by Blake Pierce
The doors sprang open as Adele exited the car in a rush, stepping onto the low, street-level sidewalk marked by fading white paint. She looked over. “Did you call ahead?”
Leoni shook his head across the top of the car. “Didn’t want to give him a chance to set his alibi.”
Adele’s hair, miraculously, had become tidier over the intervening hours. Quick glances into the rearview mirror and reflective, tinted windows had given her the opportunity to readjust what normally would require a good half hour in front of the bathroom mirror.
She looked to Agent Leoni as he rounded the car and joined her on the sidewalk. She wasn’t used to her partner waiting for her to take the lead. Agent John Renee would often stalk straight up to a suspect’s house, indifferent to whether Adele joined him or not. Leoni had a more measured approach.
She wasn’t sure why she kept thinking about John. He wasn’t here. Adele sighed, moving up the sidewalk, between the open space of the encircling brick wall and up the three slab concrete steps.
Adele raised a hand and tapped against the green wooden door of the two-story home. Across from them, they faced a building that looked like a cross between a chapel and a small-town school. Between the buildings, an ornate fountain was filled with water pattering over the edges of three leveled discs.
A few seconds passed in the remarkable residential district of Rome. Neither of the agents spoke, preferring silence for the moment. Adele kept musing over the riddle in her mind. High point. Something about that stood out to her. She had sent a request to the precinct, coupled with contacts in Interpol, to arrange a list of all the highest places in Europe. Any tall tourist attraction.
She had also asked for a list of St. Mary’s cathedrals and churches—anything to do with a virgin.
She cleared her throat, swallowing back a sudden spurt of embarrassment at an errant thought. She was starting to feel more in common with St. Mary than ever. Something about Leoni in his neat suit, with the soft, fragrant cologne and flawless, movie star good looks, only reminded her of this.
She knocked again, but no answer. Adele crossed her arms and glanced back at Leoni.
“You’re sure about the address?”
“I’m sure.”
She raised an eyebrow and said, “Want to double-check?”
Leoni didn’t sigh in frustration, and he didn’t blink. His jaw tightened, just a bit, but then relaxed, and he breathed slowly, patiently, as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Dutifully, he opened to the appropriate file, glanced down, and nodded once. “We’re at the right place. Today is his day off.”
Adele huffed, pushing a hand through her hair and turning to face the countryside of Bucchianico. Her eyes flicked along the small trees planted in rows across a rustic two-lane road.
“Maybe he’s out with friends…”
Before she had finished, though, there was a quiet screech of tires, and then the slamming door of a car. Both she and Leoni glanced toward the street. A small van had pulled up behind where they had parked.
A round man with a double chin and a cheerful disposition was whistling, carrying a paper bag full of groceries. A long loaf of bread extended past a visible gray carton of eggs over the top of the bag. He braced the groceries against his shoulder as he closed the trunk to his vehicle, clicked the automatic locks, and, still whistling, began moving toward the two-story home.
Leoni was already moving forward, stepping in front of the approaching gentleman.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in Italian.
The man lowered his groceries a bit so he could peer over the top of the loaf of bread. He seemed only just now to have noticed the two agents standing outside his building. “Hello,” the man said.
This was the extent of Adele’s Italian, though. She waited, patiently, as Leoni rattled off a question.
The man replied.
Adele tapped her fingers against her upper thigh, waiting.
Leoni glanced at her. “This is Mr. Ager.”
“Can you ask him if he has a moment to talk?”
More Italian. The round, double-chinned man still maintained his cheerful disposition, though he looked speculative now. He said something in Italian which elicited a ratcheted brow from Leoni.
The Italian agent translated for Adele. “He says he expected us to come. Wants to know if this is about the murders.”
Adele blinked. She looked at Mr. Ager and decided not to beat around the bush. The man had an intelligent gaze and clearly wasn’t disturbed by the appearance of federal agents. By the look of him, and, judging by his words, he was smart enough to put two and two together. Likely, he knew why they were here. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We wanted to talk to you. We know you used to work at the cathedral and recently have been employed at the chapel. Both locations of the murders, which I’m sure you’ve heard about on the news.”
Leoni related her question, and the man’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded knowingly and then replied.
Leoni cleared his throat. “He says he has an alibi for the night of the most recent murder.”
“He doesn’t happen to have proof of this alibi, does he?”
Before Leoni could even relay the question, the round tour guide lowered his groceries to the sidewalk and fished out a phone. He held up a finger for a moment, clicked through his phone, and then turned it toward Leoni and Adele.
Adele leaned forward; a second later, she glimpsed a video. The video flashed, displaying what looked to be a small celebration at a local bar. She spotted grainy footage of a birthday cake with the number forty-two on top. She spotted a few other adults with small party hats on and generous drinks in front of them. The camera turned, and it showed Mr. Ager, drinking a beer, laughing and chattering away with one of his friends. A few seconds later, he leaned in and blew out the birthday candles.
