by Blake Pierce
Robert was dead.
Everyone at the agency knew.
Adele had been close with her mentor. Very close. Some of the younger agents gossiped about their relationship behind closed doors with coy winks and nods. Paige hadn’t participated in such tawdry rumors, but she wouldn’t have put it past someone like Adele. Agent Sharp was always willing to play her own game, indifferent to the opinions of others.
But now Robert was dead. And it seemed to be weighing on Adele’s mind…
Rumors swirled about the agency about the killer. A copycat, some said, from Agent Sharp’s past. No one knew for sure, though. For a moment, as Adele approached, moving toward the door into the deeper portion of the lower-level coroner’s office, Paige thought to pause and ask.
But then, as Adele looked up, Sophie decided against it.
At least one of them had to be a professional. Besides, if Adele acted up further, she would have no qualms about contacting Foucault to yank the upstart off the case.
Paige nodded to herself, smiling as she did, and then pushed through the office door.
“Ah, DGSI?” came a voice—mercifully speaking French—from the back of a low room lined with sinks. The space looked like a Laundromat, minus the machines, replaced by large floor-to-ceiling silver coolers.
“Agent Sharp,” Adele said, swallowing. “This is Agent Paige.”
“Come, come. I’ve been expecting you—over here!” The coroner waved the two of them over from where he stood by a low sink in the back of the room. The sound of splashing water cut off, and then a large man built like a powerlifter spun around. He had no neck, his head seemingly a part of his shoulders, wide as they were. He was forced to turn completely to acknowledge them, unable to glance back it seemed by the sheer musculature of his upper frame.
The man was bald, save a wisp of hair combed to one side. He flashed a thumbs-up at the women, smiling congenially. “Hello! Hello!” he said, chipper and cheerful. “Come, my dear audience, and allow yourselves to witness this humble production.” He hummed, clapping his hands together and skirting over toward the one of the lockers, his gray and white coat swishing against a silver table.
“We’re here about Signora Calvetti,” Agent Paige said, standing next to Adele, equal parts amused and alarmed by the coroner’s large frame and flamboyant speech.
The powerlifter chuckled and rapped his knuckles against a metal door. He leaned in and whispered, “Hello in there? Wakey wakey. Anyone home?” He chuckled and held a finger to his lips, waiting, and then declared, “No! I guess not. Oh well! Come closer—they won’t bite. Though I might. Here, here, pull up a seat.” He gestured toward one of the silver tables.
Adele and Paige both looked at the indicated metal surface. Was that a streak of blood in the center? Paige shivered and decided to remain standing, as did Adele. Though both of them did take tentative steps forward.
The large coroner pulled open the metal door and yanked out a metal stretcher, upon which rested a body beneath a blanket.
“And here she comes,” he declared, “our star actress. Spotlights shine, the crowd watches with alarm!” With a dramatic flourish he pulled down the top of the blanket, revealing two cold feet with purplish toes.
He winced. “Aha, slight technical malfunction.” He pulled the thin fabric down again and hurried over to the top of the stretcher. Again, he reached up and this time, slowly, one eye closed as if he were peeking, he pulled down the sheet, revealing a cold face with closed eyes.
“There we go,” he said. “No more surprises for our audience. Come closer, come closer, you won’t see a thing from the bleachers. Front row seats. Splash zone! Aha!”
Paige quirked an eyebrow, but reluctantly, straight-postured and full of unspoken cynicism, she approached the large coroner and the corpse. Adele lingered behind simply watching.
“Here we go, here we are. A plot twist indeed!” He tapped a thick finger against the corpse’s pale flesh, sans gloves. “See that, my shrewd-eyed watcher? Hmm? See that right there?”
Agent Paige leaned in, frowning as she did. The same bumpy ligature marks she’d seen on the crime scene photos were now displayed across the victim’s neck. Signora Calvetti was paler and older than she’d seemed in other pictures lying naked and dead beneath a tarp. Her throat was ringed in an angry red loop, with small bubble-shaped indentations along the wound.
