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

by Blake Pierce

  The man cleared his throat again uncomfortably. Then, like a tide suddenly being released, he hastily said, “Did you find Vargas? Was it him?”

  Adele didn’t have the energy to deny it. She just said, “Why are you asking?”

  “I just, I felt it was important. I don’t think I told you everything.”

  Adele frowned. “Go on.”

  “Vargas, he was troubled. We all knew it. We tried to be kind to him. He used to go to the reform school when he was young. It’s now an orphanage. The school portion was shut down. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but that priest you mentioned. The one who died ten years ago…”

  “Father Mora?”

  “Ricardo, yes. I knew him. Not well. But he had a reputation. I only found out about it afterwards, but there were rumors. Things the church swept under the rug.” Father Paul’s voice strained again with emotion. The same way it had the night before.

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “Abuse. A very familiar, sordid story, I’m afraid. Much to our shame. The church has gotten better. Though that’s no excuse. Still, all we can do is better. But from the stories I’ve heard, it was a poorly kept secret that Mora took out some of his more violent tendencies on Vargas and some of the other kids. Many of them had the good sense to get away when they could, but Vargas seemed affectionate of Mora. Like I said, I don’t like speaking ill of the dead.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I want you to know why. If Vargas did this. I want you to know it didn’t start with him.”

  “It didn’t have to continue. What’s your point?”

  Father Paul swallowed. “I don’t know if I have a point. But for Vargas, there’s every chance that what he did he thought was normal. It was what he was taught from a very young age.”

  “Everyone has pain,” Adele snapped. “It doesn’t excuse murder.”

  “Of course not. I’m not saying that. Just, just don’t judge him too harshly.”

  For a moment, Adele felt like hanging up. She wasn’t even sure why. “I don’t plan on judging anyone,” she said after a moment. “I just catch them. Someone else can decide what happens to them.”

  “I understand. And Agent Sharp.” He hesitated, but then, his voice growing in strength, he said, “I’m very grateful for what you do. You deserve all the credit. Thank you.”

  She frowned, hesitant. What did he mean? It took her a moment, trying to consider what angle he might be playing, but then she just shrugged. “Thank you. I do what I can. I appreciate the call, Father. Have a good day.”

  “You as well.”

  “Who was that?” a voice said behind her. She turned, slowly, wearily. Agent John Renee was standing in the sliding doors of the precinct; he hesitated, but then with slow steps he approached.

  She looked off across the parking lot again.

  “You’re asking me who I’m calling?” she said, her voice bitter.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I was thinking about it. I’m sorry, Adele.”

  She hesitated, looking back at him. If anything, she hadn’t been expecting an apology from Renee. If stubborn had a picture, it would’ve been a snapshot of John’s eyes. Now, though, he was scratching at his scar, glancing toward his feet. He sighed, his large chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry for keeping her secret. I have a daughter—there, I said it. I should’ve told you. I’ve not been with anyone for longer than a couple of weeks in more than a decade.”

  Adele leaned in, too tired to care what social etiquette dictated in this moment. She rested her head against John’s chest. For a moment he flinched, but then, instead of pulling away, he pulled her close, putting a large arm around her shoulders and holding her against him. The two of them stared off across the gray parking lot, peering over the vehicles illuminated by the sunlight.

  “Thanks for telling me,” she said.

  “I need to be honest with you, Adele, and that means completely honest.”

  She didn’t have the energy to flinch, but she braced herself.

  “I don’t want you to meet her. At least not yet. At least not until I get to know her a bit better. I’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about your father and you. I never saw myself as a father figure. I didn’t even have the chance for the first few years of her life. Bernadette didn’t want anything to do with me. Not that I blame her. I figured the girl would be better off without me.”

  Adele relaxed a bit. “I don’t need to meet her. I just wanted to know. I care about you. I care about the things that matter to you. I care about the things that should matter to you.”

