward where Agent Leoni from Italy was now handing his ticket to the collector.

  She waited expectantly as the ticket collector nodded, ripped off the top of the paper, and handed the stub back. Christopher Leoni was wearing plain clothes and even carried a suitcase. He took the two metal steps up to the back entrance of the train and entered past Adele.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, winking.

  As he brushed past her, she detected the faint odor of cologne. His hair was as she remembered, perfectly set, with a single curl errant from the rest dangling over his forehead. His features were handsome in a clean, expected sort of way. Movie star good looks, she’d thought before. In the past she had characterized John as a James Bond villain, but if so, then Agent Leoni was much like James Bond himself. Not to mention, he’d once helped pilot a plane on an open highway in Germany, and helped her save a life in the process.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, moving along with Leoni away from the ticket collector and the other first-class passengers toward one of the sleeper cars.

  He glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure no one was listening in, and then said, beneath his breath, “I managed to talk to one of my superiors and show him the merit of my theory.”

  Adele’s eyebrows rose. “So we’re both still thinking murder?”

  “I’m certain of it,” he said. “You look lovely as ever, by the way.” He grinned.

  Adele pressed her lips, trying to hide her smile. “Oh? You too.” She chuckled. “Not to be a bore, but did you get the toxicology report back?”

  The Italian agent shook his head. “Not yet. But I know that when we do, it will confirm what I think.”

  “How do you know?”

  Leoni said, “Thirty-year-olds don’t die of heart attacks. Not one day before someone else dies in a similar way. Call it a hunch, call it instinct. I seem to remember you went off that quite a bit last time we worked together.” He gave a good-natured chuckle, which she returned.

  The two of them had come to a halt outside an open door to one of the first-cla
ss sleepers. Adele glanced in and felt a jolt of jealousy. In a forlorn way, she said, “That’s like three times the size of my room.”

  “The benefits of being an Italian,” he replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows. He stepped in, pushing his suitcase into the spacious compartment beneath the bed.

  Adele stood in the doorway, then glanced over her shoulder and watched as another couple began moving down the car toward another open door.

  “It’ll be good to have the backup,” she said quietly, “but if you’re right, there was no death last night… which means…”

  “A murder every day,” said Leoni. “I would’ve been surprised if they struck twice yesterday. If they kill again, it’ll be today.”

  “Maybe… I was thinking it could be a murderer in each country.”

  The Italian winced. “Either way, we’re nearing the German border. The killer will strike again today.”

  Adele crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “You’re certain of it?”

  “As certain as I can be,” he said, softly, looking up at her. “Why? Have you found something different?” His eyebrows rose. “Any thoughts on the killer?”

  Adele just shook her head, sighing as she did. “Afraid not. Dead ends so far. Ms. Mayfield and Joseph Dupuy had very little in common from what I’ve seen. Another murder might be the only bread crumb we have left to guide us to the killer unless we find something now. Another death simply isn’t an option!”

  Leoni slowly pursed his lips. “Let’s both of us hope, together, it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Either way, today will be the next attack. If we don’t find him soon, we won’t be able to do anything about it. Someone’s going to die.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Agent John Renee leaned back in the soft, frayed couch down in the basement of the DGSI. He detected the faint odor of what some might mistake for cleaning solution, but really originated from the bubbling distillery he’d set up here nearly three years ago. On the wall, two pictures were tacked to the chipped paint, displaying images of his old military buddies.

  John frowned as a memory resurfaced.

  A bleeding body on a bleeding table. A killer hiding in the pantry, laughing at him. A small, skeletal frame of a man. One of his eyes dead, dull, gleaming out from beneath an upturned hood.

  The man had said, “Gerard; he was your copilot, wasn’t he? Six of you in total, wasn’t it? Does it weigh on you? You call me a monster, Agent Renee. But you’ve killed more people than I have. And you enjoy it, too, don’t you? I can always tell. You dirty dog.”

  John clenched his teeth, glancing once more at the picture tacked to his wall. How had the monster known his co-pilot’s name? What else did he know? The same killer who’d taken Adele’s mother. The same killer who’d escaped him in Paris.

  He remembered Gerard. A man of the hills, a rough man. A man after John’s own heart. They’d flown more missions together than the rest of the team combined, both of them having signed up at a young age. John at sixteen, with forged papers, in between stints as a ferryman; Gerard at seventeen, the same year.

  John swallowed, shaking his head softly. Gerard was the brother he’d never had. More of a father, really. Though only a single year had separated them, Gerard had been John’s protector in the military. Saved his life on more than one occasion, and when all was said and done, John hadn’t been able to repay the favor.

  The only survivor of the helicopter crash. Sabotage, some said. Others had whispered the bird had been damaged in base. John had looked into the allegations, but why would someone in their own crew sabotage the helicopter? He’d decided it was just a rumor. Either way, it wouldn’t bring back his brothers. Wouldn’t bring back Gerard, or the rest of their tight-knit family.

  He hadn’t lasted long in the military following it.

