Left To Hide

by Pierce, Blake

  Adele wanted to respond with a scathing retort, but she found the words faded. She paused, and when John didn’t receive the reaction he likely was looking for, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry, was just joking.”

  “I know,” Adele said. “But you’re right. I do miss you.”

  Another long stretch of silence. The shadows in the room didn’t seem so intense all of a sudden. The blank glare of the empty TV screen was no longer so condemning. The empty fire didn’t seem so cold. For a moment, with her phone pressed to her ear, Adele felt a shudder of warmth.

  “Yeah, I wish I could be there,” John said, quickly. There was a note of embarrassment to his tone, but not directed at her. Rather, his own sort of embarrassment that came from vulnerability. The sort that Adele often found herself fleeing.

  “Yeah?” she said. “The DGSI still keeping tabs on you two?”

  “Afraid so. They don’t want to get involved. Looks like the news channels are picking it up anyway. Robert’s been glued to the TV ever since. They’re not being very nice.”

  “No,” Adele said. “Not really.”

  “Yeah?” said John. “Well, fuck them. They don’t care about what we’re trying to do. They just care about their bottom line. They want to make a couple of extra bucks. So fuck ’em,” he repeated.

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Could be,” said John. “But, yeah, I guess I forget. You actually care. That’s a terrible thing sometimes, Adele.”

  She smiled softly at no one in particular. Allowing the warmth from the phone to heat her cheek. “I try,” she said.

  “Well, American Princess, hopefully we can see each other soon. Like I said, don’t worry about them. They don’t know what they’re saying. They’re not good people.”

  “Some of them might be,” said Adele.

  “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Whatever. Call anytime; I have your number after all. I wouldn’t want to waste the space.”

  “That’s not how it works, John.”

  “Yeah, well, it could. Look—not to change subject, but have you considered the red nylon fibers? Any thoughts?”

  Adele swallowed, grateful for something to focus on besides her own thoughts. She cleared her throat and brusquely replied. “Probably from a uniform, yes? Maybe a jacket? Are they being tested?”

  “Yes, of course. We shall see… A uniform, you’re probably right. Look, I’ll catch you later, American Princess. I’ve got to go. Your old friend over here, Mr. By-the-book, wants to check out records from a library or something. Or maybe go through some shredded paper. Or some other outdated stupidness.”

  “Bye, John. Say hi to Robert for me.”

  “I’ll try to get a word in edgewise; we’ll see if I can manage. Bye, Adele.”

  The line cut off, and Adele lowered her phone. She stared into the empty fireplace and closed her eyes, breathing in and out. Much of the anger and shame from before had faded. A resolve settled on her. Not a strong, angry resolve. Nor was it a determination or sense of justice. It was a simple, isolated resolve coming purely from herself. A desire to see this through, for no other reason than she’d set out in the first place. No other reason than there were people who wanted to see her fail. Who would criticize her, constantly, for no good reason. She was tired of being criticized. Tired of letting others bully her into behaving how they wanted.

  No. She would solve this case. And if it cost them their resort—on their heads be it. She would solve this case, and that was the end of that. Likely, the resorts were losing guests as it was. A murderer loose on the slopes? Not great for business. But despite this, Adele knew, in her heart of hearts, that she wouldn’t let this one go. Even if Interpol pulled her off the case, she would solve it. She had to at this point.

  There, alone, contemplating in the dark, memories came to her. She felt the slight tickle of a cold draft of winter air, likely creeping in through a window crack or from an partly open door down the hall. The sensation caused her to frown. Her father was still on her mind—and yet, in that moment, she pictured… another man? Someone her mother had been talking to? Adele twisted restlessly in her chair and pushed off with a vengeance, striding rapidly from the small, isolated room.

  Another man? Couldn’t be. But what if? Was that what she was remembering? A silhouette in the doorway, her mother greeting the person, her father out for the evening. Adele in the bathroom, peering through a crack in the door. Had her mother cheated?

