by Blake Pierce
Adele’s brow twisted, but she summoned her nerves and approached the man with the mallet.
“Excuse me,” she said.
The man whirled around with a start, his eyes dancing from Adele to the waiting taxi in the back. He cleared his throat. “Who are you?”
The left side of the man’s face was still, and didn’t move with the rest of his expression. His eyes were half hooded, his mouth slightly downturned, suggesting, perhaps, the man had endured a stroke recently. His face was wider than his physique might have normally allowed, suggesting perhaps a man who had lost weight, but from his midsection first.
The man was shaking his head and saying, “I’m sorry, but this is private property.”
“I don’t mean to startle you. I’m Agent Sharp, with the DGSI.”
The man fixed her with a stunned gaze. “Are you here about the owner?”
Adele glanced at the sign. A for sale sign. With La Petite Realty.
She pointed toward the sign and said, “You’re selling the place?”
“Got a call this morning. They wanted it rushed. I only just got here. Sorry, but what is DGSI doing here?”
She ignored the question. “Who called you?”
The man shuffled uncomfortably, glancing back over his shoulder to Adele again. “A Mrs. Schmidt. The sister-in-law of the house owner.”
Adele nodded slowly. This made sense. The husband of the third victim had been beside himself with grief. But the fiery, red-faced sister-in-law had seemed a commanding presence. Adele wouldn’t have put it past her to put the house up for sale so quickly.
“Do you know why they’re selling?”
“I don’t. Just heard there was some bad business in Germany.”
Adele combed a hand through her hair. Perhaps the husband didn’t want the house without his wife. Perhaps the sister was getting ahead of herself and making a play for an inheritance payout. Whatever the case, Adele wasn’t with financial crimes.
She said, “What do you know about this place?”
He glanced at the house and back at her. “Not much. It’s in a good area. It didn’t used to be, but things have looked up recently. Houses are going for three times what they were ten years ago.”
“I see.”
“Are you looking to buy?”
“No. Is there anything…” She trailed off, wrinkling her brow. “…strange about this place?”
“Strange in what way?”
“Any way.”
The round-faced real estate agent scratched at his chin and untucked his collar, breathing slowly. “I mean it’s old. But you can see that.”
Adele sighed, shaking her head. Perhaps she should have gone with Agent Paige. Was she just fooling herself at this point?
“I don’t mean to bother you, but there’s a second house; 632 Route de Contis.”
“What about it? Is it yours? We give very competitive rates if you’re looking to sell.”
“I’m just curious if you know who sold that home?”
The agent frowned a bit, leaning against the yard sign, and then said, slowly, “Funnily enough, I think I do. I try to keep track of most the competitors in the area. We’re a small firm.”
“So who sold that one?”
“It wasn’t one of the big firms,” said the real estate agent. “Which is why I remember it. Was a good deal from what I recall. You won’t find the guy at an agency; he works out of a trailer.”
Adele blinked in surprise. “A trailer? Where?”
“On an undeveloped lot on the other side of town, behind some of the eateries for the tourists.”
“What’s his name?”
“Etienne Durand.”
“Do you have an address for Mr. Durand?”
“Look it up on your phone. He advertises. Say, are you sure you’re not in the business for a house? Like I said, very competitive rates. This place, in fact, I’ll knock a percent off the price, if you want to come in with a bid.”
“No, that’s quite all right. Thank you.” Adele looked back toward the strange house. For a moment she considered going inside, but what would be the point?
She wasn’t here because of the architecture. Odd though it was. She was here because this was a common point among all three victims. She just couldn’t tell why. Why did it matter? The first building had strange architectural parts too. Some old columns, and the stained glass window in the bathroom. This third one looked practically like a miniature castle. But the second had seemed modern. So what was the connection?
Etienne Durand. The rogue real estate agent who worked out of a trailer on an undeveloped lot. Maybe he would have the answers she was looking for. And if not, she wasn’t sure how she would be able to return and face Agent Paige or Foucault.
Especially not if another body dropped in the interim.
***
Adele stalked toward the small trailer, situated against the red brick wall of one of the eateries on the touristy boulevard. The windows were bright, orange light emanating out into the late afternoon. A large picture on the side of the RV displayed a grinning face, a little too exaggerated to be handsome, with a weak chin. The face was next to words that read, Etienne Realty.
Adele had found the address online and had read a few of the reviews for the place. Mostly satisfied customers, but a couple of one-star reviews had come from people who’d accused Mr. Durand of being shady with their money.
One had flat out accused him of stealing.
Adele rubbed her fingers against each other as she approached the door, and then rested her hand on her belt. She wrapped her fingers against the metal handle and called, “DGSI!”
A pause, then a sound like a small cough. “Customer or collector?” a voice called from inside.
She frowned. “DGSI,” she repeated, louder now.
“What’s that?” the voice replied.
“Police,” she said.
