by Blake Pierce
Murders couldn’t be that clean. Could they?
Adele shivered as she stared at the corpse. This killer… this killer was treating the murders themselves with care and concern, not just their presentation.
She thought of the death in Notre Dame. Also a clean kill. No additional bruising, no defensive wounds. No sign whatsoever the victim had seen the killer coming. A completely different victim from the American cardinal—a tourist. Different appearance, different weight, height, different background. No connection at all between the two.
Adele spotted the only other injury on the body: angry, red-crusted puncture wounds along this man’s arms where small hooks had been latched through, to pose him where he dangled from the ceiling.
She shivered. They’d asked for her specifically… Had they made a mistake?
“What are you thinking?” Agent Leoni asked, quietly.
Adele glanced at the ever placid countenance of her temporary partner.
“I’m thinking,” she said, “that the victim was irrelevant. I don’t think the killer cares who he takes, but rather where he takes them.”
“The landmarks? With the riddles?”
Adele nodded. “The second riddle, did you see it?”
“Yes,” said Leoni. He cleared his throat, then recited from memory: “The high place of the Great, never the Virgin’s fault, met an empire’s fate, pillars of nations fall.”
Adele blinked, trying not to show that she was impressed. “Exactly.”
“What do you think it means?”
Adele turning pointedly away from the corpse. She tried to focus on Leoni rather than the other images swirling through her brain. “I think,” she said, hesitantly, “that our killer is playing games. Something about these locations is important to him.”
“Tourist attractions?”
“Maybe. The press is calling him the Monument Killer. But there are other connections between these places as well. For one, they’re old. Maybe something to do with history. Also, they’re both deeply religious.”
“Do you think the killer wants to be caught?”
Adele shook her head. “I don’t know. I imagine not. But I think he wants to play his game. He’s sending us a message. Not just the riddles but these murders. There’s some message hidden here. And it’s up to us to find out what that is.”
The coroner was no longer standing near them, having moved off to the other side of the room toward the sink.
Adele sighed through her mask, feeling the gloves crinkle against her fingers as she pressed a hand to her thigh. “All right, I’ve seen what I needed. We have to find out what the connection is between these places.”
Leoni nodded, his face creasing in thought. “Well, the cathedral, of course, was the first model of French Gothic architecture under the guidance of Monsieur De Sully, consecrated onto the Virgin Mary.” He nodded seriously. “The chapel, on the other hand, came nearly four hundred years later, originally known as the Capella Magna. Perhaps the years of consecration are relevant?” He glanced inquisitively at Adele.
Adele stared, blinking owlishly. “Did you just memorize that?”
He stared back and suddenly flushed, coughing into his hand in mild embarrassment. “Er, sorry. I mean… Just a thought. I have a bit of interest in history myself.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s funny the things you remember.”
Adele tried not to smile. Handsome, intelligent, and humble. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to become completely distracted from the case.
“Where to now?” Leoni asked.
Adele considered this for a moment. “For the killer to subdue the victim, to be able to drag the body into these places, after hours, and know the layout well enough to put a rope around their neck and hang them, then they must have a precise knowledge of the buildings themselves. Which means they’ve definitely visited before.”
“Maybe they found blueprints online?”
Adele shook her head. “Maybe, but if they’re this interested in these places, they will have scoped it out.”
“You seem quite certain.”
“Call it a hunch. Regardless, we ought to track any ledgers, payment information, or guest lists of anyone in common who has visited both places.”
“What if they used a fake name?”
“The killer left riddles for fun. Perhaps even if they used a fake name, we’ll be allotted a clue.”
Leoni nodded.
For a moment, Adele glanced off. She wanted to get out of the coroner’s as quickly as possible. She stared at the faucet by the floor-to-ceiling metal coolers. A single drop quavered at the tip of the faucet, seemingly refusing to tumble. She blinked, and realized Leoni had asked her something.
She shook her head, returning her attention to the Italian. “Sorry, what was that?”
He smiled patiently. “I was just saying you seem distracted. Is everything okay?”
Adele thought of her mother. She thought of the images in her mind. She thought of the copycat killer back in France. She thought of Agent Renee, wondering if he was on the case. For a moment, she considered texting him, asking how it was going.
But this would only distract her further. She needed her wits about her; she wanted to solve this one. So she shook her head and said, “It’s fine. I’m sure. At least, I hope so. We need to regroup—let’s go over guest and employee records. There has to be a connection somewhere—something to clue us in to the identity of this guy.”
Adele nodded to herself, feeling another bout of anxiety at the crime scene she’d left in Paris. That was history. This case, though? This was about her future. Her career. Her reputation. All eyes were watching. History would have to wait. The future beckoned.
Besides, if anyone could solve the case of the copycat without her, it would be John. She had to count on him; what other choice did she have?
CHAPTER SIX
Agent John Renee folded the leather wallet around his set of lockpicks. It had been a while since he’d had to use them, especially on the job.