  She shook her head and put on an extra burst of speed, desperately trying to distance herself from the horrible thoughts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Adele slept through the alarm for the first time in years. Morning greeted her with four missed calls and two text messages. All of them from Ms. Jayne. Great, Adele thought. Even her Interpol correspondent was getting in on the action. She ignored the texts and didn’t return the calls.

  If the agency wanted to pull her off the case for “mishandling it,” as the Italians and the Germans seemed to insist, then so be it. For Adele’s part, she would follow the clues where they led.

  She marched along the crisscrossing wooden trail, moving up the steps to the stilted bar. The Respite in the Cliffs had a grayish pallor to it—the many glass windows tinged by the bulky clouds inserting themselves across the horizon.

  Adele breathed through her nose, allowing two jets of steam to arc past her face and drift away, joining the horizon in a futile claim—the sun would have its way. And Adele would have hers. She marched up the steps and pushed open the glass door.

  The small bell tinkled overhead.

  Adele peered around the bar, spotted Heather, and waved. “Is he in?” she asked.

  Heather, who was removing chairs from on top of tables, paused what she was doing to look back. “Mighty early for you to be out here,” she said. “Don’t you have more resorts to ruin?”

  Adele bristled for a moment, but then realized Heather was smirking. “Been watching the news?” Adele asked, sheepishly.

  Heather nodded, placing another chair on the floor and situating it around a glistening table with the resin stones. “Yeah, suppose I have,” she said. “Pity that. Though I guess serves you right for clobbering Hans.”

  Adele quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t clobber anyone.”

  Heather chuckled now, the smirk turning into a good-natured grin. “Not the way he’s putting it. Says you choked him out—six of you. Beat him to the ground.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “Too bad.” Heather snorted.

  Adele raised her eyebrows.

  Heather waved a dismissive hand. “Hans is a pig. Won’t take no for an answer; thinks he’s God’s gift to women. You know the type. Every now and then, he needs a good smacking like a fish needs fins. Last time, a professional footballer found Hans was messing with his girlfriend. Threw our beloved ski instructor into the pool.”

  Heather smiled fondly at the memory, shaking her head side to side. After a moment, though, she cleared her throat and her wistful expression and glanced toward Adele. “Your friend, though? Gone. Checked out this morning. Made the bed, cleaned the mirrors—better than most guests.”

  “Gone?” Adele frowned.

  “Yeah, you can check if you want. But he left. Said he was going home.”

  Adele passed a hand through her hair, exhaling through her nose again. The slight chill she’d let in when entering the bar seemed to take this moment to settle on her, prickling against her shoulders and cheeks.

  “Right, well, thanks anyway,” she said.

  For a moment, Adele’s hand strayed to her phone. Perhaps she should call him… apologize? But no… What was there to apologize for? She’d believed what she’d said. He’d never been as good an investigator as her. It wasn’t a matter of arrogance—simply a matter of fact. Besides, he’d crossed the line. Hadn’t he?

  Adele nodded if only to convince herself and her hand lifted from her pocket once more. She turned,
preparing to face the cold wind again, but as she did, she noticed something sitting on the edge of the bar. For the briefest moment she frowned.

  She took a couple of steps toward the bar and felt Heather’s eyes now on her, watching her movements.

  “What are those?” Adele asked.

  “Er, the brochures?”

  Adele nodded, reaching out and picking up one of the leaflets from its glass cradle. She thumbed through it, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. She glanced back at the glass display case. There had to be more than ten different pamphlets—each with disparate pictures on the front displaying some sort of adventure or group of people smiling and seemingly having the time of their lives against a mountain backdrop.

  Heather approached, her footsteps creaking on the wooden floors. “Excursions—off-resort activities the guests participate in, mostly,” she said. “Not really my area. But we have a lot of extracurricular for those in the expeditionary spirit.”