Sophie looked up at the coroner. “She died by strangulation, yes?”
“Yes, yes. Very much so. You guessed the ending beforehand. Haha. Spoiler alert, though, am I right?” He winked at Paige with a cheerful smile.
She returned a stony, ice-cold glare which didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
“Beads, pearls?” Paige asked, tight-lipped.
“Could be,” he said. “Well… maybe. Beads, though…” He frowned, glancing off at the ceiling, tracing a gray crack in the cement, and paused. “Can’t recall ever seeing beads used to kill.”
“Beads are usually on string,” Adele murmured.
The large coroner and Paige glanced back toward where the agent was standing, her arms crossed now, her eyes more alert than they’d been earlier. She was staring at the corpse, frowning.
“What’s your point?” Paige asked.
Adele took a shaky breath, but then nodded as if trying to reach a conclusion herself before giving voice to it. “Strings break, yes? Something like pearls might have a more reinforced cord. But beads? Beads would break, no?”
The coroner nodded slowly, tapping his chin with the same finger he’d poked the dead woman’s neck. “She raises a good point.” He glanced toward Paige as if waiting for her to respond.
“Still might be beads,” she said, coolly.
“Could be,” Adele replied. “But…” She frowned, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
“No, dear,” said the coroner. “Tell us, what were you thinking? There are no stupid questions in the arts.”
Adele swallowed. “I wouldn’t say—never mind. Just, it’s nothing, just a thought.”
Paige sighed. It was just like Adele to drag it on. She often enjoyed the attention.
At last, though, Adele said, “What about a rosary? Stronger twine than beads… Not as valuable as pearls.”
“Signora Calvetti was not a religious woman,” said Paige frowning.
“Not Calvetti’s rosary. The killer’s. What if he brought it?” Adele nodded more firmly this time as if carried by a surge of momentum. “Maybe the killer has religious motivations…” She paused now, though, a look of doubt crossing her features, and she sighed, shaking her head. “Maybe not, though.”
The coroner clicked his tongue like a doting mother.
Paige frowned at Adele’s theory. There was no evidence of a rosary, only an outline. Young agents often jumped to conclusions too early. Paige would have to keep an extra tight lid on this investigation if they wanted to get anywhere meaningful. “Anything else?” Paige asked, looking at the enormous man.
He nodded, chipper and cheerful. As he opened his mouth to respond, though, Paige snapped, “Cut it out with the metaphors and get on with the point. This isn’t art. It’s murder.”
The man blinked, taken aback. His smile faded a bit, but then, frowning from beneath his whisked hair, he muttered, “Definitely death by strangulation. Couldn’t have taken more than a minute. She didn’t suffer much.”
“I’m sure that will console someone,” Paige said. “But how about evidence, clues? Little red fibers or some button…” She waved a hand. “Anything?”
“Little red fibers?” The large man wrinkled his nose. “No, I’m afraid nothing like that.” This time was it her imagination or had he flashed her a condescending look? Her eyes hardened, glaring at him, but he just glanced off, feigning ignorance.
“Fine,” Paige said, growling. “Agent Sharp, I’ll be phoning for another taxi outside. This was a waste. We have nothing new.” She said it loudly, so the large galoot could hear, then, with one la
st look toward the victim, she turned on her heel, marching back toward the door.
“Where next?” Adele asked, her voice faint.
Paige didn’t look back, just nodded once, approving of Adele’s willingness, at least for now, to hand over the reins to the investigation. Paige was the senior agent after all.
“London,” she snapped. “Nothing useful here. Might as well go see what we can find about that first victim. Maybe it is a serial case.”
“What about the board member Anita mentioned?”
Paige snorted, waving a hand. “I’ve been in boardrooms like that. Behind closed doors, far worse has been uttered. Besides, that board member wouldn’t have any reason to visit London. No, we have our next step.”
Adele said, “All right then, if you’re sure. How soon can we get a flight to the UK?”
“An hour, two tops. Foucault will set it up himself.”
