Left to Kill (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Four)

by Blake Pierce

  “It really is quite tasty,” she said, taking another long sip. John hummed in response.

  For a moment, Adele allowed her eyes to travel down to the rest of him, past the scars and the burn marks. She took in the musculature of his form, his lean frame, and broad shoulders. Her eyes lingered, and if he noticed, he made no comment.

  Just then, her phone began to buzz. As if jolted from her reverie, Adele jerked, pulled her phone from her pocket. She gave an apologetic wince toward John, turned her back, and held up the phone to her ear.

  “Ms. Glaude,” she said. The landlord.

  “Yes, is this Adele Sharp from unit 3C?”

  “It is, ma’am, did you get a chance to look into what I asked?”

  “Yes, darling. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

  Adele’s stomach plummeted. Her landlord cleared her throat and said, “Your mother didn’t file any sort of complaint here.”

  Adele blinked. How did that make sense? If someone was tampering with her mail, surely her mother would’ve brought it to the attention of the building. “Do you mean your records just don’t go back that far?”

  “No,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “My records go back forty years. But your mother didn’t file anything.”

  Adele frowned, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Another thing, darling, look, I remember your mother’s situation. I remember the terrible things that happened. I’m very sorry, truly. I wouldn’t know what that was like…”

  Adele just waited, wondering what she would say next.

  “I might get in trouble for this, but I suppose I don’t work for the post office. And I’m not compromising any of my tenants. And given the circumstances of, well… The postman who worked at the building when you lived here with your mother,” the landlord said, a slight tinge to her voice.

  Adele stiffened, waiting, her eyes widening. “Yes?” she said, quickly. “Who?”

  “His name was Antoni Bordeaux.”

  “Antoni Bordeaux?” said Adele. She began to fumble at her pocket, trying to extricate her father’s notebook, to write the name down.

  “I’m afraid, dear, it’s more bad news, though,” said the landlord.

  Adele’s scrambling fingers fell still, pressed against her thigh. “Oh?” she said. “And why is that?”

  “Antoni Bordeaux died five years ago; I’m very sorry. But that’s the best I can do… Hello? Mademoiselle, are you still there?”

  Adele cleared her throat. “Yes, Ms. Glaude, I’m still here. Sorry. No, thank you. You’ve done more than I could ask. Thank you.”

  Adele bid farewell, then closed her phone, pocketing it again.

  “Someone die?” John asked, nonchalantly.

  Adele didn’t realize how deeply she was frowning until she glanced toward her partner. She blinked, trying to clear her expression. “Yes, in fact.”

  John stiffened. “Oh, sorry.”

  “No one I knew.” A swirl of frustration and disappointment twisted through her. “Died five years ago. A suspect, actually.”

  John inclined an eyebrow. “Are you working a case?”

  “Maybe. If you want to be cryptic about your past, then at least allow me the decency to be so about mine as well.”

  John raised his free hand in mock surrender, and then downed the rest of his drink.

  For her part, Adele paused, thinking. A dead end. The postman had died five years ago. And yet, her mother’s killer was still alive, according to the first serial killer she’d hunted in France; he’d said as much.

  She shook her head angrily. So then what did that damn message from her mother mean? Switching notes. Funny? It didn’t make any sense.

  She jammed her hands in her pockets, resting them against her phone on one side and her father’s notebook on the other. She approached John’s couch and collapsed on the edge, putting her feet up against him and wedging herself into the corner, crossing her arms.

  “Bad day at the office?” he said.

  “The worst,” she replied.

  “I can think of something that might take your mind off of it,” said John with his usual coy smile.

  She hesitated, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. “John, I’m not sure if—”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What, no. I was going to say another drink. Don’t let my dashing good looks and charm fool you, American Princess. I’m not a complete asshole.”

  “Only a partial asshole, then?”

  John tapped a long finger against his nose and pointed at her, then got up, taking her cup from her and refilling it at the spigot. She watched him as he did, again enjoying the view.

