Left to Envy (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Six)

by Blake Pierce

  Adele swallowed—she felt silly even saying it, but forced the words. “Where were you last night?”

  Dr. Boler frowned. “You’re joking,” he said.

  More of his students drew nearer, shuffling forward, their flashlights swaying. As they approached, Adele spotted more people of a kind. Old T-shirts with peace signs and unshaved armpits and faces—the sorts of people John would give a hard go of. And also, perhaps, the sorts who would sign up for an online cross-country tour of old ruins under the tutelage of an online blogger with a couple of letters before his name.

  “That’s not an answer,” Adele said.

  “You’re joking,” he repeated, his face reddening, the hue apparent even in the bleak light.

  “I don’t seem to see the humor,” Adele replied, curt.

  “You think I’m the killer? That’s why you’re here? Agent, where are you from? Your English is strong. Did you follow me?”

  Adele kept her tone calm, trying not to betray her thoughts. “We were in Italy, same as you, and now we’re here, same as you. I’d like to ask you about this phrase on your blog…” She cleared her throat, glanced around sheepishly, then rattled off, “…My heart is cast in stone.”

  The man stared blankly at her. Zero recognition whatsoever. Or, perhaps, an excellent actor. The smarter they were, the harder they were to read. And the killer was definitely intelligent. Evil but smart. Intelligence, though, didn’t impress Adele. She’d met many smart killers. People, in her estimation, often valued intelligence far, far too much. Supplanting more valuable things like wisdom, character, integrity, honesty in order to impress rather than aid.

  Intelligence was useful only insofar as the person themselves. And as she regarded Dr. Boler, he struck her not as a killer, or a murderer, but a flustered educator with more than his share of quirks.

  He was scratching at his chin now, shaking his head. “You followed me from Italy because you think I’m a murderer? Impossible!”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  Dr. Boler winced. “For what time?”

  “Nighttime,” Adele said. “Last night. Where were you—and before you ask, no I’m not joking. My partner and I flew three hours to speak with you.”

  “You’re not going to haul me off, are you? My students need me—I’m the one who has the pass key for the Airbnb we’re staying at.”

  “Are you saying you don’t have an alibi?”

  Dr. Boler’s cheeks went fully red now. And his lips pressed in a thin line. “I can’t believe,” he murmured, “you’d suspect me of desecrating the Acropolis.”

  “So you know where the murder took place.”

  “Everyone does!” snapped Dr. Boler. His cheeks seemed to pale now

  “Sir, do you have an alibi?” Adele insisted.

  He went quiet, though his mouth hung slightly unhinged. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to speak, but then shook his head and jutted his bony chin out. He glared at her, fuming and frustrated by all accounts, his form illuminated by the flashlights at his back like some sort of perched bat.

  Adele sighed and gestured to Leoni, who began to unhook his cuffs from his belt. A few of the students began to protest and Dr. Boler took a tentative step back, but Leoni moved forward swiftly, catching the blogger firmly but gently by the arm. “Hang on, sir. We need to ask you some questions in a more amenable setting.”

  The cuffs began to move toward the professor’s wrists. Before they clicked, though, the woman with the dreadlocks, her fingers intertwined with the man in a similar hairdo, stepped forward and said, “He was with me!”

  Adele blinked. Leoni paused. Dr. Boler’s lips opened and a puff of breath which bordered on relief but also embarrassment escaped his mouth.

  “Come again?” Adele said, allowing her suspicion to show in her voice. “I find that mighty convenient.”

  But the woman nodded insistently, her fingers still intertwined with the man next to her. “He spent the night with me.”

  “All night?” Adele asked, carefully.

  The woman smirked. “Most of the night, at least.”

  For a moment, Adele’s gaze flicked to the man next to her, trying to put her cynicism on hold for a moment. A normal reaction to such a claim could be read on those adjacent to the lie. But instead of jealousy, the man had a look of embarrassment. Adele’s frown of suspicion deepened.