  She could feel the warmth of John’s chest, could practically hear the pounding of his heart. He sighed and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ll try to be more honest in the future. I—I once had a threesome when I was seventeen—”

  Adele winced. “Hang on. You don’t have to be that honest. Just, you know, the big things. Not every time you had sex. I don’t want to know that.”

  John snorted, but she could tell he was smiling now.

  Adele shook her head, still keeping it rested against John’s chest. She could forgive him. She knew that. It would take some time, and she hadn’t liked that he’d lied about the phone calls. Trust would take a little bit of effort to rebuild. But it would work. She could forgive him.

  They stood like that, not looking at anything in particular. There was no sunrise, no beautiful lake, no gorgeous vista. It wasn’t like the movies, with swelling music or twittering birds above. There were no symbolic paintings in the background, or moments of self-reflection. It was just the two of them, on the steps of the Spanish precinct, facing a well-maintained parking lot. And it was enough.

  Adele found her eyes drooping and for a moment she thought she might fall asleep, leaning as she was.

  “John,” she said, quietly, “I don’t think I’m a good person.”

  John bristled, tensing. She looked up at him and realized he was scowling. “That’s complete crap,” he said. “I’m not a good person. You’re a saint.”

  Adele shook her head, looking off. “I said some things last night. Things I didn’t realize I meant. But I did mean them.”

  “We all say things sometimes.”

  “I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to feel pain.”

  “Astounding. You’re human? I was beginning to wonder.”

  She looked up at him again, frowning now to meet his returning smile. “It’s not funny,” she said.

  “No, it’s not. Well, maybe a little. People feel that, Adele. All the time. I know I do. Like I said, I don’t consider myself that good. But I know you. I’ve seen you. What you feel isn’t nearly as important as how you act. You choose well. You’ve done it again and again. I’ve seen you do it again and again. You make the right choice, even if you feel something different.”

  “I don’t always.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  Adele wanted to just fall asleep, leaning against John’s chest. She didn’t want to move. The warmth of the sunlight felt wonderful against her cheeks. But just then, her phone began to ring. Adele wanted to ignore it. It was probably just Paige. Maybe Father Paul. She didn’t want to talk to anyone about the case. Not until she got some sleep. She could only imagine how nice it would feel for her head to hit a pillow.

  “You gonna answer that?” John said.

  “It’s my secret boyfriend,” Adele murmured. “I don’t want you to know about him.”

  John snorted. “All right—I’ll keep your secret.”

  Adele chuckled. The phone stopped ringing. But then, nearly instantly, it began to ring again. She frowned, loath to lift her head, but reluctantly, pushing away from John, she pulled her phone from her pocket. Adele glanced at the screen, not recognizing the number. She hesitated and then lifted the device. She could feel John watching her, studying her expression.

  “Hello?” Adele said. “Who is this?”

  “Agent Sharp?” said
a voice. A deep, gruff voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Sergeant Rey. Police.” He spoke unmistakably in French.

  “Where?”

  “Paris.”

  She looked at John.

  “Who is it?” John whispered.

  “Police,” she replied.

  “Well, Sergeant, what can I help you with?”

  “Is this Agent Adele Sharp?”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Your office. Look, I’m afraid I have some news.”

  Adele felt her heart skip a beat. She was too tired to feel much, but a mounting sense of anxiety twisted in her belly. “Sergeant, you’re beginning to worry me. What’s the matter?”

  “I—apologies, but I think I should tell you in person. How far are you from Paris?”

  “I’m in Spain. Is this important? I can be there tomorrow.”

  He sighed. “Merde. Well, maybe we can’t wait. I think it might be best if you hear from us. The news is going to pick up on it soon enough.”

  Now Adele could feel the prickle intensify up her spine. John was watching her, a shrewd look in his hooded eyes. He seemed to realize something was awry. He watched her, quiet now, hands at his side, as if poised for action. But whatever was on the other end of that line, there was nothing he could do about it. And so, facing the inevitability, Adele said, “What is it?”