  Before she could take in much of it, though, her phone began to buzz once more.

  The landlord again?

  Before that thought settled, she heard another phone start to ring. John frowned, grabbing his own device from where he left it next to the distillery.

  In near unison, the two of them lifted their phones to their ears, and in tandem said, “Yes?”

  The room remained silent for a second as they listened.

  On Adele’s end, she heard, “Agent Sharp, we need you to report to Executive Foucault’s office.”

  “Now?”

  “We know it’s late,” said the voice, “but it’s urgent. The Executive is coming in, personally. He’ll fill you in on the details.”

  Adele hung up her phone, and a few seconds later, John followed suit.

  “I got dispatch,” she said. “You?”

  “Foucault’s assistant,” said John.

  Adele frowned. “Are you also supposed to meet him upstairs?”

  John sighed, strode over, and grabbed his shirt; he pulled it back on, almost with an air of reluctance. Then, without another word, he sidled past Adele and, beneath his breath, muttered, “Next time it’s your turn to provide the view.”

  He pushed out the door to the bachelor pad and moved up the hall.

  Flustered for more than one reason, Adele quickly followed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Executive Foucault stood by the window of his top-floor office as John and Adele entered. The opaque glass door swung shut, rustling the carpet behind them, and Adele cleared her throat, staring at the DGSI executive.

  Foucault turned. He had a hawkish face, with thick, dark eyebrows and even thicker cheekbones. His hair was normally slicked back with oil, but now was disheveled, curls dangling past his forehead and just barely touching his eyelashes. He passed a hand through his hair, taming the loose strands, his silhouette outlined against the moonlight streaming through the glass.

  He wore sneakers and a casual T-shirt with running shorts. Adele hadn’t seen the Executive without a suit before, and somehow, now, he looked like a father waiting to pick his children up after soccer practice.

  “Sir,” said Adele, “you wanted to see us?”

  Foucault had a single picture in his hand, and had been studying it, deep ruts in his forehead like grooves in clay. He waved the photo in Adele’s direction, using it as if to scoop the air toward himself.

  John moved first, taking a lengthy stride across the office. “She dead?” said John, accepting the large photo.

  The Executive shook his head once. “No,” he offered. He had a deep, croaking voice, tinged with the influence of one too many cigarettes. The office itself smelled of stale nicotine and smoke. Mercifully, one of the windows in the back corner was left perpetually open. Perhaps an eventual security breach, but in Adele’s estimation, she was willing to risk it for the sake of her lungs.

  Foucault wiggled fingers in the direction of the photo. “American,” he said. “Found her last night. A truck driver did.”

  Adele sidled up next to John, somehow finding something about the proximity stranger than it had been the previous day. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable—more distracting than anything. She coughed slightly and returned her attention to the photo.

  The glossy pi
cture showed a smiling face, dimpled cheeks, and vibrant blue eyes. The woman in the photo couldn’t have been much older than twenty.

  “Alive you say?” John asked.

  Foucault, in response, handed over a second photo.

  The same woman, though it took Adele a second to realize it. She barely seemed recognizable. The second photo displayed a pale, sallow-faced girl. Her cheeks were gaunt, malnourished, her hair stringy and stained. Her eyes were closed, and, if Foucault hadn’t said anything, Adele would’ve assumed the girl was dead.

  The young victim had bruises all up and down her cheeks, and small cuts visible on her arms, just at the bottom of the frame.

  “What happened?” said Adele.

  “That’s what they need you to find out.”

  “You don’t know what happened?” Adele asked.

  Executive Foucault sighed. “All I know is what she was able to tell the Germans. The Black Forest boots brought her in only a few hours ago.”

  “The Germans?” said John, frowning now.

