The higher they went up, grazing the trees, following the slopes toward the nearest peak, the more Adele felt her nerves twisting in her stomach.
“Tell me again,” she said, making conversation, if only to suppress the anxiety swirling in her gut. “Why is Robert not here?”
Because,” John said, his hands on the helicopter’s controls, his eyes fixed through the windshield, “he made me dig holes for three hours.”
“What?” Adele turned, staring at John, but then just as quickly whirled back around and yelled, “Watch out!”
John just chuckled, though, and flicked the controls; the helicopter lifted, avoiding the large fir sprouting from the ground in front of them. “The coordinates are programmed,” he said, “we should be there in ten minutes.”
Adele nodded. Apparently, the helicopter had picked up the tourists from one of the Bavarian resorts, brought them back to the hanger, had them sign some paperwork, then set out to the nearest peak for their rendezvous with luxury.
She stared ahead, toward the soaring mountaintop ahead of her. Her eyes traced the grays and blues of rock, moving along the scattering of detritus and trees. The snowbound cliffs and jagged edges were smoothed by the white powder. Her eyes grazed the top of the mountains, where fog swirled and low clouds gathered. She wondered, vaguely, if perhaps they would be too late. What if the killer struck before they could reach the couple? What if the pilot had brought them there to murder them?
“John, hurry,” she said.
“First you tell me to take it slow, then you tell me to hurry,” said John. “Make up your mind, woman.”
Normally, Adele would’ve been offended by the implications of that sentence, but she was too busy staring out the windshield, watching the terrain pass by rapidly beneath them, and the mountain loomed larger as they approached.
***
John tried to hide his smile, but inwardly he was a giddy schoolboy. Adele’s nerves only fueled him further. He knew he didn’t have to fly this close to the trees, but her anxiety was enough to encourage him. It perhaps wasn’t the nicest thing, but Adele was normally cool under pressure, and it gave him no small amount of joy to see her squirm in the seat next to him. Besides, she looked really good while doing it, all long legs and toned curves.
“John!” Adele cried.
John lazily tapped the controls, pretending he had not seen the jutting shelf of rock suddenly emerging ahead of them.
Of course, they were never in any real danger. He’d flown in much harsher conditions in desert storms with sand all around them, and no controls or gauges to help him navigate. He’d flown for years. This, in comparison, was like a walk in the park. Of course, when Adele had asked earlier, he’d mentioned he’d only been on a couple of flights. Better to keep her on the edge of her seat. It was more fun that way.
John scanned the controls, narrowing in on the GPS system and following it toward the coordinates that Margaret had provided. They loped out of the tree line and moved toward the sky, hovering near the clouds, beneath the lowest hanging fog. They were aligned with the peak now, and ahead, John spotted another helicopter, landed, blades still.
“See that?” He pointed with a gloved hand through the windshield. Adele reached out and pushed at his hand, trying to shove it back toward the controls. “That’s our guy,” John said, his voice crackling through the headset.
“Should we take it slow?” Adele asked. “Come up unexpected?”
She and John shared a look, and then they both shook their heads at once. “Doubt it,” said John. “They could be in danger.”
Adele just nodded and pointed as well.
He resisted the urge to reach out and shove her hand in retaliation. Instead, he flew the helicopter in. The closer they got to the target, the less he goofed around. He focused, his hands gripping the controls, making sure to move in at a slow enough pace to account for the lack of a helipad. Of course, Prestige Entertainment had been doing this trip enough that they had more than one spot cleared for landing. He chose a spot within shouting distance of the other helicopter, and brought his bird in for landing.
Below him, he spotted three figures beneath an erected tent made of fabulous colors. An older couple, leaning back in sun chairs. And a third person—approaching them from behind. John frowned, but lost sight as they descended. Slowly, he brought their helicopter down, landing on the mountain.
John didn’t have time to enjoy the view of the cliffs below them, the other mountains around them, the distant signs of the city, sprawling like a small rectangle against the horizon. The fog swirled and snow turned up in white powder, kicking off the ground. As the helicopter blades whirred, the vehicle touched down with a slight bump, and Adele cursed, louder and more fervently than he’d ever heard her do before.
