Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight)

by Blake Pierce

“I’m not sure he’s able. I believe he’s in a meeting…”

  Adele sighed. She’d been through the rigmarole before. Always the underlings preventing entry, and always the agent having to find a way to strong-arm or bluff their way through those doors.

  It was a familiar dance, and a frustrating one. Already, she could feel the constraints of time coming in, like cold fingers wrapping around her neck. She didn’t have time to dawdle, arguing with a secretary.

  She didn’t want to bully, nor did she want to bluff. So instead, she looked at the woman, then looked past her at the door, and shrugged. She moved around the counter and headed toward the door without another word.

  “Excuse me, excuse me, you can’t be back here!”

  Adele ignored the protests, moving even more rapidly toward the door, her feet clicking against the varnished floorboards. “Mr. Becker,” she said, raising her voice. “Police!”

  She heard some more protests from the two ladies, and again, fully ignored the distraction. She’d come too far for that. She was a woman on a mission.

  Adele tapped her fingers against the door, raising her voice even louder. Her eyes settled on a plaque, centering the oak frame in silver letters, which read Mr. Pierre Becker.

  “Mr. Becker,” she said, even louder now, “I need to speak with you, sir!”

  “He’s very busy,” protested the voice behind her.

  “Sir,” Adele called, rapping her fingers against the frame again. “I’d like to speak with you about—”

  The door opened slowly, with a creaking groan against hinges.

  Even before the door had fully opened, she heard the patter of feet, of someone retreating back into the room, and then muttered conversation from the other end.

  Adele waited as the door slowly sprung open, carried by momentum, and she spotted a man wearing slippers, his white hair jutting every which way, with an old, corded black phone pressed to his cheek. He was muttering quickly into the device and shaking his head every couple of moments, saying things like, “No, of course not. Double that. You have to double that. I won’t sign. No, you’re supposed to represent me. I mean it. All right, I’ll see you at home for dinner. I love you too.”

  The man with the wild white hair clicked the old-fashioned phone back into its cradle.

  He inhaled slowly, still facing an ornate desk, behind which an even more intricately carved chair had been pushed aside, facing one of the large windows. There was no computer in sight, nor cell phone.

  The older gentleman finally inhaled, his shoulders rising and falling, and then he turned, slowly, raising a woolly eyebrow to examine where Adele stood in the door.

  “Police you said?”

  The man had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. His ears were drooping, and his nose quite long. His eyes seemed kind, but creased with sagging wrinkles, and more bags then a Parisian at a shopping center.

  “Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Becker?”

  “I try to be. What’s this about?” He held up a finger and then added, “Actually, I’d like to see some identification first.” He spoke softly, carefully, as if placing each word like a brick laying a foundation. He didn’t raise his voice, rather allowing the silence to carry his intentions.

  Adele stiffly removed her wallet and raised her credentials once more.

  Instinctively, she began to lower the wallet again, but before she could, a hand reached out and held her, gently lifting her hand just a bit, and the older man leaned in, his eyes narrowed as he read slowly. He continued to read, taking in every inch and detail of the badge before at last lowering his own hand and nodding.

  Hesitantly, Adele stowed her identification.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Becker!” a voice called from behind Adele. “I tried to stop her.”

  Adele kicked back with her heel, shutting the door with a thunk.

  The older man didn’t seem amused or worried, and instead zeroed his full attention on Adele. Next to him was a bookshelf with an entire row of what looked like encyclopedias, or maybe law journals. Whatever the case, there were many volume sets of green- and purple- and gold-bound books. Books, Adele was nearly certain, she’d never seen, much less read in her life.

  “How can I help you, Agent Adele Sharp?” Still that soft, strolling tone of voice.

  “I’m here about a property you sold to Mr. Etienne Durand,” she said.

  For the first time, a flash of emotion creased the older man’s expression. He blinked and swallowed once. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Durand and I have not done business for nearly a decade. I wouldn’t involve myself with that…” He trailed off, coughed once and shook his head. “That man, if you put a gun to my head. Are you here to broker a deal for him? Because I have to say the answer is no. An emphatic no.”

  “I’m not here for Mr. Durand. I’m here as an investigator, and I’m more concerned with one of the pieces of land you sold him.”

  The older gentleman crossed his arms. “Which one?”

  Adele hesitated. “You need a computer? Do you have files?”

  “We have files. But I don’t need them. Which parcel? We sold him six.”

  Adele blinked. “You’re certain?”

  “August second, a decade ago. Yes, I’m sure.” He tapped a finger against his forehead. “I keep most of my files up here. That technology,” he wiggled a hand toward her pocket. “It only makes the generation stupider.”

  Adele couldn’t help but agree, but she didn’t particularly like having it pointed out. Still, she tried to stay on track. “All right,” she said, hurriedly. “So you remember all the properties. I’m specifically interested in 632 Route de Contis.”

  The older man closed his eyes for a moment, the wrinkles around his lids smoothing just a bit and giving him a peaceful look as if he were sleeping. But then he dipped his head once and opened his eyes. “Yes, I remember it. Some old ruins were cleared out so we could renovate a new house. We sold it, but then the buyers backed out of the new construction. At the time, the area was having a recession.” He shook his head. “I thought I had bought some bad land. Sold it to Mr. Etienne, all six parcels as a bundle.” Here, Mr. Becker frowned even deeper. “He got it for a steal. Still bothers me.”