  Foucault pressed his lips together. “I’m here to make sure you don’t cause any more damage.” He nodded to John. “You’re going with her. But after the shenanigans you pulled last time in Germany, I’m here to warn you, one foot out of place, just one,” he raised a finger, wiggling it under John’s nose, “and I’ll end your career faster than you can put a bullet in a target.”

  John shifted. Quietly, Adele prayed he wouldn’t say anything obnoxious. If only to help prevent this, Adele spoke quickly. “Hang on. Germany? She wasn’t found here?”

  Foucault shook his head. “No. Interpol is handling it, but they want you on the case. Can’t blame them—you’re the only agent I have who has triple citizenship. As you’re technically one of my employees now, I had the final say so. John will go with you for backup. Fine as far as I’m concerned.” The Executive’s dark eyebrows dipped. “The less time he’s under my roof, the less trouble he can cause in France.”

  John smiled as if he’d been complimented.

  “And Ms. Jayne?” Adele pressed. “She knows about this?”

  Foucault dipped his disheveled head. “She suggested it. Busy with something else, and wanted me to convey the details. Whatever the case, I don’t have many. Details, I mean. Funds have already been allocated for travel. We’ve already set up a rendezvous. You fly out tonight.”

  “And the girl,” said Adele. “You said she’s alive.”

  Some of the bluster and frustration faded from Foucault’s expression to be replaced by an authentic, quiet sadness. Adele wasn’t used to seeing this side of the Executive, but she waited, watching.

  “The poor girl was found in the middle of the highway, half naked, bleeding from her feet. She was covered in small scrapes and cuts, which the doctors figure came from running in that state through a freezing forest. The temperatures were low enough that it did a number on her lungs.”

  “She’s unconscious?” said John. “Hypothermic?”

  Adele glanced in surprise at her partner, but even more surprise as Executive Foucault replied, “Yes. The truck driver who found her meant well enough, but his vehicle was too warm for her. The cold combined with rapid heating did damage. She’s in the hospital now, unconscious, on a ventilator. They hope to recover her, but it doesn’t look good.”

  “She was found half naked and covered in small cuts, meaning she was in the forest, running from something. Running from what?” said Adele.

  Executive Foucault shook his head and tapped a finger against the photo of the American girl where she was still smiling. “All we have is what the trucker told us. He says she kept mentioning a he. Some person, some man, had been chasing her. Someone had filled her with the fear of God Almighty himself.”

  “I didn’t know you were a religious man,” said John, quirking an eyebrow.

  Adele winced at the indelicate comment.

  Foucault, having more experience dealing with John than Adele, ignored it completely. “She kept mentioning there were others,” the Executive continued. “That’s the part that has us worried. And one of the reasons they’re requesting Interpol.” His eyes flicked to Adele. “She kept saying he was going to kill them all. At least, that’s according to the truck driver.”

  For a brief moment, Adele was reminded of her father’s notebook. Scribblings, notes, secondhand recordings of what her mother said. And now, again, the truck driver, serving as a mouthpiece after the fact of an unconscious girl who couldn’t speak for herself. A voice for a victim. Would his clues serve just as useless as her father’s had to this point?

  “Others, how many others?” said John.

  Foucault shrugged. “He didn’t know. She didn’t say. Hopefully, if she wakes, we can ask her. But for now, I wouldn’t rely on her making a recovery.” His voice was grim once more. “She’s in a bad way.”

  Adele moved a bit, circling around John’s other side and glancing out the window into the city streets below. Many of the buildings were still streaked with lights, as Paris wasn’t the sort of city to go to bed early.

  “The girl, what do we know about her?”

  “Amanda Johnson,” said Foucault. “Twenty-one years old. A college student from the US, who was in Germany over the summer backpacking with some friends. She split up from the friends a month into it, to travel on her own. A missing person. Fell off the face of the radar, and wasn’t seen again.”

  Adele felt a slow shudder creeping up her spine. “Amanda,” she said, softly. “She’s been here since the summer? Months?”