  But before she could discredit the claim, the man cleared his throat and muttered, “Me too. The three of us were in the same hotel room in Italy.”

  Dr. Boler coughed softly and glanced at the ground. A couple of the other students were giggling to each other behind their blogger-professor.

  Adele sighed. “Are you saying you three spent the night together?”

  One by one, they all nodded sheepishly.

  Adele looked at Leoni, who shrugged back at her.

  Either the three of them were in cahoots, were lying, or she’d completely missed on this one. She studied their faces, looking from the red tinge on Dr. Boler’s cheeks, to the embarrassed hunch of the dreadlocked woman’s shoulders and the sheepish grin of the man still intertwining his fingers through the woman’s hands.

  It was hard to kill a man while in the middle of a threesome, Adele supposed. She glanced around the Apollonia, regarding the ruins, the dust, the shattered ground catching columns of yellow light, and then breathed in frustration.

  “I have pictures,” the woman added, grinning now.

  Adele heaved a sigh, wearily. She shook her head, muttering, “I’ll need you to send any,” she coughed, “evidence about your alibi to my number.” She provided a business card and stepped back as the woman allowed the thing to flutter and drift to the ground.

  “Oops,” the woman said.

  “I’m serious,” Adele returned. “Anything to corroborate the alibi. Send it to me, please.”

  She heard the man mutter something beneath his breath which sounded suspiciously like pervert. But she refused to look his direction and instead faced Dr. Boler again. “Stay in town. Which place will you be sleeping at?”

  Boler quickly rattled off the address to his Airbnb.

  She looked at Dr. Boler, gauging the man. Instead of continuing the same line of questioning, though, she hoped to catch him off guard and said, “What does that phrase mean? About hearts cast in stone?”

  Dr. Boler coughed again, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze for a moment. His eyes flashed angrily as he looked up at her once more. Anger. Not the reaction of a guilty man. A guilty man would’ve been relieved at the alibi. Anger was for embarrassment. Anger was for the innocent.

  Adele waited as Boler muttered, “It’s nothing. Just a turn of phrase. The hardened hearts of the industry. Can’t you see it?” he said, some ire rising in his tone once more. “They exchange solemnity for coin! It’s appalling!” He frowned, then his eyes narrowed. “Why? Why do you care so much about that phrase?”

  Adele hesitated, but just shrugged, shaking her head. “No reason,” she muttered.

  But the professor was now studying her, his eyebrows twitching. “Did the phrase show up with the murder somehow? That’s it, isn’t it? Did he cut it into the victim’s flesh?” His eyes brightened a bit, taking on a sickly glow. “Did he record it and send it to the police? Truly? He used a phrase from my blog?” The professor was practically beaming now. A second later, though, he seemed to realize the effect his words were having on Adele and he coughed, quickly adding, “Anyone can access my blog. This killer of yours most likely is a fan of mine.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest now, where Leoni allowed him his wrist back. He glared at Adele. “Well?” he said. “I have my alibi. Are you going to keep wasting my time?”

  She considered this for a moment, mulling over Dr. Boler’s words. Much ado about nothing? Perhaps. They’d flown overnight to another country. Shouldn’t they at least arrest the man? But again, Adele was struck by the physique of the professor. He couldn’t lug a body by rope up a column. Impossibl
e. Were they a team?

  That was a theory not founded in evidence. And while she was getting desperate, Adele had never approved of arresting the general public willy-nilly based on theory alone. So what? Let him skate?

  If he really did have an alibi… it couldn’t have been Dr. Boler. Besides, he was right. Anyone could access his blog. It wasn’t like the phrase from the riddle was so unique, either. The killer—the real killer—was playing games.

