Left to Prey (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eleven)

by Blake Pierce

  “Ms. Alvarez’s body was found over there, by the side of the road. One of her shoes was found there.” The Spanish agent pointed back along the road, down the small incline toward a gully.

  “Her shoe was found distanced from her body?” Adele said.

  “It appears so.”

  “Was she running from our killer?” Adele scanned the area, her eyes moving from the pavement, to the metal protective barrier shielding the drop-off. The indicated space where the body was found had been cordoned off, but the victim had long since been removed. A dark patch of red stained the dirt, however, suggesting at least some of the gruesome evidence of the crime remained.

  Adele moved forward and Pascal fell into step behind her. John remained back by the side of the road, frowning toward the gully, his gaze tracing the roadway.

  Adele returned her attention to their host. “Our victim in France was in his fifties. A religious man—a priest.”

  “I see,” said Pascal. “Ms. Alvarez was in her twenties. I don’t believe she was religious—at least not from speaking with her boyfriend.”

  “She had a boyfriend?”

  “Sí. He is waiting in the traffic line right now, in fact, where he left his car. He became… agitated when he arrived on the scene.” Pascal ran a hand along her voluminous chin, but sighed, shrugging once. “I’m not sure how he knew where the crime scene was.”

  “News?”

  “Not involved yet.”

  Adele snorted. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

  Pascal chuckled, wagging her head and causing the rose stencil on her suit jacket to shift. “Yes—yes, perhaps not long.” She spread her fingers toward the dusty patch of cordoned trail. “Rosa’s neck was slit.”

  “How was it done?” Adele said, carefully. “Was the cut deep? Clean?”

  “I—no. The, what is the word in English… coroner? Yes. The coroner has not ruled yet. But initially, I saw the body. The cut was rough. Very jagged.”

  Adele crossed her own arms now. “I see.”

  “What? You look troubled.”

  “Nothing. Just, our guy also had a jagged cut. The killer was an amateur, we think.”

  “I see. A crime of opportunity, then?”

  Adele didn’t look at Pascal now, preferring to gaze back toward the road. For a moment she paused, thinking. Why had the woman’s shoe been found separated from her body? Had she run? Had she been dragged? Why the jagged cuts? What was the killer using as a weapon? And, most importantly, what was the motive? If this really was a serial killer, why take out a French priest and then cross a country line to murder a young woman?

  She’d likely been stranded, by the looks of the road. Alone. Perhaps she’d even asked the killer for help. Was it simply a crime of opportunity?

  Calcium carbonate in both wounds. This had already been confirmed by Agent Paige. The same murder weapon had been used.

  So it had to be the same killer, right?

  But why? What did he want from a fifty-year-old priest and a twenty-eight-year-old hitchhiker? If Adele couldn’t figure out what they had in common, she wouldn’t be able to predict where…

  Where what?

  Where he struck next?

  She nodded to herself, eyes narrowed. There would almost certainly be a next. If this was the same guy, he was killing at an astonishing rate. Two murders in three days. If… and it was still an if, this was the same murderer, then he was only just getting started.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket and Adele gritted her teeth, jolted from her thoughts. She growled at her pocket, not even needing to check to know Agent Paige was texting again, keeping tabs.

  Of all the cases to have a nuisance looking over her shoulder, this would be one of the more frustrating.

  For a moment, she considered ignoring the text. But then, with a sigh, deciding there was no sense agitating Paige further, Adele’s hand began to move toward her pocket.

  As it did, though, she heard a sudden commotion break out behind her.

  “Dónde!” someone was shouting.

  “No Spanish!” John barked. “English? French? No Spanish! Who are you! Stop—stop!”

  Adele whirled around in time to spot a small man with spiky, gelled hair desperately trying to scramble past John. The large Frenchman had him gripped with both hands around a small bicep, holding him in place. Despite his posture, John wasn’t squeezing too hard, caught between a desire to protect his partner from an angry man without hurting said man. John was frowning, now, as the fellow continued to struggle.