Trying to get a good look at the three figures, John turned off the blades, allowing them to shudder to a stop. Once they were situated, he adjusted the instruments, shut down the engines, and then kicked open the helicopter door, before dropping out into the snow. His hand was on his weapon before his feet even hit the ground. Some things just came naturally.
“Brian Wolfe?” he called out, his voice booming. His words echoed across the open space, sounding tinny and desperate in the still air. The acoustics up here were strange. He tried again. “Brian Wolfe, identify yourself!”
He spotted the old couple, blinking beneath their tarp, and then his eyes settled on the third figure he’d seen. A man. Holding a knife—approaching the old couple from behind, where they couldn’t see him.
John cursed and his weapon whipped up. He bolted forward, shouting, “Put the knife down! Put it down—now!”
Adele raced after him, her footsteps crunching in the snow.
The man with the knife pulled up sharply, his eyes wide. The older couple sat up, jarred from their reverie.
For a moment, everyone looked around in confusion.
“John,” Adele said, quickly. “Look, John… It’s not him—it’s not.”
There was another shout, and the door to the second helicopter swung open. Another man emerged, frowning out at them. “Who are you?” called this second pilot.
The man with the knife behind the old couple paused, seemingly stunned. The two older folk were glancing back at him, seemingly unperturbed by the blade, and asking questions which John couldn’t make out.
Besides the knife, the figure was holding a silver tray. On the tray rested a ladle coated in syrupy contents in a glass bowl. The knife, on closer inspection, John realized wasn’t serrated, so much as pointed—like a pick.
Next to the ladle on the silver tray, John spotted two small containers of shaved ice. His eyes flicked to the small tool again—less of a weapon than an instrument on closer inspection. An ice pick? Some sort of utensil?
John’s eyes flicked toward the man holding the tray and the pick. He felt even more sheepish now.
The cook? A butler or some shit? Like something out of one of those British television shows.
Across from them, beneath the small erected tent, the two older figures sat up in their sun chairs, with a small wooden table between them. The table was not made of any wood John recognized. It was far too dark, chocolate even, and looked to be handcrafted.
He stared, but continued to approach and heard the crunch of Adele’s footsteps next to him.
“Wer bist du?” called an irritated voice in German. The man; he sat beneath the umbrella, a small glass in his hand, which he had half tilted, suspended over his chest, neither straightening nor tilting further.
Alcohol in stasis, the worst type, John thought. In French, he replied, “My name is Agent Renee, with DGSI. This is Agent Sharp,” he barked, in as authoritative a voice as the acoustics of the open area would allow. “I’m here to speak with Brian Wolfe.”
The third man beneath the tent, who had lowered the ice pick in favor of a silver pitcher, paused; he set the pitcher on the wooden table and frowned.
“I’m Brian,” called the
voice from the second helicopter. The men dropped from the pilot’s seat now, approaching the confused group beneath the multicolored tent.
Adele stepped forward, and in German said, “Do you speak German?”
Brian nodded, still approaching. “French, German,” he said, still with a bit of an accent, “doesn’t matter. What’s the meaning of this? You said DGSI?”
“Yes,” said Adele. “We need to speak with you about the disappearances of Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti, and Mr. and Mrs. Hanes.”
At this, the old couple in their sun chairs perked up, staring wide-eyed. Adele held out a hand, in what John assumed she meant as a calming gesture. But the old couple, with many grunts and heaves, finally managed to push out of the chairs and stood to their feet beneath the tent, huddling together. The champagne lay forgotten, resting on the dark, wooden table.
The woman hugged the side of her husband. They both wore matching red and pink overcoats and mittens. She asked a question, but John couldn’t understand the words in German.
The man was shaking his head and jabbered something to Mr. Wolfe.
The pilot, in slow, careful French—for John’s benefit no doubt—said, “We were told this was perfectly legal. Perfectly legal.”