  Adele reached a decision, her fingers moving fully away from her sidearm now. She nodded and said, “Send me those pictures. With time stamps. If they don’t match, I’m coming back here and I’m bringing all three of you in, understand?” She pointed at the two lovers and Dr. Boler in turn. Then she smiled pleasantly. “Apologies for bothering you. Have a good night.” She tugged Leoni and his cuffs away from the professor. Leoni frowned at her, but didn’t protest. Instead, he said to Dr. Boler, “We need you to stay put for the next few days, understand? Is there a way we can reach you?”

  Dr. Boler nodded and provided his number, which Leoni saved in his phone.

  Then, full of chagrin, exhausted to the bone, and frustrated, Adele moved off with Leoni back up the trail, away from the ruins and the gathered array of flashlights.

  Adele could feel the gaze of the people behind her burning a hole in her shoulder blades as she stalked away. “Should we stay the night?” Leoni asked.

  Adele, though, shook her head firmly. “Not another second here. I’ll call the taxi.”

  Another dead end. But the embalming of time in her job often ended in more than simply a metaphorical corpse.

  She could only hope the killer was suffering delays of his own. If not, this setback had just cost another soul.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The prophet drove through the night, observing every speed limit, following every law down to the smallest. An airplane was too easy to track—flights could be followed. He hadn’t made it this far by abandoning caution, no—caution was king in this bloody business.

  The prophet rolled his fingers, tightening them around the wheel. His eyes flicked up to an old factory behind a sign advertising diet cola. He cared little for the sign, but the factory itself intrigued him. An older construction—perhaps twenty years old. The support beams would have been hauled from a well-known lumber company two towns over. Given his previous job, his previous success, the prophet could regard any building and see its skeleton, its inner workings.

  Just another language he’d learned along the way. The language of concrete and steel. But, also, the language of pillars and stained glass. He knew it all, the archaic and contemporary. He knew them well.

  As a harbinger—a herald and trumpeting servant, it was on him to remind the world, to remind them all what lay in store for desecration.

  And this next one… He smiled, allowing himself the rare expression across his countenance. Once upon a time, he might have cried, even, at the thought. Well, perhaps not. He didn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Perhaps thirty years ago? Hard to recall.

  But at the very least, he could feel a flutter of excitement at the knowledge of his next stop. The next message.

  An important one. Personally important. This one was the oldest of them all, the firstborn of a long forgotten history. No steel beams there. People needed to remember. He enjoyed his task of jarring their memories.

  He glanced across to the duffel bag on his floor and, eyes still on the road, leaned over, tucking the knotted rope back out of sight into the bag itself, then zipping it up the rest of the way. He patted the bag and returned his attention to the road, his gaze flicking from building to building, stripping them down in his mind like a lecherous man regarding a cavalcade of flesh. Yet to him, peering beneath the skirts of mortal kind carried nothing in comparison to peering into the hearts of structures—behemoths of age and architecture that told stories for centuries.

  He breathed a shuddering sigh of pleasure and, through hooded eyes, watched the scenery, the flitting buildings on either side, ignoring the cars, ignoring the traffic. To him, the people might as well have not existed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Round eyes in round hands…my longing for you has grown…Squares in circles once…My heart is cast in stone…

  Adele rested her forehead against the cool glass facing the street below. The hotel room behind her smelled of soap and steam wafting in from the open door of the bathroom. Her third shower that night. She glanced into the glass of the window, looking down at the reflection of the red, digital clock near the bed. The numbers were just visible in the glass, reversed, and it took her a moment to discern. 3 a.m. On the dot.

  Her head shifted again, moving smoothly against the chill window as she peered once more out into the Italian streets. They were just outside of Rome. Buildings had stories to tell too; at least she hoped to convince herself of this. Not all victims could be measured with a pulse. She wondered vaguely, her mind flitting to the previous crime scenes. Old structures boasting columns and art and stained glass windows. Structures across eras, across religions.

  The victims themselves were victims of circumstance, she was near certain.

  The higher-ups, Ms. Jayne included, seemed to believe tourism was the target. An industry. But this felt too personal. Personal to the killer, to the author of the riddle.