  The small man was kicking and shouting something fierce. “Where?” he yelled, in English now. “Where?” He rattled something off in Spanish, tears streaming down his face as he kicked at John desperately, with all his might, trying to rip free.

  John winced. “Please, calm,” he said, in French, in a surprisingly gentle tone. “We help. We help. Calm.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Calm down!” John repeated, still holding the man’s arm. “Hey, hey—stop kicking me. I’m warning you. Stop—” John grunted as the small, spiky-haired man scored a good one right between the legs.

  John groaned, trying to yank his attacker back. But the wiry man dislodged his arm from the tall agent’s grasp and began to stalk in the direction of the crime scene, tears still spilling down his face. “Please,” he said in heavily accented English. He rattled something off in Spanish again

  “Hello there,” said Agent Pascal. “Speaking of her boyfriend…”

  Adele’s hand had been trailing toward her weapon. At these words, though, she lifted her fingers. “This is Ms. Alvarez’s boyfriend?” she said, watching as the small man kept approaching, only ten feet away now.

  Agent Pascal sighed and nodded, moving to intercept the irate young man. He was shaking his fist back toward John, his feet scuffing against the ground as he stalked forward. He continued to sob openly, gesticulating wildly at the trees with another hand. It took a second, but Adele realized he was probably on something. His eyes were bloodshot, his emotions erratic. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking straight. He had just assaulted a federal officer.

  John was now limping, groaning and trying to stand upright. “Adele,” he groaned, concerned for the only thing that ever really seemed to bother him: Adele’s safety. “Watch out!”

  Adele nodded quickly toward her partner, but addressed the newcomer. “Stop!” Adele said, firmly.

  Agent Pascal spoke in Spanish, holding out a hand. She spoke firmly, but gently. The man striding toward them pulled up, hesitant. He glanced off to the side, his bloodshot eyes moving wildly in their sockets. He stammered something, and Pascal murmured, “He wants to know where his girlfriend is.”

  “I thought you said you already spoke to him,” Adele replied in English.

  “I did.”

  Adele exhaled deeply. He was definitely on something. “Just tell him to calm down. I’m happy to talk with him.”

  To her credit, Agent Pascal didn’t seem bothered at taking instructions. Instead of trying to shoulder into the lead, she simply nodded and translated.

  The man shook his head and then pointed at Adele. He said something, and Pascal whispered, “He wants to know who you are.”

  The man’s tears now dripped from his nose. His gelled hair seemed to be melting in the sunlight, some of the product washed by his sweat and leaving dark stains along his cheek. At first he had seemed in his early twenties, but now that he was closer, Adele glimpsed the crow’s-feet around his eyes. He had a young face and wore clothing like someone just out of college, but he was older than he first appeared.

  “Tell him I’m here to help find who hurt his girlfriend. In fact,” Adele added, quickly, shooting a glance at the bloodstain in the dirt, “I’d actually like to ask him a couple of questions if he would give me the time.”

  In a gentle voice, communicating the spirit of Adele’s words, Pascal translated.

  John had now regained his feet and was stalking toward the s
mall man from behind. Adele held up a halting hand, though, shooting the Frenchman a quick look; John pulled up short, waiting.

  “He wants to know if his girlfriend is all right,” said Pascal.

  “Tell him she’s not. Tell him I need his help.”

  After the words were translated, Rosa’s boyfriend began to shake, the tears and the gel and the sweat creating a horrible mixture along his countenance. He bent over, crouching in the dirt now, placing his hand against the earth as if to steady himself.

  “Please,” Adele said, quietly, “I need to know if his girlfriend had any enemies. Anyone who would want to harm her.”

  As the question was repeated, the man began to sob again, but once Pascal finished the translation he looked up sharply. He scowled, wiping a hand along his face, blinking a few times as if seeing clearly for the first time; his bloodshot eyes bulged like marbles. Adele glimpsed a couple of tracks between his fingers that played in the dirt. Small pinpricks of blood between the digits where he had administered some needle comfort.