“We’re not here because of this… excursion,” said Adele. “We have some questions for you.”
The butler, holding the silver pitcher, just looked confused.
Hesitantly, Brian approached the agents, hands where they could see them. “Fine,” he said, “I’m happy to help. I remember the Benevetis. I took them up on a trip a week ago.”
“Yes, and you also know they were found murdered only a few days ago?” Adele asked.
Mr. Wolfe just nodded. John couldn’t tell if he looked grieved or worried at this announcement.
“And the Hanes couple,” John said, “do you remember them? They disappeared a week before the Benevetis. We found them too—similar state.”
Mr. Wolfe shrugged. “I’m afraid not. Could you give me some details? I do a lot of these trips. This is my third one today.”
John whistled, trying not to do the math involved. $50,000 per trip, multiple pilots, a few trips per day. He could only imagine the amount of money that small, dingy office was pulling in. Margaret and her uncle weren’t everything they seemed.
“Look,” said Adele, “would you mind coming with us?”
Brian Wolfe sighed. “Well, I have to fly them back down, would that be okay?”
Adele shared a look with John. “Actually, he can fly them down, and you can come with me.”
John waited, expecting Brian to resist, to avoid, to run away. But he had no signs of a guilty man. He just looked defeated, and shrugged. More than anything, he seemed confused.
“Fine,” he said. “We need to pack up, if that’s okay.”
John shook his head, and said, “No time. We’ll send someone back for it. You need to come with us.”
“John,” Adele said, hesitantly.
“Come on, Mr. Wolfe, don’t make this difficult,” John insisted. He reached out a large hand, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder.
“John,” Adele said, more insistently now. He looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not our man,” Adele said, her words emphasized by a swallow.
John stared at her. “You can’t possibly know that. We haven’t even interrogated him.”
“Not your man?” said Mr. Wolfe. “Hang on, I’m not a suspect, am I?”
John stared at him. “You’re not dense, are you? Of course you’re a suspect. You’re the only connecting point between the two victims.”
“John,” Adele said, elongating his name to try to gain his attention again. She was staring at her phone now. John frowned again and looked over. “What?”
“It’s not him,” she said.
“How can you be sure?” he demanded.
“Because,” Adele said, holding up her phone, “another body was found. Fresh. Couldn’t have been killed more than two hours ago.”
John stared at her. “Two hours?”
Adele nodded toward Mr. Wolfe. “Guess who that rules out?”
“The same MO?” John asked.
Adele sighed, scanning her phone again. “Robert just texted. Sorry,” she said to Mr. Wolfe. “Das tut mir leid!” she repeated to the wealthy couple who were still huddled beneath the tent.
The man said something while shaking a fist. John, simply by the posture, guessed he was threatening to sue them. Typical.
John moved after Adele. “You’re sure you don’t want to question him at least?” he murmured as the snow crunched beneath their boots.
Adele kept her shoulders hunched against the wind, head down, not looking back to the strange spectacle on the alpine peak. “Does he look like a man ready to bolt?” she murmured.
John glanced back toward Mr. Wolfe, who, as before, just looked confused. “I guess not. But he was our only contact point.”
“Yeah, well, we have another body.”
John frowned. “Just one?”
“I’ll give you the details on the way back. We need to get to that new resort.” Adele promptly picked up the pace, muttering to herself as she maneuvered back along the mountaintop toward their helicopter.
John seemed caught, unsure what to do. It seemed so abrupt. He glanced at Mr. Wolfe then back at Adele.
“Stay in town,” John said, jabbing a finger toward the pilot.
He raised his hands. “I live here. I own a house. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yeah?” said John. Then, because he had nothing better to add, he said, “You better not.”
That would show him. His cheeks flushed with something close to embarrassment, John turned and hurried back toward the helicopter, grateful once he was back in the cabin, hidden from view. He could feel eyes burning through the glass, staring at them.
“Why didn’t you check with Robert sooner?” he demanded.