The door suddenly swung open, nearly knocking into her. She took a quick step back, avoiding the swinging frame. A much smaller version of the man on the poster beneath the trailer windows blinked out at her.
The smile was almost to scale. It took up most of his face. Teeth nearly the size of thumbnails flashed out from stretched lips.
“Police?” he said, through his forced smile. “Well, I’m almost off work. Do you mind coming back later?”
The man had oily hair, slicked to one side, and his million-dollar smile seemed just a bit too white, suggesting whitening strips. His weak chin bristled with attempts of a beard to hide its structure, but the facial hair hadn’t come in completely yet.
He wore a suit top, but his bottom half was clad only in boxers.
Adele glanced pointedly down at the man’s underwear, and he followed her gaze.
“Whoops,” he said, nonchalantly. “Sorry, I was working on the computer.”
He made no move to return into the trailer and don some pants.
Adele sighed. “Are you Etienne Durand?”
“That’s me. Who’s asking?”
She crossed her arms now, placing one foot in front of the other. “Agent Sharp. I have a couple of questions for you.”
His expression remained rather fixed. “Is this about that deal for the houseboat? It’s not my fault they didn’t have a permit. Besides, pending litigation, you’re not supposed to harass me about that anymore.”
Adele shook her head. “Boat? No, I’m not here about a boat. I’m here about a piece of property you sold nearly five years ago.”
The man blinked, scratching at his chin. “Oh? Well, five years is long past any statute of limitations. My lawyer is on speed dial. He can be here in ten minutes.”
“I’m not here with an accusation,” she said, hurriedly, as he fished into nonexistent pants pockets for his phone, his hand moving instinctively. He peeled down the elastic of his boxers just a bit too far for her comfort. He quickly cursed and muttered, “Oh, sorry, there it is.”
He spun around, reaching for
his phone on his desk, which she could make out just inside the trailer’s open door.
“Hang on,” she said, quickly. “I mean it. I’m not here about the problem. I’m looking for information.”
Etienne glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “What sort of information?”
“It’s about a property you sold five years ago. 632 Route de Contis.”
He wrinkled his nose, which gave his features a plastic, shiny look. “You have to give me a second. I sell a lot of property. One moment.”
He slammed the door shut, leaving Adele outside, blinking.
For a moment, she considered knocking again, but then she heard movement about inside the trailer. A couple of curses, and then the clatter of a keyboard.
A second later, she heard a voice call out, “What was that address again?”
She hesitated, staring at the metal door, and glanced sheepishly over her shoulder at the taxi driver, who was watching her with an amused expression. She repeated the address, and heard more clacking on keys.
She straightened her suit, and, almost instinctively, double-checked to make sure she was still wearing her pants. Apparently, in this part of town, one could never be too careful.
Etienne reemerged after a couple of moments, slamming open the door again. This time she was prepared and kept her distance, lest she was sent flying.
“Yes,” he said. “I sold it. So what?”
Adele felt a flicker of satisfaction. One step closer. One step at a time. “What do you remember about it?” she asked, keeping her tone even.
“Not much.” He glanced back over his shoulder at a computer screen which she could see on the desk. “The parcel was owned by an old French firm,” he said and tapped his nose. “About a decade ago I bought a few of those places from them. Cents on the euro.”
Adele frowned. “So this is one of a few lots?”
“You’re standing on another one, yes. All of them undeveloped in the same area. Ten years ago, this part of the region wasn’t as expensive.” He puffed his chest. “Independents like moi have helped develop this area.”
Adele nodded, continuing. “All right, so before this housing boom, you bought up a bunch of the land. That particular parcel, do you remember anything about it?”
His stretched features now turned down in a sort of mouth shrug. “I remember that a house had recently been constructed on the land,” he said. “The original owners left because the area was going downhill. The French firm who sold it to me gave me a good deal.”
Adele remembered how the house back on the second victim’s property had only been built fifteen years ago. Five years before Etienne had brought it and then sold it to Gianna Calvetti.
“The house,” Adele said, “it’s pretty modern.”
“We didn’t cut corners on it,” he said quickly. “Well, at least the original builders didn’t. Good materials. Is that what this is about?”
“No.”
“You didn’t find bodies on the property, did you?” he asked, his eyes widening.
Adele stared.
He shook his head. “Is that a yes?”
“Should I have found bodies?”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you?”
“No. Hang on a second, why did you think I might have found bodies?”
He wiggled his fingers. “I just looked you up. DGSI doesn’t involve itself with minor property crime. So why are you asking about the place? No bodies I know of. Just guessing.”
Adele exhaled slowly. Blinking a couple of times wondering if the word bodies had simply been a Freudian slip. Or an educated guess.
“This French firm you bought it from. Do you remember their name?”
“Of course. Look, the property wasn’t that special. But I do remember one thing.” He nodded slowly.
“Anything might help.”
