Left To Hide

by Pierce, Blake

  “You need to back off,” she said.

  The woman, though, gestured nearly imperceptibly with one of her hands behind her back, and her cameraman stepped forward, his lens glinting in the faint light above. Adele stepped back, keeping a distance between her and the ogling video recorder.

  “Is it true you are no closer to solving the case than when you started?” asked the reporter. She kept her tone professional, seemingly objective, but Adele detected a malicious glint in her eye.

  “Is it true there have been more than five murders? That you had another attack at a resort not fifty miles from here? Is it true you arrested and beat an innocent man? A ski instructor? Is it your habit to arrest innocent people and assault them?” rattled off the reporter as if reading from a teleprompter.

  Adele could feel her blood boiling, but she knew that if she reacted it would only hurt the investigation further. So she turned to walk away. She heard the crunch of snow as the cameraman and the woman followed.

  “Hello, do you have any comment? Is it true you have nothing further on the case? That you’re no closer to solving it? Is one of your own involved? Do you make a habit of assaulting civilians? Why do you think you’re above the law?” the reporter asked.

  At that, Adele heard a grunt, then a quiet yelp. She glanced back and stared in stunned silence.

  John Renee had plucked the camera from the operator, and was now holding it in his hand. The cameraman was trying to scramble toward the tall agent, to grab back the device. The news anchor swiveled and stared. Her demeanor changed, if only imperceptibly, as she seemed to realize there was no lens on her at that moment. Some of the professional façade faded to be replaced by an angry snarl. “Give that back!” she said. “This is assault; I will press charges!”

  John stared at the woman, and Adele could see the frustration over the course of the day bubbling up and simmering behind his eyes.

  “John,” Adele said, “careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  John winked at the news reporter, and then tossed the camera over the sheer cliff. The long extension of cable attached to the cameraman’s headphones snapped like elastic, yanking the headphones from the operator’s head. John whistled as the device plummeted far, far below into the precipice.

  The cameraman yelled in horror and swiped helplessly at the air. “How dare you!” Adele felt her stomach sink.

  “Whoops,” said John.

  “Oh no, John,” Adele muttered, beneath her breath.

  The cameraman was leaning on the railing, pointing through the trees, trying to locate the expensive recording equipment. The news anchor was shouting at John, but also fishing her phone out of her pocket, desperately, with fingers trembling with rage, trying to dial a number.

  For his part, John ignored all of them and approached the car door with the woman in the gray blanket. He said something quietly to her, but it was clear she couldn’t understand his accent. Then, gently, he gestured toward the front seat and raised an eyebrow.

  Still trembling, she shook her head. John nodded as if an understanding, and then jerked his head toward the other side of the path, in the direction of the chalets. The woman looked him in the eyes, and then, quietly, she allowed him to guide her away from the scene, down the trail.

  John didn’t touch her, but he stood protectively between her and the rest of them, guiding her along the trail in the direction of the chalets. He moved away from the crime scene, away from the irate camera crewman, and away from a stunned Adele.

  Adele didn’t even want to think what the nightly news would play on repeat now. Rogue agent attacks cameramen. Interpol correspondent continues to botch the operation. The headlines were clear enough in her mind.

  One thing was for sure, she needed to get John out of here before this became a bigger deal. She watched the tall agent escort the grieving woman away from the scene and away from her dead fiancé.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  “What did they say?” Adele asked, staring at her partner.

  John shrugged, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Said there’d be a review of my conduct. It’s nothing.”

  Adele looked at him hard. “They’re not pulling you off the case?”

  John raised an eyebrow at her. “You would miss me if they did that.”

  “Not sure I’d miss the smart ass comments,” she said.

  The two of them sat in the third victim’s chalet. Miss Sophie was upstairs, and Adele could hear the shower running as she rinsed out the soap from her hair. John had escorted her back, and Adele had followed. She’d asked if they would be willing to stay.

  The chalet was large, luxurious, comfortable. Adele had wanted to refuse, but she’d seen the state of the woman. The trembling, the fear. She’d asked them to stay, to look out for her. Adele and John had needed a place to regroup anyway. So Adele had agreed, reluctantly, to keep an eye out for the next few hours, to give the woman upstairs a chance to recoup her senses, to calm down.

  Also, it gave John and Adele a place to hide out while the media went into a frenzy. Adele was already getting notifications on her phone, but she had turned them off an hour ago. Now, they sat in the confines of the cozy living room of the chalet. The entire west wall was just glass, displaying picturesque scenery of the resort and mountains around them.

  Still, Adele couldn’t believe John had thrown the camera off the cliff. Well, perhaps that wasn’t right. She could believe it. In fact, if she’d had her wits about her, she would’ve predicted it.

  “They’re going to review you back at the DGSI?” she said.

  John snorted. “I’ve done worse, and they’ve given me a slap on the wrist. Besides, that cameraman was an asshole.”

  “True, but you can’t just throw their possessions off a cliff.”

  He frowned at her. “Whatever, American Princess. Let’s move on. We’re laying low, just like you wanted. What next?”

