by Blake Pierce
John was now the one no longer making eye contact. He glanced at the ground and rubbed sheepishly at his chin. “I,” he said, stuttering, “I didn’t chase him. I couldn’t. His victim was bleeding out on a table. I had to choose.”
“You let the killer get away?”
Now, though, even though he was still just standing in the threshold of the doorway, John’s voice rose as well. “Yes,” he snapped. “I let the killer get away. To save his victim. And I did. Mr. Maldonado’s going to make a recovery. I did that.”
Adele stared, firm, her eyes unyielding. “That’s a lot of credit for one person. You know how much work I put into trying to find this bastard? Years. Years of my life! And you had him within shooting distance, and you let him get away!”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It sure sounds like it. Dammit, John, why?”
John was gritting his teeth so hard, Adele felt she heard one pop. John rubbed at his chin, and he said, “Honestly, I thought you’d be happy. Happy that I got a glimpse, and I’ll be working with a composite artist. We might be able to figure out something more from that.”
Adele breathed softly, trying to focus. She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head slowly. Was it really John’s fault, or was she just taking her frustrations out on him? She breathed again, calming herself, and then said, “Sorry. No, really. Look, sorry—I’m lashing out. It wasn’t your fault. You did a good job.”
John nodded once, carefully, as if waiting for the other shoe to fall.
But Adele just shook her head morosely and closed her eyes against a sudden headache. “Look,” she said. “You did the right thing. I get that. I’m happy to help in any way. Just tell me what I need to do.”
She opened her eyes, looking at her partner now. At her own words, she could feel anxiety rising again, but she’d already made her peace. Now, it wasn’t about her mother. It wasn’t about Adele. It was about catching the murderer.
John crossed his arms now too. The tall, lean, dark-featured agent, who reminded Adele of a James Bond villain, stared across the small apartment, toward his tired, iron-willed counterpart. He frowned for a moment, and nibbled the corner of his lip. Their eyes met, and neither of them seemed like they wanted to look away.
“Christ, Adele,” John said, slowly. “I wasn’t looking to start anything with you. But I don’t want you on the case.”
She stared blankly. “Wait, what?”
“I don’t want you on this case,” he repeated, more firmly now. “You’re not thinking straight. Hell, I appreciate the apology, but a minute ago you were nearly asking me to let a victim bleed out.” He shook his head. “No. Take a break—get some rest. I thought… I thought maybe you’d be ready, but you’re clearly not.”
She stared at him now, her pulse quickening. “John, this is my case… You know what—”
“It means a lot to you. But actually, it’s my case. And you’re not thinking straight. No. I’m sorry. Really.”
“Damn it, John!” she snapped. “You don’t get to make that call.”
“I do. Foucault gave me a wide berth. We talked about this before I even started. He says I know you best—says I can make the call. Well, I’m making it. You’re out.”
Her temper swelled in her like ash against the crumbling seal of a volcano. “John, don’t be insane,” she snapped. “I have to help on this one. You know I do!”
“Not now. Not yet. You’re too emotional.”
“Damn right I’m emotional! The psycho killed my mother! John, be reasonable!”
But her partner shook his head adamantly now, crossing his own arms.
She looked at him, and saw beneath it all an expression of frustration and hurt. Though, the second part he’d mastered at concealing over many years, and only someone close to him could detect it in the tightening of his jaw and the flash of his eyes. Adele faltered at this, breathing slowly, trying to push aside the sudden swarm of fury in her chest.
For a moment, she took stock of her own emotions. She cycled through the thoughts hounding her, trying to focus, trying to justify the way she was reacting. And then it settled in her, like a mantle on her shoulders.
She was jealous.
She wasn’t sure why she was jealous. She didn’t want to be jealous. But she was jealous.
Jealous that after all these years of searching, John had taken one crack at the case and gotten further than she ever had. Who was he to tell her she was out?
As the thoughts dawned on her, her eyes narrowed, and she wanted to punch something. John seemed to sense her discontentment, and though she was no longer looking at him, his voice probed into the still, dark apartment.
“I’m not the enemy here,” he said. “I’m closer than we’ve been.”
“I’m closer,” she snapped. “I am. My case. My mother.”
She looked at John again, and this time, found no signs of the hurt from before. As often was the case with men like John, the hurt had very quickly gone through a chemical transformation into sheer anger. “Your case? If it was your case, you would’ve had a chance to save a life or chase the killer. I chose to save a life. It’s my case—and that’s it. No discussion.”
“You should’ve done both.”
“There was no way,” John retorted. “Besides, who are you to lecture me?” he said, going on the offensive for a change. John Renee wasn’t the sort of man to cower in a corner for long. “You mock the way I work, but you weren’t even here. You ran off hiding, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. You were too scared to do what I did.”
She pressed her lips tightly together. “Watch it,” she snapped.