  “Mr. Durand did say he got a very good deal for the property.”

  “An extraordinarily good deal,” Mr. Becker said with a snort. “So what does that have to do with the DGSI?”

  “I’m specifically interested in that property’s history. Is there anything else you can tell me? Who did you originally buy it from?”

  The man paused, frowning for a moment, and then said, “Actually, I do remember that too.”

  Adele stared, swallowing back a sudden surge of excitement.

  “Who?”

  He shrugged simply. “It was the church.” Mr. Becker nodded, putting both his hands in his baby blue suit pockets. “Yes, the church. In fact, they were selling off quite a bit of land which we bought up at the time.”

  He knocked a hand against the desk and smiled. “Including this office space, in fact. They were allowing people to tear down old convents and cloisters. If I remember correctly that second location was bought from the church.”

  Adele exhaled through her nose, thinking of the third location she’d visited—the miniature castle. “Do you know anything about 121 on the same street?”

  The man wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think I was involved in that sale. I do remember it, though. Yes, if I remember correctly I was outbid for that particular piece. Another steal of a sale. That one went a few years after the one I sold to Mr. Durand if I remember correctly.”

  Adele’s mouth felt dry all of a sudden. “Also from the church?”

  “I believe so, yes. It would have been at the same auction where I won the properties. Why do you ask, Agent Adele Sharp?”

  Adele could feel her mind spinning, tracking the imparted information. Twice now, it had become clear the land was sold on the cheap. Her eyes narrowed and she glanced toward
Mr. Becker… Could he have possibly been involved? Was that the connection? He’d owned the land the second home was built on, and he had a specific knowledge of the third, miniature castle-shaped, home.

  What about the first, though? The one with the stained glass window in the bathroom?

  Adele studied Mr. Becker a moment longer, doing her best not to betray her thoughts. Was this unassuming, elderly man somehow involved?

  Could he be a suspect?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She winced at the thought. He didn’t seem particularly strong. His age alone precluded him from running down three victims, choking the life out of them.

  Still… maybe he had an accomplice?

  Delicately, Adele folded her arms and in a soft voice said, “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, where have you been this last week?”

  Becker acknowledged her with a frown, but then blinked and shook his head. “Excuse me?”

  “Just a formality,” she said, quickly. “Where have you been?”

  “Here,” Becker said, reflexively, his fluffy eyebrows dropping low. “Exactly here, every day. I don’t take weekends either, Agent Adele Sharp.” His face wrinkled a bit in a frown, and he waved a hand toward the door. “Ask Audrey—she’s been here with me mostly.” At this he coughed delicately and smoothed his sleeves, glancing off out the window once more.

  Adele studied Mr. Becker’s posture for a moment. He seemed mildly embarrassed, but not fearful. Perhaps a bit offended, but confident. The sort of confidence of a man whose alibi would check out.

  Not that it much mattered. He didn’t have the physique to be the killer. And the accomplice angle seemed a far stretch at this point. It wasn’t like he’d managed to buy back the properties he’d lost on the cheap.

  But if not him, then who?

  At that moment, her phone began to ring. Adele held up a finger and turned, fishing the device from her pocket and answering. “Agent Sharp.”

  “Oh, ah, yes, hello,” said a nervous voice on the other end. “This is Sara Cote.”

  Adele frowned in confusion for a moment, but then the name clicked and her eyebrows imitated Mr. Becker’s, rising high. “The property manager?”

  “Um, yes. Hello, you said I should call you if I found anything about the previous owners of the house.”

  Adele swallowed, finding her throat dry all of a sudden. “That’s right. And?”

  She pictured the small summer home on the beach, with the stained glass window in the bathroom.

  “I found out who owned it.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was the church,” Ms. Cote said, her tone one of mild bemusement. “At least that’s what I was told.”

  Adele didn’t respond, the phone clutched in her hand now, staring sightless across the room while her mind spun a million miles a minute.

  The church.

  All three properties now had ties to the church.

  She coughed delicately and said, “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. I spoke with one of their development offices directly.” Sara Cote paused as if gathering her thoughts. She then, with renewed intensity, continued, “It sounds like a couple of decades ago they were selling old properties to migrate some of their churches and the like closer to the city.”

  “And this summer home,” Adele pressed, quickly. “What about it?”

  “A cloister,” Ms. Cote’s voice came, ushered by a burst of static which made Adele wince. “An old medieval cloister of all things. I suppose that explains some of the odd stone arches and the like. Well… is that helpful at all, Agent Sharp?”

  Adele’s mind whirred. She thought quickly to the third summer home, like the miniature castle… More a medieval building, though, surely… maintained, perhaps, but old and archaic. And as for the second property, with the modern home, hadn’t she been told twice now that it had once been occupied by old ruins?

  She lowered the phone slowly, pressing it to mute it against her collar. “Mr. Becker,” she said, “your memory is quite impressive. Is there any way you know what exactly those ruins were on the property?”