  Hearts cast in stone…

  She pushed off the glass, wincing for a moment as she turned to face her room. The hotel room was dark and, besides the moistness moving in from the open bathroom door, it seemed as if the air itself wanted to flee her wrath—she felt no breeze, no wind, no air-conditioning.

  She wondered at the riddle. The words “round” and “circle” were repeated. Important. But in what way? Hearts cast in stone sounded like statuary, perhaps? Maybe statues of people. The statue of David? Could it be that simple? Unlikely. Uniforms had been sent to the most likely locations. Countries had been called. But it was like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. She didn’t have the key—not yet.

  She found her hand curled at her side, half gripping the hem of her old, frayed nighttime T-shirt but also balling into a fist.

  Pay attention to your body. Something Robert often said to field ops in training. Pay attention to your body. Your lips lie, your body doesn’t.

  Why the curled hand then? Frustration? Of course frustration.

  She stomped over to the mini-fridge, ripped open the door, casting her legs in a yellow light, and cursed, finding the thing empty. Someone had forgotten to restock the fridge. Damn it.

  Not just frustrated though, she thought. Scared. Scared too. The closing of the fingers over the vulnerable palm could be an aggressive tell, but also defensive, like hugging your body or crossing your legs.

  She was fearful.

  Fearful of what?

  The riddle slipped from her mind now, replaced by other images, other thoughts. Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding.

  She let out a small, scared hiccup. She wanted to scream as the pictures danced across her vision, darting over her gaze with defiling intent.

  She shouldn’t be in Italy. Killer be damned.

  Her mother’s murderer was in Paris. That was where she belonged. She shouldn’t have come. Why was she fleeing? Why was she hiding?

  She forced her hand to unclench, releasing the hem of her shirt, and, somehow, it almost felt like relinquishing the hand of a parent, letting go of one’s security, one’s lifeline.

  But Adele was no longer a child. Paris was a question for another time. She forced the riddle back into focus, forcing her thoughts away from her mother’s crime scene, away from the copycat killer.

  She marched to the door, swung it open, and strode down the hall. She reached Leoni’s door. He had a fridge too, no doubt.

  She knocked firmly.

  A few seconds passed.

  She knocked, harder this time, for a moment forgetting the little red numbers she’d spotted on that digital clock. Forget
ting everything that supposedly mattered.

  Halfway through a third attempt at knocking, the door cracked open.

  She blinked—Agent Leoni was dressed in his suit. Had he slept in it? No—not a wrinkle. His eyes were a bit baggy as she stared at him and she saw his laptop open on a small circular table by the kitchenette in his room.

  She winced. “Hey,” she said.

  “Agent Sharp?” He dipped his head politely.

  “Working?” she asked.

  He smiled, an expression that didn’t seem forced. Ever the polite professional. Staying up into all hours, by the looks of things.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the computer and nodded once. “Trying to learn what I can about the locations—connecting points. Did you know the Apollonia was once called Gylax?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “You should sleep.”

  “Thank you for your concern. I’ll get to it.”

  Adele looked away from his open computer toward his mini-fridge. “Is your…” She cleared her throat. “Is your fridge stocked?”

  Suddenly, she felt a flush of embarrassment as the reality of her situation dawned on her. She’d come to her fellow agent’s room, in the middle of the night no less, on a quest to raid his overpriced stores of alcohol.

  Leoni blinked, then smiled. “Minus one particularly bitter gin, yes. Would you like to share?”

  “Please,” said Adele.

  Leoni stepped aside, ushering her in, and Adele moved over to the fridge. She swung it open, scanned the stocked contents, and snared one of the miniature clear bottles. She noticed now, just out of sight behind his computer, Leoni had a similar bottle already opened and half empty.

  Adele felt the cool glass beneath her fingers, as she plucked a bottle from the crisscrossing wire shelf and placed it in her pocket. She glanced toward Leoni and nodded in gratitude, but, for the moment, left the fridge door open.