But he shook his head once. “I came here to keep you in the loop. I’m starting to realize that was a bad call. I’ll remind you, Agent Sharp,” he said, a sneer to these words, “you’re the one who told me to back off. You’re the one who told me you wanted distance. I tried to solve this case for you. Because I knew how much it meant for you. But when it comes down to it, when push comes to shove, I’m going to do my job. And my job does not require me to sacrifice innocent victims in order to please the great Adele Sharp. If you can’t understand that, you’re not even half the person I thought you were.”
“You self-righteous—” Adele began, feeling her own anger bubbling up, but John was gone. The doorway remained open, revealing the stairwell beyond. After a moment, frowning, her blood boiling, Adele heard the sound of John’s footsteps, thumping against the stairs as he retreated, leaving her alone in her apartment.
Good riddance. John didn’t have what it took. He’d let the killer get away. He betrayed the memory of her own mother. But as these thoughts cycled, Adele felt how weak and flimsy they were to the test. John had been trying to help her. He’d wanted to solve the case for her. Besides, wouldn’t she have done the same thing? She practically had in the case in Germany. She’d chosen to save a life instead of following protocol. She had chosen to try to save a life instead of pleasing the other agents involved in the case. And he was right in a way—she was too emotional. Maybe she wasn’t ready… maybe not yet… So why was it that she was requiring him to do something different?
“Because it was my fucking mother,” she muttered to herself.
Adele stomped across the apartment unit, grabbed the door handle to the metal frame, and slammed it shut.
Fingers trembling, she reached into her pocket, not quite certain what she was doing. She stalked over to the window, peering out into the street below. For a moment, she thought she spotted John’s tall figure moving up the street toward a parked Cadillac. She looked away, glancing in the opposite direction. With the phone out, ringing now, she waited.
After a second, the voice answered, “Agent Sharp?”
“Leoni,” she replied.
For a moment, Adele wondered what on earth she was doing. Adele knew the killer was now alerted. He was on the run and though John may have glimpsed his face for a moment, it would’ve been in the dar
k, in an adrenaline-laced situation. She couldn’t count on that. And yet, she felt alone. Which, perhaps, was why she was still on the line.
“Adele?” came Leoni’s voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Remember what we said today?” she said, slowly. “That you might visit Paris sometime soon? You’re on a two-week leave, yeah? What do you think about moving up that date? I could use the company, but I could also use the help on a case.”
Bold words. Especially given the short tenure she’d known Leoni. The handsome Italian agent had gone silent on the other end of the line. For a moment, she felt silly, a preemptive rejection. But before she could talk, Leoni said, “Let me check my schedule.”
“No worries. You can get back to me—”
“I’m joking. Like I said, suspended. Yeah, I think that should work. What day works best?”
Adele thought of that shower she wanted to grab, but then again, some things had to wait.
“Whatever you want. I’ll text you my address. I have a spare room; well, technically it’s the living room, but it does have a couch which pulls out into a bed.”
“Are you inviting me to spend the night?”
Adele paused for a moment. John be damned. Eventually, he’d see sense. He would have to. Because one way or another, she was going to work this case.
She said, “I’m inviting you to come help me catch a killer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
He listened, smiling, half of his mouth angled down, the other half curling up, his eyes fixed on the blank wall over his desk, the phone cradled against his chin.
He listened as Adele and this new man made plans. Another agent by the sound of things.
He crossed his legs in the leather chair. A larger man might not have been able to do so, but he was skin and bones according to some; he didn’t mind this description, seeing as he often felt an affinity toward the skeletal. He listened, taking notes as Adele continued to speak to this Agent Leoni. Of course, he’d had her phone tapped not just for months, but years. He’d always found a way. Connections provided opportunity.
He continued to listen, smirking as Adele finally hung up. He would have to check back tomorrow morning, to see if anything new came up.
He reached down, placing the phone back in its cradle, and then rubbed at the back of his hands, wincing as he did. He’d cut his fingers in his attempt to flee that house.
Now, the man’s face wrinkled into a frown. He hated doing it. Killing a friend like that. A good friend. A loyal friend.
Loyalty had to be repaid. And yet, he’d been forced to kill the man. Andrew Maldonado, factory worker. Messenger.
He smiled at the thought, moving away from his desk, and moving with slow, purposeful steps toward the room on the opposite side of the long hall. This room had locks, and bolts, and even one chain. From within the room, he could hear noises. Quiet, gentle, mewling noises.
He began to hum to himself as he approached, his mind still spinning.
Mr. Maldonado had helped sneak the messages into the candy bars for Elise to find. He shuddered at the memory of the name. Elise. One of his favorites. A masterpiece that one.
He winced again as his knuckles brushed against the metal door as he undid the chains and locks. His other fingers were splotched in whites and reds and green dyes. Work. His true work. He would have to remember to wipe off before going out again.
Adele didn’t know her phone was bugged. They never did. They never suspected just how resourceful he could be. But that’s what it took to stay ahead of the game. That’s what it took to stay free for more than a decade and a half.
He thought he’d hung up his boots, passed the game onto protégés and younger allies. But now, he was getting the itch. He wanted to play again. And he’d started already. That other girl, the same name as Adele’s mother. A message, more than a plaything. A means to an end, rather than a proper work of art.