  He waved a hand, still frowning in her direction—no doubt miffed by the earlier line of questioning. For a moment, she worried he might hold out on her. But then he just shrugged his bony shoulders. “I told you—the church owned the land. The ruins were some sort of cloister. No choice but to knock it down and rebuild—it was in disrepair.”

  Adele could feel her heart hammering now, and she spun on her heel, hurrying toward the door. She lifted her phone again. “Thank you,” she said, quickly. “If you find anything else, please call.” Then she hung up, pushing through the door to Becker’s office and back into the lobby.

  She could feel her excitement mounting. The murder weapon—not beads, not pearls—a rosary. She’d had the thought herself. A theory at the time. Simply a theory.

  But no longer.

  Two of the summer homes had once been cloisters. The third, owned by the church, also—most likely—a similar history.

  She kept her phone gripped in her fingers, ignoring the secretaries as she marched out of the small office space and into the hall once more, striding down the long, echoing corridor. She raised her phone now, calling Agent Paige.

  She waited, feeling the tension in her chest rising, feeling fit to burst.

  The phone continued to ring without answer and some of Adele’s excitement was now replaced by frustration. At last, she was sent to voicemail.

  Trying to keep her tone professional, Adele said, through half-gritted teeth, “Paige, the church owned all three properties. The killer is murdering wealthy women who own vacation homes in this region that were former cloisters and on church ground. It’s a religious angle. He’s going to keep at it! Call me!”

  Adele hung up, jamming her phone back in her pocket as she hurried to the stairway. Everything was moving… nothing felt certain anymore. Her instincts were off. Maybe she didn’t have it anymore. Had she totally lost it?

  Her chest pounded, her eyes fixed on the smooth railing.

  Motive was religious. MO obvious.

  But this still wasn’t enough to find the killer. Closer—closer than ever. But the murderer had proven himself more than resourceful, dancing around the continent as he had.

  But what did it mean? Where was he headed to next?

  She took the stairs two at a time, picking up her pace as she did.

  Would he strike again in London? Germany?

  Where would he kill? She had to beat him to it. It felt like she’d finally managed to pry open a door and get a peek inside the madhouse. Now she had to use this illumination to find the architect of these murders.

  “I’ve got you,” she muttered to herself, nodding firmly.

  The only questions: Where would he strike next? And could she beat him to it?

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Back in France—so lovely. Elke Schmidt breathed a soft sigh of satisfaction as he pedaled along on his borrowed bicycle. His habit was folded neat and tidy, stowed in the backpack slung over his shoulder.

  Elke rolled his shoulders as he pedaled up the hill, wincing a bit against the still open wounds along his shoulders. The pain lanced sharp and sweet and he found his lips folding back, revealing teeth.

  The man who now called himself Elke turned along a side street, glimpsing Bordeaux in the distance, his eyes tracing the outline of the city against the horizon, a welcoming embrace of stone and glass, witnessing the arrival of a tool of retribution.

  He wheeled the bike into a side alley along cracked asphalt lined with dumpsters and the lingering odor of refuse and mildew. His nose twitched as he wheeled to a halt and stowed the bike behind one of the large green and blue trash cans.

  He tested his movement gingerly, feeling the way his rough, burlap shirt rubbed against the open wounds. A car ride might have been more comfortable, more accommodating.

  But Elke Schmidt didn’t prefer vehicles. He practiced pain as a virtue.r />
  A virtue she would share soon enough.

  Breathing slowly in and out, Elke moved away from the stowed bicycle along the alley toward the mouth of the side path. He ignored the scent of the dumpsters, the trash and rot behind him, preferring to stare ahead, along the open road in the flank of France, his eyes inching up the large apartment building across the street.

  His eyes flashed as he stared at the structure, glaring in the direction of the top floor apartment.

  No movement discernible.

  This particular judgment would be a difficult one. Harder to track the transgressor’s movements—harder to detect her habits so high up.

  His face twisted into a snarl and he pounded a fist hard into the stone wall next to him. He yelped in pain, feeling a knuckle crack from the force. He lifted his hand, his fingers trembling, staring at the back of his knuckles. A thick flap of skin had torn off on the cement. A moment later, blood suddenly pooled, pouring down his hand toward his wrist. Delicately, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it around his knuckles where he stood in the alley.

  The streets outside were mostly empty, save the occasional car skirting past. They were far enough outside the main hub of the busy city that they were allowed a modicum of privacy and respite.

  Still, there was no rest for the wicked.

  And the transgressor would face judgment soon enough.

  Elke Schmidt folded his good hand over his injured knuckles, squeezing down, wincing and feeling tears of pain form in his eyes.

  Three judgments already.

  All of them successful.

  He didn’t need reconnaissance for this one. Perhaps her habits were unknown to him. Perhaps he couldn’t perfectly track her schedule.

  It didn’t matter.

  The Good Judge was on his side. Hadn’t it been proven already? Wasn’t it obvious?

  He nodded, dipping his head once and then stalking across the street, sticking to the shadows, his head lowered.

  A bit of homework never hurt. But he couldn’t wait much longer. The vengeance was burbling in his chest.