Paige then stepped into the hall, out into the cold gray corridor and toward the front door again. She heard a soft muttered apology behind her and then the sound of quickened footsteps as Adele made to give chase.
The large coroner’s voice boomed out after them, “Break a leg!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gianna stared at himself in the reflection of the small hostel’s glass window, his eyes tracing the bucolic country scene against the ridge of firs. He smiled softly to himself, one hand gripping the handle. The other hostel guests would be out until evening. He’d asked early the previous day, so he could plan out his own particular getaway.
“Gianna Calvetti…” he murmured softly. His new name. The last one he’d only had for three days. This one wouldn’t last much longer either.
He always took their names when he released their souls to perdition. “Is anyone there?” he whispered in a soft, feminine voice, watching the way his lips moved in the reflection of the glass. “Is anyone in there?” He grinned to himself. He was getting better at emulating the voices of his camouflage.
“Fifty-eight! And don’t you forget it!” he declared, nodding at the glass, his voice still soft and lilting. Just like hers had been. His fingers tightened even more against the handle. “Don’t you forget it! Fifty-eight! Don’t you forget!”
And then he gritted his teeth, swinging the whip hard. The small pieces of bone embedded in the thick cords gouged into his back and he hissed in pain.
“Not a day…” he gasped. “Over…” He struck himself again. A whirring sound, a snap, the pain. “Fifty-eight!” he screamed.
He stood there, breathing heavily, shirtless in the window, watching the countryside with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the glass. “I’m sorry, oh great Judge! I’m sorry, your eminence!” He screamed the prayer at the ceiling as the whip came whistling back again, scoring Gianna’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.
He’d killed the original Gianna, taken her soul and name. She’d deserved to die, of course. But even as an instrument of righteousness, an instrument of the mighty Judge, he still had to atone for the taking of a life.
Another whistling sound, another dull thud, followed by spittle falling from clenched teeth. He was on his knees now, feeling the warm blood spilling down the crease of his back. “Anyone there?” he whispered, still lilting and soft. “Anyone in there?”
Another strike.
She’d blasphemed the Judge. Blasphemed his holy ground. She hadn’t deserved her skin. Nor had she deserved the gift of a soul.
“Is anyone there?” he whispered. “Yes,” he snarled back in a much deeper, darker voice. “You stupid whore. I’m here… I’m here for you!” He gritted his teeth, whipping himself with the bone-tipped flail again. He yelled once more, but this time smiling as warm blood dripped down his shoulders, down his back, to his waist. “I’m here for you,” he whispered.
He nodded adamantly, gasping, his chest heaving as he stared out the small German hostel’s window. No longer in Italy. No. The next stop was here. Only five miles down the road.
Of course, he’d already memorized the security system, memorized her schedule. Gianna was clever when she needed to be. Gianna was careful. He’d been planning this for years now…
They should have left him alone. They shouldn’t have done what they did. Mothers, they called themselves. A flock of black geese. They’d whipped him then, too.
Nearly fifty years ago. Only five… He’d only been five…
But he’d understood pain then, and he understood it now.
“Is anyone there?” he whispered, tears now falling from his eyes. “Is anyone?”
A whistle. A snap. A howl of pain.
Yes… Yes, he’d atone now and then atone again when the time came. Only five miles away for his next stop. Five miles for the vengeance of the Judge to descend in fire and brimstone. To descend on those who dared to speak for the ever-watcher, and the judge of millennia. Only five miles away…
He smiled again, despite the tears, despite the pain, despite the warm trickle down his back, streaking him, baptizing him. Soon, so deliciously soon.
A whistle. A snap.
A scream.
CHAPTER NINE
Exiting the airport taxi, Adele stepped out into the evening, beneath gloomy skies. Again, she found herself facing a mansion. Her feet crunched against gravel, and her eyes traced the stone and pillar facade of the old, looming manor.