  Adele sighed through her nose, trying to readjust. John’s decisions were his decisions. In a small, quiet, deeply hidden part of her, she was grateful he had reacted as he did. Some people were the sort to secretly resent the media, but feel their hands were tied. That’s how Adele felt. But John was a man of action… rash, stupid action.

  “Fine,” she said. “Who do you think it could be? All of the victims were wealthy. But not all of them were couples. All of them were at resorts, but they were different resorts separated by a couple hundred miles. The only employee connection we found was a dead end.”

  “Corporate assassination?” John asked. He quirked an eyebrow. “They all had money. From what we know, Mr. Griezmann,” he lowered his voice, and his eyes darted toward the staircase leading upstairs, “had money in this resort itself.”

  “It’s possible. But he also retired. He used to make money day trading, but why would that piss anyone off? And even if it had, he doesn’t have his fingers in any pie really. He has a company do the investing for him.”

  John sighed. “You think there’s a personal connection we’re missing?”

  Adele and John regarded each other across the small coffee table in the shape of a tree stump. John had his hands clasped behind his head, and had taken off his shoes, placing his feet on the edge of the couch. Adele sat primly, carefully, her feet on the floor, one leg crossed daintily over the other, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  “It would take too long to delve further into their histories,” said John. “Besides, they were wealthy. As in super wealthy. No one hides skeletons better in their closets.”

  Adele snorted, but didn’t disagree. “Seems like the killer is escalating,” she said. “The murders are becoming more rapid, just as violent as before. I don’t think we have time before he hits again.”

  John rubbed his jaw, brushing at the stubble and frowning in thought. “Well, we can ask your old mentor to see if he can find any more leads,” said John. “Besides, the parameters are wider now.”

  Adele frowned. “How so?”
>
  “We thought the only victims were at the two resorts. But this new one adds a new parameter to the possible connections. It might turn something up we didn’t think of at first.”

  Adele shrugged one shoulder. “It’s worth a shot. I’ll give him a call.”

  ***

  “Read that name to me again,” Adele said, sharply.

  She and John were still at the new resort. They had relocated to a small café, a mile’s walk from the residential part of the resort. She and John were staring across a strangely shaped white table. Again, Adele was reminded of a science fiction book. There were so many white lights and marble counters and black-and-white walls around them. There were other tourists here too, but the lull of the customers’ conversation was quiet, hushed.

  John was staring at his phone and read the name Robert had come up with back at the DGSI.

  “Joseph Meissner,” John repeated. He frowned. “Why? Has that name come up for you?”

  Adele blinked. She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t followed up with Joseph. But it had been the same person, the valet, who the Benevetis had a falling out with.

  “Explain to me again how we missed him the first time,” asked Adele

  “Because,” said John, “he doesn’t work where my couple were murdered. But he has family in the French mountains. His grandmother actually. He stays with her during the summers but will visit every couple of weekends as well.”

  John continued to scroll through the information Robert had sent them. Adele tapped her fingers against the cold marble of the table between them. She could smell the faint odor of greasy food and alcohol. “He has a family member where the Swiss victims were killed?” she asked.

  John nodded. “And he works at the Bavarian resort. The one where the Benevetis were killed.”

  Adele’s expression grew troubled. “Yeah, his name came up. He had a falling out with them. Something about bringing the wrong drink to her room. Mrs. Beneveti tried to have him fired. By the sound of things they cut back his hours.”

  John nodded, stroking his chin. “Well, it looks like he made up for those hours. And guess what else: he now works here. Part time, but he’s a valet.”

  Adele could feel her stomach twist. “So Joseph Meissner has family where the Swiss couple were killed, worked where the Benevetis were killed, and was recently employed here, where Mr. Griezmann was murdered. And we know, at least in one case, he had a severe falling out with the victims.”

  She shook her head. A nineteen-year-old could kill someone just as easily as anyone else. She’d been blind.

  John scraped a thumb sharply along the underside of his jaw. “We need to find exactly where he’s working. We could check with any of the valet services.”

  Adele paused. “It’s not a bad idea, but actually, I have another one.”

  John angled an eyebrow as Adele fished her phone from her pocket, dialed a number, and raised it to her ear. She waited for the buzz, and then a quiet voice answered. “Respite in the Cliffs, how may I help you?”

  “Heather?” Adele replied.

  A lengthy silence. And then, “Who is this?

  “It’s Agent Sharp. Adele. I have a question for you.”

  Adele heard the barkeep swallow on the other end. “I held my end of the bargain,” Heather said. “I hope you’re holding yours.”

  Adele winced, but said, “I’m doing my best to keep the employees out of it. But I have to be honest, we’re looking at Joseph; do you know where he is?”

  John was staring at her across the table, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Adele kept her voice low, trying to avoid attention from the tourists around her. Her nose wrinkled a bit at the smells and the odors of the fast food. She tried to glance out the windows toward glimpses of the trails and ski slopes beyond.

  “I can’t say I know where he is,” said Heather, quietly.

  “What do you mean? You can’t or you don’t know?”

  “I mean, that he was actually supposed to show up for work tonight, but didn’t.”