  The gruff voice cleared its throat and then said, “There’s no easy way to say this. But your mother’s killer just turned himself in.”

  Adele felt as if her body melted. She wasn’t sure when she sat. She wasn’t sure when she nearly dropped her phone, fumbled it, and readjusted. All she knew was, a few seconds later, she was sitting on the steps, blinking. John was now at her side, crouched, whispering, “Are you okay?”

  She couldn’t really hear him. She understood he was speaking, she could even pick out each word, but they didn’t make any sense. “What did you say?” she murmured, her tone completely devoid of anything.

  “Your mother’s killer turned himself in to the authorities in Paris,” said Sergeant Rey. “We need you to come in. He will only speak to you.”

  The phone fell from her hands. It hit her knee and then hit the steps. Adele felt dizzy again. She swallowed, her throat dry. John was still murmuring in her ear. His hand touched her shoulder. It seemed strange, almost as if she were observing all of this from a different vantage point. As if she wasn’t even in her own body.

  She cleared her throat and said, as if she were commenting on the breeze, the same way Mr. Segura had spoken, “The strangest thing,” she murmured.

  “What is it, Adele, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter?”

  “The Spade Killer,” she said, airily. “How funny. I never thought… Well, so strange.”

  “Adele, you’re scaring me.”

  She looked at John, studying his face, noticing the bristles on his chin, the five o’clock shadow, the way his eyes flashed. Such a curious specimen. Such a gorgeous man. None of it registered. It was like looking at abstract shapes. She couldn’t quite piece them together, noticing his eyes rather than his face. Noticing a tooth instead of teeth. Noticing a hair instead of eyebrows.

  Her mind seemed to be short-circuiting.

  She could hear someone gasping. It took her second to realize it was her. In, out, rapid. She was shaking now. Shaking so hard, she thought she might bruise her legs against the steps. John came in, hugging her from behind as if trying to shield her from a grenade blast. He held her tight, his body blocking the rest of the world.

  “Adele, please,” he murmured in her ear, his breath hot. “You’re scaring me. I’m scared. What happened? Are you okay? Who was that?”

  She hesitated, trying to think. None of it really made sense, did it? “I think,” she said, in that same emotionless tone, “I think I have to go to Paris. Right now. Right now, John. Right now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Adele didn’t wait for the cab from the airport to pull to a full stop outside the precinct in the heart of Paris. Even as the tires squealed against the curb, she had already flung open her door and broken into an all-out sprint up the steps to the police station.

  John called after her, but she ignored him, gasping, heart pounding, a cold sweat having beaded across her brow.

  They hadn’t stopped moving since that phone call.

  And she wasn’t about to slow now.

  Adele burst through the front of the police station, which was milling with officers. More than the usual share of law enforcement gathered in corners or by the sergeant’s desk, all seemingly in conversation. It felt like a beehive with a buzz of activity all around.

  “Where is he?” Adele demanded, her throat tight, her voice hoarse in her own ears. She marched straight up to the sergeant’s desk, shouldering roughly past a couple of larger officers who were muttering to each other in low voices.

  She caught a couple of words. “Yes… yes, that case.”

  “…you’re sure…”

  “…I saw him.”

  “Why is the Spade Killer turning himself in?”

  “I don’t know…”

  Adele growled, slamming a hand roughly on the plexiglass and pointing a finger at the balding sergeant sitting behind the desk. “Where is he?” she said, louder.

  The sergeant looked up, blinking owlishly at her. He seemed to struggle to place her question so she repeated it again, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her shoulders set, her teeth clenched, biting off the word.

  At last, the man coughed. “Excuse me,” the Parisian said, “but who are you?”

  “Adele Sharp. Agent Sharp,” she snapped. “I was called by this department. Where is the Spade Killer? Where is he!”