  John grunted and shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. In one hand he clutched the cool shell of a martini glass filled with moonshine. The other steadied a laptop on his long legs.

  Adele might think he’d phoned it in—she might assume he wasn’t interested in solving the case. But nothing could be further from the truth. The fact that Elise Romei’s killer had escaped from him haunted him still. Andrew Maldonado, the sole witness to the crime scene, was still in a coma.

  John needed to prove himself and yet… next to Adele, trying to solve a case with her again—it had felt different. She’d gone cold, it seemed. She hadn’t laughed at his normal humor, nor had she wanted to talk to him, it seemed.

  Now she was back on the train and he was back at headquarters.

  He sighed, pressing even further back into the well-used couch.

  “What have we here?” he murmured to himself, prying his gaze away from the photos on the wall and glancing at the progress bar on his computer screen above the compiler he’d run.

  Names. Names from Italy. Names from France. Names from the train company and names from ticket booths.

  Not first class this time. John was sick of the first-class passenger list. Now, he’d decided to go back, to check coach, to check layovers, to check everyone. The murders—if that’s truly what they were, and he still wasn’t certain—had occurred in the first-class compartments. But that didn’t mean the killer was also there.

  He took another chug of bitter beverage and then lowered the glass, rubbing at his eyes. He hadn’t slept, instead combing through the names through the night, pulling them apart a piece at a time, narrowing down the passenger list. And checking it mostly manually.

  Now, the progress bar of the final compilation, which he’d originally sorted, came to an end. Only one name. One name from coach who’d been on LuccaRail and the Normandie Express on the given dates.

  One lead.

  John’s bleary eyes narrowed and he leaned into the white and blue light emanating from his computer. A retired train-hopper. An arrest record. Arrested for assault but the charges were lowered to disturbing the peace…

  John followed the cursory information, pulling up the man’s file. He paused, rereading a line, and then went still.

  The man’s name was Isaac Lafitte. Nothing stood out there. But one of the arresting officers in the assault had made a report… John reread the line in question and murmured, “Ah… Mr. Lafitte, what have we here?”

  Isaac Lafitte’s wife had died the previous year, all of a sudden. She’d been young, too—in her forties. Died from a heart attack according to the report.

  John stared at the name. He pulled out his phone, frowning to himself as he dialed in the number provided for Lockport Enterprises, the overseeing company for both train lines. He waited as the phone rang.

  “Thank you for calling Lockport Enterprises,” came a robotic voice. “If you know the number of the extension you are dialing, please—”

  “Let me speak with someone!” John growled into the phone.

  The robotic voice continued, uninterrupted, listing the directory. “If you are calling the mailing office, please press one. If you are calling for—”

  “Let me speak to someone!” John shouted, his voice rising.

  “If you would like to speak with an agent, please stay on the line.”

  John felt his knuckles clenching tight around the phone, his breath coming quickly now as he resisted the urge to crush the device in his hand.

  At last, the robotic voice was replaced by a very human one which said, “Hello, Colette speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Agent John Renee,” he said, still growling. “DGSI. I need travel itinerary for a client of yours.”

  “Oh, well, I have a note here to transfer you to managerial. One second.”

  “Don’t put me on—”

  Music started playing over the phone and John found himself grinding his teeth, resisting the urge to scream at the ceiling. A minute passed with John sitting on the couch, then another—which saw his martini glass emptied of all contents—then a third, which saw his martini glass arching through the
air and smashing against the far wall.

  “Hello?” said a voice.

  “Agent John Renee,” he repeated, grinding out the words through gritted teeth. “I need travel records. We already have clearance. And the number I’m using is logged as a federal line. Now give me the information I’m looking for, or I’ll make sure every tax auditor I know gets your name and the name of everyone in your bloody family!” John hadn’t realized he’d been shouting until the silence followed.

  He exhaled slowly, and then waited.

  “Ah, yes, I recently spoke with Executive Foucault. Would you mind providing your badge number for verification?”

  John sighed and complied with the request.

  “Excellent, thank you, Agent Renee. How can Lockport Enterprises be of service?”

  “I need travel records for a previous passenger of your LuccaRail and Normandie Express.”

  “All right, shouldn’t be too difficult. One moment.”

  John heard muttered instructions in the background suggesting the manager wasn’t the one actually logging the information in their system.

  “Name, please?”

  “Isaac Lafitte,” John said. “Traveling coach.”

  “I see in our records the last list requested was for first class, are you—”

  “No, not first class. Coach. Well?”

  “Ah, one moment.”

  More muttered words, and the sound of a clacking keyboard far removed from the phone. Then the voice on the other end said, “Isaac Lafitte, you say? Yes, I have his records right here.”

  “Any indication of how many times he’s traveled with you?” John asked.

  “I’m afraid we don’t tend to keep information like that for more than a month, which is the billing cycle turnover. But… well, hang on… Interesting.”

  John perked up, pressing his phone even more tightly against the side of his face.

  “Mr. Lafitte did travel with us, yes, but he’s not done.”