Adele heard the car doors slam behind her as Paige and the two accompanying officers also exited the vehicle. Ahead, a row of yellow and black caution tape cut access to a courtyard driveway across from a three-car garage. The garage itself was larger than most houses.
Few trees surrounded them. Rather, this estate, in contrast to the Italian one, seemed a combination of trimmed hedges in strange shapes and a large lake behind the house itself, the swishing blue reflecting off the large parlor windows.
“Just this way, Agents,” said one of the police officers, dipping her head politely and waving a hand. Adele half expected her to click her shiny black shoes.
She fell into step behind the officers, gravel crunching beneath her feet as she followed along with Paige toward the old mansion.
“And she was found outside here, yes?” Adele asked, grateful to be speaking in English once again, now having hopped the pond to London.
The second officer glanced back, tipping a black-billed hat. “Just in the private nursery,” he said, nodding. “Over here—this way.”
He led them toward a small glass nursery, with more caution tape out front. An officer was standing by the glass, playing on his phone. He looked up and quickly coughed, stowing the device and standing to attention, suggesting, perhaps, he was low on the local totem pole.
Adele nodded politely, then followed their guides beneath the caution tape into a small, humid nursery. Rows of potted plants in orange ceramic bowls lined wooden shelves. Two particularly large garden beds centered twin plastic sheets beneath an array of sprinklers jutting from a thick black pipe that spanned the entirety of the nursery.
For a moment, standing in the glass nursery, as if beneath some large magnifying lens, Adele felt a shiver up her spine. She swallowed, glancing back toward where Agent Paige was wiping a finger along one of the shelves, leaving a trail of dark in dust.
“She was found just over here,” murmured the female officer, pointing toward a couple of scattered ceramic pots and some shattered orange clay. Twin piles of dirt and wilted greenery suggested some of the nursery denizens hadn’t fared much better than their late caretaker.
Adele approached the disheveled area, frowning as she did.
“He attacked her late at night,” said the officer, quietly. “Best we can guess—right after she got home.”
“Husband?” Adele asked.
“Deceased. A few years earlier. Her fortune was inherited.”
“I see.” Adele frowned, her eyes moving from the scattered and broken pots toward a dark alcove beneath two rows of wooden shelves. She bent
over, hands on her knees, frowning into the corner.
Just large enough for a person.
A hiding place, perhaps?
“Security systems?” she asked, straightening up again.
“Only on the main house, not in the nursery, unfortunately. We checked.”
Adele nibbled her lip, glancing toward Agent Paige. “Another blind spot.”
The older agent grunted once, brushing a hand through silver hair. “Looks like our killer does his homework.”
“When was the body found?” Adele asked.
The officer cleared her throat. “The next morning, by one of the victims’ bible study partners.”
“Bible study?” Adele asked, frowning and feeling a flicker of excitement. She thought back to the bead marks on the victim’s neck. A rosary after all? She swallowed, avoiding Paige, who seemed to be watching her suspiciously. Adele asked, “Was the victim religious?”
“A staunch Catholic. She donated time and money to the church—a lot of money.” The officer didn’t bat an eye, but by the emphasis of the words, it seemed she thought this part important.
“Where there’s money, there’s often murder,” Adele said softly. She glanced toward Paige, then back. “Any known connection with the victim in Italy?”
The officer frowned, nibbling her lip, but shook her head quickly. “Something about that was mentioned, but no connection we know of on our end. Did you find something?”
Adele shook her head, crossing her arms and feeling her suit’s sleeves crinkle.
Both wealthy, both in their fifties, both living somewhat alone in old houses. Both strangled to death with odd ligature marks. But that was where the similarities ended. The murderer didn’t seem to be stealing anything. So while wealth was a connection, money wasn’t the motive. At least not at first blush. As for the first victim’s religion—a devoted Catholic. But the second victim had no church affiliation. One religious, one not. Both wealthy.
Adele shook her head, trying to make sense of it. “I… I need whatever you have on Mrs. Churchville,” she said, glancing toward the officer. “Even details that might seem unsubstantial. No stone unturned.”