  Adele examined the one brochure in her hand. Orange borders displayed a German title, which, translated, read Rafting Wild! White Water Rafting—Family Fun!

  She placed the brochure back in the display case, still staring at the counter. “Would the resort know the itinerary of the Benevetis?”

  Heather hummed in thought, but then said, “Only if they booked through the resort. And that would only be information available to the couple’s concierge.”

  Adele turned now, fully. “You wouldn’t know who that is, would you?”

  Heather winced apologetically. “Afraid that’s outside my sphere. But it shouldn’t be too hard to find out. I’ll ask around. Or, you know, you could just call the information desk.”

  Adele nodded, her thoughts still sputtering like facets of light in her mind, sparking each other and propelling her down rabbit trails of consideration.

  “I think I just might do that,” she said.

  ***

  “And who, exactly, are you again?” the man said, stiff-backed and straight-nosed. He peered down his long Roman nose, eyeing Adele with the severest of displeasure.

  “I’m Agent Sharp—I work with Interpol, and I’m investigating the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti. I was told you’re their concierge.”

  The man sniffed, arms crossed. “So what if I am?”

  Adele leaned with one arm against the doorframe to the man’s small office. She’d managed to track down the concierge easily enough. Turned out, the information desk was more than helpful when faced with the threat of obstruction.

  “I don’t know if you can tell,” he said, clearing his throat, “but I’m quite busy.” He adjusted the glasses on the edge of his nose and turned back to his desk, clacking away on his keyboard once more as if Adele hadn’t interrupted.

  She gave him a moment, but when the concierge didn’t turn to address her, she took this as permission to enter his office, striding across the room and plopping on the edge of his desk.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed. “Careful—you’ll wrinkle those forms!”

  Adele’s eyes widened, and she made a big show of tugging at the paper files she’d “accidentally” sat on. “Oh? Silly me, so sorry!”

  She pulled the form from beneath her thigh and dropped it in the man’s lap. It fluttered, and looped, and then veered off to land on the carpet.

  The concierge stooped over the grab it. As he did, Adele quickly reached out and yanked out the display cord leading from his computer to the monitor. The man sat back up, then exclaimed again as he was confronted with a black screen.

  “What are you doing!” he said. “Please, I really must insist—”

  “Phil, hang on—look, can I call you Phil?”

  “My name is Philip,” the man said, crossly. He reluctantly looked away from the blank monitor to glare up at Adele, giving another sniff.

  “Right, Philip the concierge. The concierge to Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti, am I right?”

  “You still haven’t said who told you that.”

  “No, I guess I haven’t. Let’s trade information. You start.”

  Philip sighed and pushed back a bit in his chair, distancing himself from where Adele sat on his desk. At least he was no longer ignoring her. “I don’t know what you want,” he said. “I told you, there’s nothing in particular—”

  “Phil,” said Adele, “I know Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti were your clients. I know that if they booked something through the resort, it would go through you. Why waste my time and yours? You seem like a busy man. Lots of clients? Not commission based, I hope, though I wouldn’t be surprised if end of the year bonuses reflected client satisfaction, am I right?”

  The concierge’s frown now creased the entirety of his face, casting it in shadow. “I don’t know who you’ve been speaking too. But I hope you can see why it’s important I don’t divulge the personal details of my clients.”

  “Mhmm, right,” said Adele, “I get it. Really, I do. The only thing here, though, is that a man as busy as you might not want to be stuck in your office all day. And, if I have to get a warrant, that’s exactly what will happen. I may need you to catalog your files—all of them… from, let’s say, the last decade.”

  “What? Why? How could that possibly help?”

  “You never know. But it would take you the better part of a week, I imagine. A week without interacting with your clients. A week of diminishing satisfaction. I think we can both agree neither of us want that.”