  Adele felt her pulse quicken as she stared across the table at John. He seemed to notice a shift in her demeanor, and watched her carefully. “Do you have any idea where he might be?” she asked.

  “Joseph’s a good kid, hear me? But…” A hesitant swallow. “Joseph wasn’t in trouble with the Benevetis just for bringing the wrong drink. He has sticky fingers.”

  “Come again?”

  “Mr. Beneveti found him going through his wife’s purse. That’s when he threw the drink on him. That’s when they complained, and tried to get him fired. Of course, the resort was starved for personnel. They cut back Joseph’s hours, though. He lost a big chunk of time. He had a week where he wasn’t even working.”

  “Joseph was stealing from your customers?”

  For a moment, Adele thought she’d lost the connection. But then she heard a clink of glasses, a grunt from someone, likely a client calling for Heather’s attention.

  “Look, I have to go.”

  Before Adele could say anything else, she heard the dial tone.

  “Well?” John asked. “What was that about?”

  Adele pushed away from the table and grabbed John by the arm, tugging him toward the door. “Joseph Meissner—I think he’s our guy.”

  “And where is he?”

  Adele paused, blinking owlishly as if trying to piece it all together. “I think… He didn’t show up for work… And he was caught stealing from the first victims—the Benevetis… I think…” Adele exhaled softly. “It’s just a hunch… but people like Joseph don’t change their stripes.”

  “Where, Adele?”

  “I think he’s going to rob Ms. Sophie’s chalet.”

  John stared at Adele, and then the two of them hurried out the door, breaking into a jog. They were only a mile from the residential area of the resort. But a mile without a vehicle would take time. Quietly, with huffing breaths, Adele and John jogged, hurrying up the heated tile trails, moving through the darkening resort beneath a bleak sky as they raced back toward the chalet of Mr. Griezmann and Ms. Sophie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  A faint orange light glinted from the window on the second floor. John nodded toward it. “Ms. Sophie,” he said, quietly.

  Adele nodded just as quietly.

  They were on the porch, listening. Their hands on their weapons, eyes peeled.

  “See any sign of forced entry?” Adele asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  John scanned the sliding glass door and shook his head. His gaze flicked back up toward the orange glow from the window above. “Ms. Sophie?” he called, his deep voice booming.

  No reply.

  “Think she went to sleep?” Adele asked.

  John glanced at the dipping sun in the late afternoon sky. “Too early, don’t you think?”

  “She’s been through a lot.”

  John raised his voice again. “Ms. Sophie!” His voice echoed with concern. Adele couldn’t shake the look of guilt and fury he’d had in his eyes at the discovery of the fifth victim. On our watch. He’d kept repeating that phrase. Adele wouldn’t let the suspect get away this time, though.

  If this valet, this Joseph Meissner, was as much of an opportunist as everyone seemed to think, he would be here.”

  “Are you sure that—”

  Before John could finish his sentence, Adele thought she heard a sound of scuffling in the darkness. She held out a hand, quickly pressing it against John’s chest across the patio furniture. They both waited in the dark, staring through the sliding glass door.

  “He’s in the bloody house,” John said, suddenly. The tall agent stepped forward, pressing his eyes against the glass, and then cursed.

  “What?” Adele implored.

  But John ignored her and broke into a jog, racing around the side of the house toward a basement window. “A-ha!” he crowed.

  Adele spotted a smashed window, small blue pieces of glass scattered across a concrete divider. The
ground-level window had a thick white sweater thrown over the glass, and the opening was wide enough for a small person to enter.

  Another sound, this one from behind.

  Adele whirled around, gun in her hand now. Two glinting eyes appeared between trees. A raccoon. Adele relaxed a bit.

  “Come on,” she said, quietly. “He’s in there.”

  John nodded, put a finger to his lips.

  More shuffling from inside, and then a black bag was tossed through the window.

  Adele and John both stared. The bag sat on top of the pieces of crumbled glass. Then a pale hand extended through the window as well.

  Adele heard soft muttering, a few curses in German, and then a face began to appear. The moment the face spotted the two of them staring down, it screamed, pushed off, and tried to bolt. But John was quicker. The big Frenchman roared, grabbed the person by the still extended arm, and dragged them, bodily, with muscles heaving, through the open window.

  “Gah!” the person screamed in German. “Help! Stop! The glass—damn it!”

  Adele pressed against the wooden structure of the chalet, beneath the blue glass terrace above, and kicked out, shoving the person to the side with fewer shards of scattered glass. Most of the glass had fallen into the room below, but some of the larger, jagged pieces were on the ground, suggesting this perhaps wasn’t the home invader’s first trip.

  The person was still squawking and waving his arms desperately.

  “Hold still!” John demanded in French. “Stop it!”

  But the person kicked and there was a loud clatter as a garbage can toppled over. There, gasping on the ground, still gripped by John’s oppressive grasp, was a slight, thin, wiry youth. Now that the garbage can had toppled, Adele had a better view of the trails behind the chalet. A stone’s throw away, behind the house, on a park trail, Adele spotted a rusted out jalopy with the headlights off, but by the sound of things, the engine was still rumbling.