The tall Frenchman stood in the hallway of the apartment building, glancing one way then the other. The neighbors hadn’t spotted him. So far, so good. He swallowed, placing the lockpick wallet back in his pocket, then reaching out tentatively toward the door handle.
Sometimes, boundaries were set for a good reason. And in John’s estimation, that reason was often an invitation for him to cross it.
The case of the copycat killer was up to him. It had originally been assigned to Agent Paige, but he’d begged, pleaded, and bribed. After nearly three eighteen-hour days of Paige’s paperwork, and a series of promises to Foucault he’d be on his best behavior, he’d been assigned the case.
He shivered, remembering the crime scene in the dingy park, beneath the malfunctioning safety light. The young woman had been tortured to death, and such images were hard to dislodge from one’s memory. Which was why he was here.
For a moment, John stood on the threshold, holding the handle but not turning it. The metal was cold beneath his fingertips.
Some boundaries couldn’t be uncrossed. He knew more about the case than most of the local authorities. Adele had let him in on her own findings.
And yet, the trail was going cold. He hadn’t managed to come up with anything new.
“Which is why I’m here,” he said, speaking to the door. Perhaps by hearing the words it would ease his conscience to what he was about to do.
He dabbed at a tooth with the tip of his tongue and then pushed open the door, stepping into Adele Sharp’s apartment in Paris.
As he did, he quickly closed the door behind him. The moment it clicked shut, he breathed a slow sigh of relief. Invading the apartment of his colleague and friend wouldn’t bear up under witness speculation.
Adele had shared with him things she’d known about the case. Things even the locals didn’t have. Things that weren’t even in the case files. But now, a week had passed since the copycat killer had attacked, and the
re were no leads. But John wasn’t one to be held back by setbacks. If anyone had something hidden away, it would be Adele.
The tall Frenchman scratched at the scar beneath his chin, moving slowly through the apartment. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, reminding him of the age of the building. One of the older apartment complexes in Paris. There was a neat row of dishes in a dry rack by the sink. He spotted a cereal bowl, yet to be cleaned, resting in one of the basins. Beside the fridge, the microwave, and the oven, the kitchen was relatively sparse, displaying only a single cupboard for dishes.
Adele was often the sort to pack light. It allowed her to move at a moment’s notice.
He wrinkled his brow at this thought. Adele was her own woman. She could make up her mind about what she wanted to do with her life. She’d been very clear the last time they’d spoken. She wanted some space.
He moved further into the apartment, glancing at the furniture in the living room just off the kitchen. Also small and sparse. This was not a home for entertaining guests. There wasn’t even a TV. He moved down the hall, heading past the bathroom and toward the single bedroom.
The door was slightly ajar, and his hand hovered.
John wasn’t familiar with guilt. It wasn’t an emotion that cropped up that much in his life. So it took him a moment to realize the source of the needles in his stomach.
If Adele ever found out, she wouldn’t be happy. But then again, she had already distanced herself. He had thought things were changing between them. He remembered their kiss, the night spent in the motel after news about Robert. Then again, maybe she had just been emotional.
But he also remembered the time at Robert’s swimming pool, the attempted kiss in the parking lot outside the hospital. Then again, if they really were so close, how come he had never been here before? Her apartment wasn’t exactly what he had imagined. But it wasn’t far. Neat, sparse, lacking most modes of human entertainment or comfort. He had seen soldiers with similar arrays, even after returning from duty. Sometimes training was hard to forget.
John moved into her bedroom, steeling himself. If he was going to do it, he would do it right. Besides, if he managed to find this killer, she’d thank him soon enough.
He moved across toward the bed with a single pillow and a thin blanket. Again, very little comfort. No TV in here either.
He moved over to the desk, noting a thin layer of dust had accumulated across the back. A rectangular portion in the center of the desk, mostly clear of dust, suggested this was where Adele would place her laptop when she worked.
He began scanning the contents of the first drawer.
He tried the second drawer, and it was stuck at first, but as it pulled, it creaked against the wood. A pile of sticky notes, some staples, an old folder which was empty when he glanced inside.
He wrinkled his nose and turned toward the bed, dropping to hands and knees. He grunted as he peered beneath the frame and spotted an empty suitcase. Fitting. A clean sweatband sat on a pair of blue and gray running shoes.
He grunted as he pushed up, moving over to the nightstand. A single lamp, with no shade. And there, a small journal. He lifted the journal and opened it, but it was empty. He frowned, and spotted a couple of places where notes had been torn out.
He placed it back down. As he did, a piece of paper fluttered out of the journal and fell behind the desk.
He frowned, peering at it, but then shook his head. Just a piece of trash.
For a moment, he thought to do her a favor and throw it away, but then decided he ought to leave the thing where he found it unless he wanted to face questions he had no answers for. As he began to place the piece of paper back into the notebook, he paused.
He lifted the thing; not paper. Rather a wrapper. The yellowish-brown wrapper of a Carambar.