  “No—no of course not. But I can’t just tell you my clients’—”

  Adele leaned in now, pressing hard, her eyes unblinking chips of granite as she glared at the man. “Your clients are dead. I’m not asking for anyone else’s information—just Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti. I’m not asking for an address or a phone number, or the color of their lingerie. I’m asking what appointments they booked through the resort. It’s that simple. Don’t waste my time, and I won’t waste yours.”

  The concierge muttered a bit, but then said, “I have a lot of clients. I need to check—is that all right? Or are you going to take to my computer with a five iron?”

  “I don’t play golf. Have at it.” Adele reached out and plugged the cable back in.

  The monitor brightened. With equal parts annoyed glances and irritated mutterings, the concierge clacked on his keyboard, cycling through a series of folders on his computer. Adele waited patiently, until, a few moments later, the concierge leaned back, releasing a sigh that seeped from his lips in a slow, leaking procession.

  “Great,” he said. “One appointment. Every year, the same one. I remember now.”

  “Oh? What one?”

  For the briefest moment, Adele thought she glimpsed the flicker of something across the concierge’s face. Was that more anger? No… something else… something closer to… embarrassment?

  Now that she studied him, she realized his cheeks were tinged the faintest hue, and he’d crossed his arms again in a defensive posture. In fact, he didn’t even want to look at the computer, his eyes darting from Adele, down to his hands and up again.

  “Well?” she said. “What did they book?”

  He coughed a bit into his hand. “You have to understand,” he said, carefully, “we cater to a very wealthy clientele.”

  “Yeah, and I’m sure they tip well too. What’s your point?”

  He coughed again. “It’s… I just want to say, it’s not a common expedition. You actually won’t find it in the brochures or even the hotel’s website.”

  Adele leaned in now, a slight flicker to her pulse. The concierge was starting to sweat.

  “Philip,” she said. “What did they book?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  John tossed and turned, pulling the covers up to his chin and squeezing the edge of his blanket in an effort to choke the fabric.

  “Merde!” he muttered as he kicked out, trying to find a comfortable position. His eyes blinked owlishly in the dark of his own flat. Normally, he slept like a babe. Except when the memories came.

/>   But that was what he took medicine for.

  Speaking of which… John groped over the edge of the bed, fumbling a bit, then snagged a glass bottle with a makeshift stopper. From his own distillery; the best of medicine. He took a long pull, feeling it burn as the moonshine poured down his throat.

  He sighed, conceding his defeat to the blankets, and to a restless night. He took another long sip—acid reflux be damned—and then corked the bottle, tossing it onto a pillow which had somehow found its way onto the floor.

  He felt a glaze of sweat, and cursed at the ceiling once more. John’s apartment was sparse. Of course, he knew where the three hidden firearms were around the small place. The ceiling fan above didn’t work, but had a Glock 22 strapped with duct tape to the crooked blade. The electricity was spotty—half the time. This was fine, as John spent most of his nights at his makeshift pad in the basement of the DGSI, or on the job. Distractions, but welcome ones.

  Why couldn’t he sleep, then? Normally, the exhaustion of the day cashed its check right about now. He glanced at the red numbers of his alarm clock. Five AM. Far too early. Adele was the sort to wake up around now—a hellish thought, in John’s estimate. Self-subjected torture.

  The previous night, he’d spent a good amount of time talking to Adele. Maybe that had thrown his sleep pattern off. A man from his background required patterns, schedule, duties. They gave shape to the world and helped make sense of it all.

  He huffed. Was he restless because of Adele? No—unlikely. He just hadn’t had a good lay in a while. Been working late, working cases… In fact, his normal routine of trolling the bars for willing partners had faded somewhat in recent months.

  John frowned. Why?

  Adele?

  Fuck that. He needed a lay—that was all. A good ol’ time and some forget-me juice. Yeah, that sounded about right. And yet… somehow, this didn’t arouse the feelings of satisfaction they used to. It didn’t fill him with a sense of the hunt, of desire, of excitement. Why?