Adele looked up again, peering toward the man framed against the two parked vehicles on the low-lying curb. But Mr. Ager tapped at the screen insistently, and she glanced back down, realizing he was pointing out the small, faded gray numbers beneath the video displaying the time and date.
“The night before the murder,” Leoni supplied as Adele reached the conclusion herself.
“Is there a way for him to verify how long he was at this party?”
A moment later, before Leoni could ask, as if anticipating this question as well, the round tour guide cycled down, clicking on another video clip. This one showed it from someone else’s angle. Mr. Ager smiled sheepishly, as the video showed him passed out, likely drunk, with someone drawing with a sharpie on his upper lip, a small curly mustache. Adele glanced at the man, standing over his groceries, and realized now, that beneath some stubble, there were still the gray remnants of the marker.
Mr. Ager regarded Leoni and said something Adele couldn’t understand.
Leoni translated. “He says he was there until two in the morning. Stayed the night with a friend in Casacanditella. He didn’t return until early this morning, well after the murder was reported.”
Adele glanced from the phone to Mr. Ager, then breathed a long breath.
Of course, it wasn’t an airtight alibi. There were still ways he could have worked around the apparent video evidence. And the killer was clever, that much was clear. But more importantly, she knew Mr. Ager couldn’t have done it. To be able to string someone up, hanging them from the Sistine Chapel or Notre Dame, it would require a strength, and a physique, that Mr. Ager didn’t possess. He was jovial, round, and was already sweating a bit, breathing heavily from hefting groceries three steps. This was not someone who could lug a body by rope. Perhaps he had a partner. But this knowledge, coupled with the alibi, left Adele with a cold sensation in her stomach.
“Can you ask for numbers of his friends who might be able to confirm how long he was with them?”
Leoni nodded and rattled off the question.
Adele didn’t wait for a response though, and was already turning, moving back to the w
aiting car in front of where Mr. Ager had parked his van. High places. Something about the riddle mattered. Eiffel Tower, maybe? The Leaning Tower of Pisa?
She needed to brush up on her geography and history if she wanted to catch this killer—or at least find someone who could help. For a moment, Adele paused by the car, waiting for Leoni to gather the needed phone numbers and then join her. Vaguely, she wondered at the killer. What sort of man would do this? What sort of man would string up tourists and hang them from these locations? How would he have access to these buildings to begin with? Did he break in? Did he hide overnight, waiting for the opportune moment? Did he know something about the locations she didn’t?
It was never comfortable thinking like a killer, but if she wanted to catch this man before he murdered again, she would have to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
How decrepit their imaginations…
Rot.
Dross.
They called him the Monument Killer, of all things…. So gaudy, so weak. He was no killer—he was a prophet. Nothing more, nothing less. A messenger, and an omen.
He stepped off the boat, beneath the smokestack, moving in line with the rest of the travelers coming to these shores.
A short trip across the channel. The air smelled of salt, and stale ash from the many cargo ships and passenger vessels that moved through the still waters. And though he walked with them, leaving the boats and meandering toward customs, he didn’t consider himself one of the crowd.
His eyes scanned the shore, flicking along the many businesses and shops set up along the wharf. He carried no luggage. Anything he needed he could buy. Just one of the many benefits of a long, successful career as a façade developer.
In more ways than one, perhaps.
He tipped his head, smiling genially as he moved through the spinning kiosk, and headed out onto the street. He flagged down a taxi and stowed into the backseat, rattling off the destination he had in mind.
The driver glanced into the mirror. “Here to see the sights?”
The messenger tried not to let his disgust display across his face. “The sights?” he asked, softly. “I do hope to see. And I hope others see too.”
“Well, most tourists choose the Acropolis as their first destination. They tip well too,” the driver added.
The prophet smiled again, nodding slowly.
At least the driver knew how to pronounce the Acropolis correctly. So many people failed to honor the greats. Pericles himself had constructed the Acropolis of Athens, the Parthenon itself. Pericles was a prophet too, in his day. A sacrificial leader. The sort sorely lacking in the heart of culture now.
Most people didn’t understand. They didn’t know the things they were meddling with.
But he did. There were those who couldn’t comprehend why these sights were sacred. The home to gods once upon a time, now little more than Disneyland to the many people who wandered through. Sheep trampling across the graves of wolves.
But perhaps the wolves weren’t so dead after all. And perhaps the graves had caretakers.
Soon…once he was done, proper respect would be restored.
“Have you been to Greece before?” the taxi driver asked.
The prophet gave a smile. He responded in perfect Greek. Of course, he knew seventeen languages fluently, and another twelve passably. Endless resources, endless intellect, these things were beneficial to most. But to the prophet, endless devotion was the most crucial component. Intellect and resources were simply servants to this devotion.
“I have. It’s one of my favorite places.”
“Where are you coming from?”
The man smiled, glancing out the window. “Italy.”
The taxi driver tried to entice him into further conversation. But the omen-bringer wasn’t interested. He was running over the blueprints in his mind. Already, he could picture them. Just another one of the benefits of a photographic memory. He’d worked on such buildings before, called in for cheap restoration projects by money-minded solicitors in bureaucratic uniforms. As an engineer, as a façade developer, he knew the ins and outs of such buildings. He would have to find a place to stay for the night, then a hardware store. He was going to need some hooks and a rope.