Adele glared at him. “I did, just now. Why didn’t you fly like a sane person?”
John turned the engines back on and waited for the whipping blades to build up speed once more. “Another body,” he said. “How’s that for an alibi?”
Adele glanced across John to where Mr. Wolfe was seemingly apologizing to the elderly couple, gesticulating wildly. “Pretty damn good one. If you ask me,” she said.
“It could still be him,” said John. “Maybe he has a partner?”
“Yeah, maybe. But the same MO and everything. Multiple pieces.”
“Well,” said John.
“Yeah,” said Adele. “Well. Just get us back to the resort. Let’s see if we can find anything new.”
“You know what I like most about square one?” John said, grumbling as he fiddled with the instruments, preparing for their journey back.
“Pray tell,” she said.
“It’s just so familiar.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Adele approached the crime scene nervously, trying to conceal the knots twisting in her stomach. She felt John brush against her, his two layered sweatshirts soft against her forearm. She glanced down and noticed his hand rigid as it swung stiffly at his side, his fingers twitching every time they passed his holster.
“Easy there,” she said.
John ignored her, his eyes fixed on the investigators ahead of them. “Not good, Adele,” he said, growling. “Another corpse. That’s on us.” He looked at her hard, his eyes wide. “You get that, right? This body dropped on our watch.”
Adele set her teeth. “I don’t like it any more than you,” she replied, trying to suppress the sudden surge of guilt in her belly.
John just muttered in frustration and stalked ahead of her toward the scene.
Already a red and yellow caution tape line had been set up, keeping people back. Beyond, on one of the lower peaks, she spotted the new resort. Winding gray paths along the snowbound cliffs brought vehicles up to it. The buildings were constructed of modern materials and, in Adel
e’s estimation, looked more like an airport than a vacation stop. And yet, from what she’d heard, the level of technology rivaled any of the other tourist attractions in the Alps. They boasted the latest endeavors in entertainment, with rooms equipped with virtual reality tours, and home theaters in every chalet or hotel. She spotted some buildings with staggered glass and white walls that made her think of a science fiction novel.
Parts of the buildings blended against the snowy backdrop, displaying only the blue windows as if they were hovering in the air, suspended in nothing. Spectacle aside, though, this new resort had only opened a couple of days ago. A murder on the second day would hardly be good for business.
“Looks like the rats have come for cheese,” John murmured quietly.
Adele frowned and followed Agent Renee’s attention. He was staring at a single van parked beyond the caution tape line on the gray road. A man with a large video camera was standing in front of a white-paneled van. In front of him, a woman with very neatly cut hair and a beaming smile was grinning into the lens while intermittently describing the scene behind her.
Adele heard: “…another murder in the Alps! Investigators continue to scramble, unable to apprehend the culprit…”
John grunted. “What’s she saying?”
Adele glanced over and quickly translated the German. The tall agent’s frown only deepened, and went quiet. Adele had seen him like this before; John didn’t take it well when innocents were harmed on cases he worked. She felt the same surge of guilt in her gut. Another body. On their watch. She felt a lance of frustration shoot through her chest, and her eyes narrowed. They needed a clue—something. Anything.
Adele patted John on the back of the hand, which had flicked by his holstered weapon again.
She approached a couple of uniformed officers, and they lifted the caution tape once she flashed her credentials. Agent Beatrice Marshall was standing over in one corner of the crime scene, discussing something quietly with a man and a woman, both in suits. Adele guessed they were probably higher-ups from the BKA.
A couple of Italian agents were there, as well as a Swiss investigator she recognized from back at her resort. All of them seem to have sequestered into corners, and, to the best of their ability, seemed to be ignoring each other as they moved about the crime scene. All of them delicate, careful not to step on anything, but at the same time, Adele couldn’t help but remember the phrase Ms. Jayne and Agent Grant had used back in San Francisco. Too many cooks would spoil the broth. Adele would be stunned if she found anything new that wasn’t already trampled over. And the stakes kept getting higher. Others would die… She had to stop it—had to.
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