Adele had spoken of them before. In fact, he seemed to recollect they had something to do with her mother’s killer. Foucault had chewed her out for interviewing factory workers in a chocolate bar packing facility.
He shifted and flipped open the wrapper. There, in marker, were written the words, “I miss her too.”
John stared, and then felt a prickle across his spine. This wasn’t Adele’s handwriting.
I miss her too.
Not trash then. Something important.
The wrapper looked fresh enough. So not something from a decade ago, not something old.
Her father? John highly doubted it. Adele and her father hadn’t been on good terms. He wouldn’t want to agitate old wounds.
Adele had once mentioned someone taunting her mother with jokes on wrappers. And now this…
He stared at the little wrapper, pulled out his phone, and took a photo of it.
Adele had been on the right trail. He took a picture, and then another, and then placed the strange wrapper back in the notebook and placed it back on the nightstand. After another quick survey of the room, refusing to go through her clothing drawer, deciding that some things were best left unseen, he turned and moved out of the room.
Adele had been on the right trail. But he’d heard what had happened at the crime scene in Paris. He’d heard the quaver in her voice when he’d talked to her. He’d seen that sort of PTSD before. Many times in soldiers. Hell, he’d tasted his own share.
Adele would come back at her own pace. She always did. No one was nearly as relentless. And in the meantime, John would make sure she had something to come back to. Something that would blow the case wide open. Now, he just had to find what that was.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele had once heard that Italy had some of the best views in the world. Sitting in the precinct at the Vatican, staring across the break room table where Agent Leoni was running files on his computer, she couldn’t help but agree.
A truly breathtaking view. She could get used to this. Adele tried not to smile at the thought, and finally closed her eyes, refocusing.
She’d been impressed Agent Leoni had memorized the riddle so quickly. And now she cycled through it in her own mind.
The high place of the Great
never the Virgin’s fault
met an empire’s fate
pillars of nations fall
A few points of the riddle stood out in particular. Especially the part about the virgin. This seemed the most specific clue.
What did it mean, though? If she knew the answer, perhaps the clue would be obvious. And how about the portion that mentioned the high point?
A mountain? A skyscraper? Maybe some old tower.
A high point. A virgin. She cycled in her mind through the riddle, her eyes still shut, watching the words spin across her closed gaze.
If she wanted to beat the killer to his next destination, she would have to figure out the clue before he killed again.
She opened her eyes and glanced at Leoni once more.
He gnawed on the corner of his lip, displaying a focus, a concentration she had yet to see. Normally, up to this point, his expressions had been so eased and guarded.
“Any hits?” she asked. As she spoke, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from his eyes—dark, deep, contemplative. John was in France. She didn’t know what to make of all that. Sometimes distractions were best when packaged in beauty.
“No hits,” Leoni said. “But it’s not done yet.”
“We’re looking at guests’ details and employees, yes?”
Leoni nodded. “Notre Dame doesn’t have an extensive list of guests. But in the gift shop outside we can cross-reference payment info. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Right, good. And employees?”
“Checking back ten years. Anyone who might be associated with both those locations. Do you have any ideas about the riddle?”
Adele sighed, looking away from Leoni for the first time and glancing at one of the vending machines in the back of the precinct break room.
She nibbled on the corner of her lip. “I can’t be sure,” she said. “It’s not exactly specific enough. It
’s the sort of thing, I think, that will make sense once we know the location. But until then, it could mean anything. High point? It could be a mountain, it could be a tall building. It might be a metaphor. And this part about the virgin. I’m thinking St. Mary, or maybe someone else.”
“Maybe another cathedral?”
“Could be. I can’t be sure.”
Just then, Agent Leoni’s gaze flicked back toward the computer, and his eyebrows flicked up, just briefly.
“Anything?” she asked.
His eyebrows retreated, leaving the strange Superman curl of hair to return to its normal peak.
“One hit,” he said.
Adele waited.
“A tour guide, he worked at both locations in the last five years. First Notre Dame, but he left when that big fire closed it down temporarily. Then at the Sistine Chapel. He’s been working there since.”
“Name?”
“Robert Ager.”
“Robert?”
He looked up. “You know the guy?”
“No. Just, I know someone who shares the name. Do we have an address for Mr. Ager?”
Leoni was nodding and Adele pushed aside thoughts of the riddle and got to her feet, moving away from the break room table. She waited for Leoni to join her by the door, and then together, they began to move up the hall of the precinct toward where they’d parked their car. “Should we bring backup?” Leoni asked.
“No time. If we’re on the move, the killer is too.”
Adele took the lead, passing Leoni as the two of them hurried with rapid footfalls toward their waiting vehicle.
***
Leoni pulled the vehicle up to the white and beige two-story home behind a brick wall in the Trastevere residential neighborhood. The wind brushed softly against the car, inhibited by the beige and stone buildings, the scatterings of marble water fountains and the old structures looming into the sky.