CHAPTER NINE
Night had fallen by the time Adele was driven back into the hub of Rome in order to check in to her hotel. Leoni was driving once more, and while he tracked traffic, she’d made the mistake of brushing a finger against the glass of his passenger-side window.
Leoni had cleared his throat. “Er, sorry. Pardon. But you’ll leave streaks.”
Adele had glanced at him, amused, but then lowered her hand.
She’d already discerned the Italian agent was quite fond of his vehicle, which was immaculate inside and out. In passing, he’d mentioned how the car had been washed just the day before.
Now, as he drove her to through the streets of Italy, toward the hotel that Robert had booked for her, Adele was scrolling through her phone to the newest email Interpol had sent. As she did, her countenance went the same way as the sky above, darkening.
Leoni glanced at her, noting her expression. He didn’t ask anything, though, allowing her to introduce her emotions at her own pace.
Adele wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the Italian agent. Either he was entirely aloof, or extraordinarily considerate. Given the job they were in, she doubted it was the second. But then again, people had a knack for ascribing virtue to those with angelic features. The halo effect, they called it. And Leoni benefited from it in spades.
Adele couldn’t help but sigh, scrolling through the list Interpol had sent. “Six hundred locations,” she muttered.
“Excuse me?” he asked, quietly.
She looked at the handsome agent. “Six hundred locations. That’s what they came up with for me. I suppose high point and virgin aren’t much to go on.” Adele scrolled continually. “Eighteen countries, and six hundred locations. This is hardly very useful.”
Her brow creased, and her frown only became more pronounced. Leoni winced. He glanced at her. “Any way of narrowing that down?”
Adele played the riddle in her mind. There were other clues. But without knowing what they hearkened to, it was like taking shots in the night.
She closed her phone, shoving it in her pocket.
“Do you want me to take you straight to the hotel? Or are you hungry?”
It was as he said this that she felt her stomach protest. She realized a moment later that it had been nearly twelve hours since she’d had a bite to eat.
“Know anywhere good?”
Leoni had turned on his right blinker, but at her comment, he turned it off and went straight through the intersection, nodding as he did. “There’s a local spot you’ll adore, I’m sure.”
It was getting late, but Adele was hungry, and the riddle was driving her crazy. Besides, sleep was a luxury. Most nights in the last week, she’d been kept up well into the morning with nightmares flashing across her mind; images of mutilation and torture kept her up well into the early hours of dawn.
She wasn’t looking forward to another battle for sleep. Besides, if there was one thing easy on the eyes, it was the agent sitting next to her.
“Whatever you want,” she said. “I could eat slugs.”
Leoni chuckled. “Is that a French thing?”
She snorted. “It’s a joke.”
“So was mine,” he said, grinning now.
Somehow, impossibly, his smile only made him look more handsome. His cheeks didn’t stretch too wide, and his nose didn’t rise too high. His eyes didn’t even seem to crinkle. She would have to remember to ask him for his moisturizing routine. His teeth were perfect, pearly white.
She found herself staring at the side of his face, but then looked away.
It only took a few minutes for Leoni to pull into the parking lot of a small German café named Sieben Zwergen in the heart of Italy. Adele smiled as he opened the door for her, and she got out
, moving beneath the green awning toward the small glass tables in the patio seating.
“It didn’t have to be German, you know,” she said.
Leoni chuckled as he pulled up a seat, allowing her to sit. “Just my idea of a small joke,” he said. “If you don’t like the food, you have my word, we can find a McDonald’s.”
Adele glared at him with mock severity. “You think all Americans like McDonald’s?”
Leoni raised an eyebrow. “I think all people of heightened taste like McDonald’s. You strike me as a connoisseur.”
Adele rolled her eyes. Now, as Leoni took the seat opposite her, with a casual wave of his hand, he called over the waiter from one of the other tables. The nighttime air was cool, but not cold. The small patio seating stared out on city lights, and the flashing traffic passed the median and sidewalk.
“So how long have you worked for the agency?” Adele asked.
Agent Leoni gestured once more toward the waiter, who nodded and began to move over with two waters. He turned his attention to Adele. “Twelve years,” he said. “It’s a bit of a family business.”
“Your father was an agent too?”
“Mother,” he said. “I never knew my father.”
Adele winced. “I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you.”
It took a moment, but then Adele realized he was joking again. She shook her head. “Are all Italians so hard to read?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think I’m hard to read?”
“Like a book with glued pages.”
He gave a soft, gentle laugh. “What a lovely expression. I’ll be sure to use that someday.”
“Just don’t forget to cite your source.”
“I would never dare.” Seamlessly moving from a good-natured grin in her direction, he turned his attention to the waiter with the near perfect transition of practiced charm. Adele wondered for a moment at his mother. A legacy of agents. It wasn’t so different from her own family.
Thoughts of her mother only troubled her, though, and she closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the chill across her spine would pass.