  “He says his girlfriend was a free soul. He says she’s been traveling Northern Spain the last few weeks.”

  Adele glanced toward Pascal. “Did you ask him if anyone wanted to harm her?”

  “That’s what he’s saying. Apparently his girlfriend was recently in Leon hitchhiking. Someone at a bar there hit on her.” Agent Pascal paused, wrinkling her nose. She rattled something off in Spanish, and this time the boyfriend returned just as quickly. He nodded adamantly, pointing at Adele and miming a swirling finger as if to say hurry up.

  “He wants me to tell you that someone hit on his girlfriend in that bar. She didn’t like the advances and left. But apparently he got angry, and when she shot him down, he followed her out of the bar.”

  “Who did? He did?”

  “No. Someone else. Whoever was hitting on her in Leon.”

  “So someone followed her.”

  At this, the spiky-haired man blurted out, “Knife!” He said the word in broken English. He mimed a stabbing motion. “Knife,” he repeated. He spoke to Pascal again in Spanish.

  Pascal frowned now, her cheerful expression taking on a dark pallor. “Apparently, whoever followed Rose out of the bar pulled a knife on her, threatened her. She ran away.”

  Adele frowned. “Is he sure she ran away?”

  As this question was translated, the small man became irate. He scooped up a handful of dust and chucked it toward Adele’s feet, rattling something off in fury. His hands bunched at his side, and now John did step forward, gripping the man’s wrist and trying to pull him back from Adele.

  “Hang on,” Adele said, “don’t hurt him! That’s fine.” She glanced toward Pascal as John tried to calm the man. “So if someone tried to follow her out of the bar and that same person had a knife, what are the chances he might have followed her further? Leon isn’t that far from here.”

  Agent Pascal hesitated, scratching at her chin, the stenciled rose on her lapel shifting as she crossed her arms again. Instead of repeating the question toward the irate man, she paused, heaving a long breath. A few of the other agents around them—scattered through the dust and dirt, beneath the trees on the side of the road—paused, looking in her direction as if waiting for some further directive.

  “I can’t be certain,” Pascal said, “but it is possible perhaps she was followed.”

  “Can you ask him if he remembers the name of the bar in Leon?”

  Before the question could be translated, though, the boyfriend yelled out, “The Little Puppet.” He nodded adamantly. “The Little Puppet. Leon. The Little Puppet!”

  The man jerked his hand from John’s grip, rubbing at his wrist. Then, tear-streaked, stained with dust, bleary-eyed, he began to stumble back toward the road, shaking his head and muttering a series of curses beneath his breath. As he left, John glared after him. Adele watched him leave, her heart going out to the man, a mixture of sympathy and frustration. She turned back toward Pascal. “We were told someone would be able to accompany us through Spain. To help with translation.”

  Pascal nodded. “I’ve worked with the French before. We can take my car. It is quite fast,” she said, chuckling.

  Adele hesitated. “Umm, we have a rental over on the side of the road. There, the one behind the cruiser.”

  Pascal nodded. “Just one moment.” The large woman moved toward a skinny police officer standing by the bloodstain. Adele turned as well, rejoining John on the side of the road. “She’s coming with us,” Adele said. “You okay?”

  John straightened, doing his best to hide a grimace, and growled, “He could’ve hurt you. You should’ve let me stop him sooner.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t. Now we have a destination. The Little Puppet in Leon.”

  “I heard. A bar? I have to imagine women get hit on all the time there.”

  “Yes, but they don’t always get followed out of the bar by a knife-wielding lunatic. Who knows. Maybe the bartender saw something.”

  They were moving slowly now back toward the parked sedan, giving Agent Pascal ample time to catch up.

  As they moved, Adele glanced at John’s hand, which kept straying toward his pocket.

  “Everything okay?”