  Now a few of the officers gathered near her went quiet, pretending like they weren’t eavesdropping but clearly shooting glances in her direction. The man behind the counter folded his hands neatly. “I can ring the captain if you like. He’s away right now—sorting things out with your office, in fact. Sergeant Rey is handling the case too, but he’s currently on a call upstairs.”

  “I don’t give a shit where he is. I’m here now. I’m not waiting for your captain,” she yelled, spittle flecking the counter. She could feel herself coming untethered. She didn’t want to sit around jawing with some lickspittle lackey. She needed to see the runty bastard. Needed to see him now.

  On the breakneck drive and plane ride over, Adele had been given time to think. Her skin was still crawling and she felt on the verge of screaming and fainting every few seconds. But still, at least a part of her managed to cling to rationality.

  Why had the Spade Killer turned himself in? Why now?

  What game was he playing at? The news had called him the Spade Killer for murdering people in gardens and parks throughout Paris. Once, the weapon had been thought to be a gardener’s spade. The man himself thought of himself as an artist, though. A painter. He’d left horrible patterns carved into the flesh of his victims.

  The way he’d cut Elise Romei, Adele’s mother. The way he’d brutalized Robert Henry in his own home.

  The little bastard had turned himself in. But why?

  Something didn’t add up.

  She didn’t have the patience for slow-moving Parisian police in that moment.

  “Tell me where he is. Now!” she demanded.

  The sergeant behind the desk hesitated, his expression flicking into a frown now. “I really must insist you wait until—”

  She howled in frustration, slamming her hand against the counter and wheeling about, stalking down a hallway, past the gathered officers, moving behind the desk.

  “Hang on,” the sergeant called. “You can’t go back there! Wait—wait!”

  “Is it here? Down here?” Adele demanded. “Hmm? Do you have him in interrogation?”

  “Wait—wait!” the sergeant yelled, desperately.

  A police officer moved to intercept her, hand extende
d, but Adele shoved him hard, hand planting into his chest and sending the man reeling into the wall. “Get off me,” she snarled. “Interpol. Get back! Back!”

  A couple of other officers moved hesitantly to intervene. She flashed her Interpol credentials, though, followed by her gun, which she left holstered. “Get the hell out of my way,” she screamed into the face of a large man blocking her path. “I will cut right through you! Get out!”

  She knew she was acting erratically. Knew she was allowing her emotions to get the better of her. But for now, it proved effective. She would have to deal with hurt feelings later. Maybe send a box of chocolates. For now, she shoved past the police officer who, at a command from his sergeant, backed away.

  “Please, Agent Sharp! We need the captain back before you go back there!”

  She didn’t reply. Didn’t even look back. She was sick of red tape. Sick of all the ways the Spade Killer had managed to play the lot of them. He’d always had the upper hand. But now here he was, wandering into her home turf.

  Something about it was unsettling.

  She’d always thought she’d need to catch him.

  But he’d taken even that satisfaction away by turning himself in.

  Why, though? Why?

  She approached a row of four interrogation rooms at the end of the hall. Two doors were open. Two closed. But three officers stood outside the second door.

  Like signposts pointing toward her destination. Three guards outside the room. Hardly usual fare in a precinct. Even in a police headquarters, the little killer had his captors spooked.

  She marched straight forward, flashing her credentials again. “Agent Adele Sharp—Interpol and DGSI,” she snapped. “Move.”

  The three officers hesitated. But she didn’t wait. She simply reached past them, twisted the lock on the handle, and then shoved open the door before slipping into the gray, bleak room beyond.

  The low murmur of officers behind her went mostly unnoticed as the door swung slowly shut behind her on smooth hinges.

  The door closed, sending a sudden puff of air through the room, ruffling her hair and cooling her sweaty neck. She stood stock-still for a moment in front of the closed door, her eyes fixed on the small, almost childish figure hunched in one of the plastic chairs.