  “Five months,” said Executive Foucault. “She’s been missing for five months.”

  John handed the photo back to Foucault. “What has he been doing with them? Her? Five months? Evidence of sexual assault?”

  The Executive still looked troubled, but at this, his expression lightened, if only a little. “Not that they can tell. There doesn’t seem to be evidence of that kind.”

  Now Adele was shaking her head. “No sexual assault? But she couldn’t say anything else? She went missing months ago, and apparently others were missing too? Her friends, the ones who traveled with her?”

  Foucault shook his head. “No. They’re all accounted for. But the Black Forest, in Germany, you hear stories,” he said with a shrug.

  “What sort of stories?” said John.

  This time, though, Adele answered. “Disappearances. Some say kidnappings, others say random accidents. Whatever the case, there are a lot of missing persons reports in that area. I tracked a case there once before—turned up a dead end. Still, the lore sticks with you.”

  Foucault clicked his tongue. “At least that’s what the locals are saying. I don’t know. That’s as much as we know. John, I’m being serious, keep your nose clean on this one. I can’t cover for you again.”

  John held his hands up in surrender. “I hear you loud and clear.”

  Adele tried not to sigh too loudly. The last time they’d been to Germany together, John had thrown a camera crew’s equipment off the edge of a cliff. It had nearly cost John his job. After a series of performance reviews, he’d been reinstated the previous week, but he was on thin ice. Another incident, and it might prove fatal to his career, if not his freedom.

  “We’re heading out tonight?” said Adele.

  “First thing,” said Foucault. “Tickets are booked. Chauffeurs waiting. Good luck, you two. This is a bad one.” He trailed off, his countenance darkening. “I can feel it. There’s something wrong about this one.”

  “Something wrong about all the cases we get,” John said.

  The Executive nodded and waved a hand, sighing as he did. “Perhaps. Good luck.” And with those words, he gestured delicately toward the door.

  ***

  Another plane—another journey. Adele had picked up a small book from the airport bookstore for the flight, but now found herself ignoring it where she’d tucked it into the elastic compartment on the back of the seat in front of her.

  John
, next to her, was snoring. He had an uncanny ability to fall asleep wherever they went. She glanced over at him, her eyes moving past his muscled chest toward the window as she glanced out into the night sky. Moving, moving—from place to place. The sky itself never changed much. The clouds above France were the same as the clouds above Germany.

  Killers were the same.

  French or German—the devastation they caused was identical.

  Adele crossed her arms but remained turned toward John, peering across his chest out into the night as she settled for the few-hour flight back to Germany.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Adele awoke to a polite knock on her motel room door. She groaned, stretching, feeling the discomfort of the night settling on her body. The small airport motel they’d been shacked up in, next to Zurich Airport, had been about as comfortable as it sounded. Most of the night had been shaken by the rumble of airplane engines above. And if not that, the broken heating unit, spewing a lukewarm stream of heat through the room, had made a churning noise through the night. Adele was someone who valued her sleep, but also someone who prided herself on waking before an alarm.

  With a hint of frustration, she realized she’d slept right through her phone’s timer.

  Another quiet, polite knock on her door. “Coming,” Adele called.

  It took her a bit, but she got dressed quickly, brushed her teeth over the sink, and gathered the remnants of her things, storing them quickly back into the suitcase she’d brought with her. She pushed the suitcase under the bed and then strode to the door, pushing it open.

  She smiled as she recognized the person waiting for her on the motel steps.

  “Agent Marshall,” Adele said, nodding once. “Good to see you again.”

  The young, twenty-something BKA agent nodded in return. She was quite pretty, and had an energy about her that sometimes made Adele feel old. Beatrice Marshall tended to do things by the book, but had proven more than once that she was a reliable agent. She’d gone out of her way to cover for Adele back in the ski resorts, and had even bent a rule or two on Adele’s behalf. Adele was grateful their chaperone would be a familiar face.