  John’s fingers reached imperceptibly into his pocket, pressing against something. His phone? Was that a buzz she’d heard?

  “I think you might be getting a call,” Adele said, innocently, resisting the urge to glare.

  John just shrugged, picking up the pace and marching toward the car. “It’s nothing, no one. Let’s go. We need to get there before the place gets crowded.”

  Adele stared after her partner, still walking slowly. She wasn’t sure what to make of all of this. Was she just being paranoid? Or was Renee really hiding something?

  She sighed, shaking her head, deciding to let it go. She strolled up the trail, listening to the sound of rapid footfalls as Agent Pascal caught up with them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It wasn’t much to go on, but a bar in Leon was the only lead they had.

  The Little Puppet was a small, cheap-smelling place in the heart of the city. They had parked, at John’s insistence, in a handicapped spot. Agent Pascal hadn’t protested, but now as they exited the car and moved up the curb, her lips were pursed, and her eyes narrowed. The scent of the bar wafted out from the open door, propped by a red brick. A couple of cheap umbrellas were spread over metal tables, encircling a patio with cracked flagstones. Inside, during the late afternoon, patrons were beginning to gather for the evening rush. Music blasted from inside the space.

  The three agents moved into the Little Puppet and immediately found themselves surrounded by bright pink and green fairy lights arranged conspicuously along the top trim of the bar. The bar itself boasted a handful of customers, most of them playing billiards or darts. A few of them were smoking in one corner, laughing and taking turns showing each other videos on their phones.

  Adele looked away, making a beeline toward the counter.

  An old woman, easily in her sixties, with pale silver curls was standing behind the counter, stacking slick cups. The cups were of different colors, some purple, others red and blue. Each of the cups was matched according to color and stacked in a sort of pyramid at different sections of the counter.

  Adele cleared her throat, careful not to knock over a pile of orange cups in front of her.

  “Cup stacking competition isn’t for another hour,” the old bartender said in English, giving them a once-over, her voice hoarse.

  Adele shook her head. “I’m not here about that,” she said, hesitating and then waving a hand toward the pyramids of drinkware being laid out. “I’m here for information.”

  The woman paused, settling a maroon cup at the very pinnacle of a six-stack pyramid. She said, hesitantly, “Who are you?”

  Her English was better than Adele would’ve thought. A lot of the larger cities in Europe had multilingual entrepreneurs. It came in hand with tourist destin
ations. They also had a knack for picking out foreigners among locals.

  “Agent Sharp; I’m with Interpol. I was wondering if you saw this girl last week.” She pulled out her phone, flashing the photo of Rosa Alvarez.

  The woman behind the counter shrugged, not even looking at the picture. “A lot of people come through.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “I might remember her,” said the woman, leaning back now and tapping one hand against the counter. A few of the cups shifted. “Did she do something?”

  “It pertains to an ongoing investigation,” Adele said. John and Pascal contented themselves to stand behind her, looking sufficiently intimidating based on size alone. John was glaring, Pascal looked curious.

  “I can’t say I remember her. What was her name?”

  “Her name?”

  The woman snapped her fingers in irritation. “Name. I’m not as good with faces as I am with names. What was her name?”

  “Rosa Alvarez,” Adele said.

  One of the customers further down the counter was looking over, watching them curiously. The man wore a backwards cap and a thick jacket despite the warmth. He already had a half empty glass in front of him, and by the look of the stack of bills in his hand, he wasn’t even close to done.

  Adele looked away again and said, “Rosa Alvarez. Does the name ring any bells?”

  “It does, in fact. I think I remember her. She sat over there,” the bartender said. “Six or seven days ago. I don’t know. I remember because she forgot to pay her tab. I’d have to check with Luis. He’s not here right now.”

  “Luis?”

  “He helps when things get busy.”

  “She didn’t pay. That’s why you remember her? Are you sure?”

  The bartender shrugged. “That’s all I remember.”

  “Was there an altercation? Do you remember anything like that?”