“Still not sure what I’m helping with, but all right. There was some old ruins on the ground. Some broken down building. It was cleared out, completely scrapped, they rebuilt on the same spot. Beyond that, I can’t think of anything else you might be here about. This isn’t some sort of historical site, is it? Because I don’t own that property anymore. You’ll have to take it up with the new owners. I can get you their address if you want.”
His quick pace of words and his tone suggested he would do anything to get the federal officer off his door step.
Adele shook her head. “I have their address. But do you mind telling me what the name of that French firm was? The one who sold you the land?”
The independent real estate agent held up a finger, muttered to himself, and turned, heading back into the house. This time he didn’t slam the door. She heard more clacking, the blue glow emanating past him as he bent over his computer. A second later, he turned back and said, “Becker and Associates. That’s all I’ve got,” he added.
Adele frowned, gnawing on the corner of her lip, trying to piece it all together. She still hadn’t turned up anything. Cleared ruins on the second spot suggested maybe there had been an older building there as well. But she needed to find some connection. Anything at all. The families didn’t know each other. Didn’t go to church together. As Paige had said, didn’t have similar real estate agents, nor guests or families. Which meant there had to be another connection; the properties themselves. Maybe the French firm would have it. At this point, she felt like she was grasping at straws.
And whatever the case, she couldn’t keep going on like this. She nodded to herself as she turned without so much as a farewell; if she ended up another dead end, she would have to drop this thread. If she didn’t reach a conclusion soon, and if this was all just a wild goose chase, her failing instincts, or failing investigative skills, were undoubtedly going to lead to another murder. And this time, it was all going to be her fault.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Compared to the small, makeshift office space out of the trailer in the abandoned lot, the French firm Becker and Associates was practically a cathedral.
Adele gazed up at the tall, arching stone entrances. Two steeples pointed at the sky, and her gaze drifted down the stone, toward a set of buzzers within an alcove next to stone slab steps.
She stepped off the sidewalk, a faint pounding in her chest at the odd arrangement of the firm’s office space.
These were the folks who had sold the property to Etienne.
Something connected all three houses. Ruins. That’s what Mr. Durand had said. The land had been cleared of ruins before building a house. Did the ruins matter?
Was it a coincidence? All of this seemed coincidental at this point. Why were the victims all in their fifties? Why were all of them wealthy? Why did they all own summer homes in southern France? Where was the killer? Did he live in the area? In France? Or was she just grasping at straws like Agent Paige insisted?
Adele felt a flicker of frustration. She wasn’t sure where she had turned wrong. With a bounce in her step, coming more from frustration than eagerness, she took the stone slabs and pressed a finger, jamming into the buzzer and the small stony alcove beneath the arching doorway.
She waited a moment, standing outside the cathedral turned office building, tapping her foot impatiently on the stone steps. After a couple of moments, a voice croaked out over the intercom, “Becker and Associates. Second floor. Come in.”
The doors buzzed, and Adele opened them, stepping in, reminded, briefly, of her days in a German school. She strode up a dark hall, which didn’t look much like the external façade of the building. Inside, it more resembled an office space; an elevator occupied the far end of the hall. Adele ignored this, though, and the rows of doors with name plaques on them to her left, and instead made her way toward the stairwell to the right. Second floor.
She took the stairs, quickly, breathing slowly in and out, trying to focus and failing, but still trying to suppress the gnawing sense of unease in her stomach.
Adele hastened up the final few steps with rapid footfalls. She approached twin
double doors at the end of the hall, next to where the elevator would have stopped. Golden letters against glass read the name of the French firm. Becker and Associates.
What was she hoping to find?
She wasn’t sure. But for now, she was kicking over stones and seeing what the light revealed. And so, gritting her teeth, she pushed into the office, shouldering through the double doors.
Inside, the office was clean. The windows overlooking the street below were pristine, and the tables, with stacks of real estate magazines and legal brochures, were settled next to rows of comfortable leather chairs facing a small counter. Behind the counter, two women were chatting quietly to each other, and both of them paused, looking up at Adele as she entered.
One of the women, a very pretty, middle-aged lady, cleared her throat and folded her hands over the counter. “Can I help you?” she said.
“I’m here to speak with someone in charge.”
“I see.” The woman spoke like an impatient substitute teacher. She attempted a smile, but the look didn’t suit her lips. “Do you have an appointment?” she said, with crisp, clear tones, enunciating the words as if afraid Adele might not be able to understand.
“I do not. My name is Agent Sharp, and I’m with DGSI.” She flashed her credentials, and as she did, the demeanor of both the secretaries shifted.
The woman who’d been frowning now adopted a more pleasant, nervous expression. She cleared her throat, glancing every so often toward the door behind the counter. “I’m afraid Mr. Becker isn’t entertaining guests right now.”
“I’m not a guest. I’m here on an investigation. I’d like to speak with him.”