Adele was also a friend. She didn’t know it yet, but they would soon be bound together. Their paths and fates were inextricably linked. He knew that now. He’d been fighting it, like a star-crossed lover lying to their emotions. But there was no denying this anymore. He needed her. He missed her. And soon, they would be together again. For as long as it took.
He unlatched the last bolt on the door and pulled it open, revealing a dark, windowless room within. The sounds from inside had faded now to a quiet whimper, but as he peered into the studio, his half smile returned, once again twisting up the side of his cheek.
He stepped in, closing the door quietly shut behind him. Soon, Adele would be here with him. And soon, they would have so many things to talk about. He couldn’t wait.
He leaned in, whispering softly, “And what is his name?”
His voice was higher pitched than people usually guessed, given his appearance. He didn’t put on a show, nor did he try to make his voice impressive or needlessly threatening as they did in the TV shows and movies. Serial killers, that’s what they were called in film and television; the weak, the powerless, the useless losers of the world—society’s fringe—felt a kinship, a bond, a violent, hateful lashing out against the culture that their victim souls saw as oppressive.
But he knew better. He knew that truly powerful people didn’t have to playact. Not their words, but their actions gave them that power.
He leaned in even closer now. He had picked up the stray little thing just outside the DGSI building. A hilarious thing to him, how little security was actually kept around the headquarters itself.
“You said she’s close to two people. Give me their names.”
Her voice warbled and shook, trembling. “Please,” she gasped, “please, stop hurting me.”
“That is not an option,” he said, quietly. “I already told you, you earned yourself three days of pain trying to escape. You’re on day two. So there’s nothing I can do. I really am sorry. But I will hurt you today and tomorrow. If you answer my questions, though, we won’t make it six days. Do you understand?”
He spoke gently, hopefully, as if he were on her side, like a palliative care worker.
The woman tied to the chair, streaked in blood but covered with bandages so she didn’t bleed out, was whimpering now and shaking her head.
He lowered his voice, growling, “Two names you said she was close to at that infernal place. Who?”
At last, trembling, the woman’s eyes noticed what was happening with his hand. He had picked up one of the scalpels next to the palette on the counter by the low-hanging painting he’d made when he was young. A simple, silly painting of trees and wind and water. But a painting he was proud of. One of the first ones that was any good.
“I don’t know, you have to believe me, no, no, don’t—” The scalpel descended, and she screamed, protesting. “I’ll tell you. No, please. I’ll tell you.”
He waited, the scalpel just above the exposed flesh of her chest. “Names.”
“John Renee,” the woman said, gasping. “Adele Sharp was close with John Renee.”
But he shook his head, growling. “I know about John. The tall skyscraper. No, he won’t do. The other name. Tell me.”
The woman whimpered, her eyes shifting to the scalpel and back up to his gaze. Then, swallowing, she said, “Another agent. Older. He’s sick. Very sick.”
The man smiled and nodded. “Perfect. And what’s his name?”
“He was Adele’s mentor for years. They’re very close.”
“What’s his name?”
“If I tell you, you have to stop hurting me. Please.”
He hurt her. Waited for her screaming to stop, and said, “I already told you. There’s nothing I can do. You’ve earned yourself two days more. Unless you want me to make it six, or twelve, or twenty-four; I’m not in any rush, the record I had once was a full year, every day, inflicting all sorts of interesting things on my friend. Is that what you’d like, dearie?”
A quiet, sobbing whimper burst from the woman’s lips, but she viole
ntly shook her head side to side at an insistent flick of his now bloodied scalpel.
“Give me a name,” he said.
“Robert,” she gasped. “Her mentor’s name is Robert Henry.”
NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!
LEFT TO LAPSE
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 7)
“When you think that life cannot get better, Blake Pierce comes up with another masterpiece of thriller and mystery! This book is full of twists and the end brings a surprising revelation. I strongly recommend this book to the permanent library of any reader that enjoys a very well written thriller.”
--Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Almost Gone)
LEFT TO LAPSE is book #7 in a new FBI thriller series by USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose #1 bestseller Once Gone (Book #1) (a free download) has received over 1,000 five star reviews.
When a body turns up on a high-speed train passing through France, Germany and Italy—clearly the work of a serial killer—authorities wonder: whose jurisdiction is it?
FBI Special Agent Adele Sharp—triple agent of the U.S., France and Germany—is called in as the only one capable of maneuvering the layers of authority and of tapping her brilliant mind to stop the killer.
But as more victims turn up—on other trains, in other countries—the case grows increasingly complex. Can this all be the work of one serial killer?
And if so, where will he strike next?
An action-packed mystery series of international intrigue and riveting suspense, LEFT TO LAPSE will have you turning pages late into the night.
Book #8 in the series will be available soon.
LEFT TO LAPSE
(An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book 7)
Did you know that I've written multiple novels in the mystery genre? If you haven't read all my series, click the image below to download a series starter!
