Left To Die (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book One)

by Blake Pierce

  “I told you to stop calling me that,” she said.

  John frowned, confused, and then he turned back to face the glass door. “Would you prefer American Queen?”

  “I prefer Adele. Or Agent Sharp. Or, if you’d really like, you could call me ma’am.”

  John snorted.

  “But I suppose I can let this one pass,” Adele continued. “You were right about your friend at Interpol. They are quick.”

  John nodded, shifting uncomfortably again and causing the chair to creak precariously beneath him. “You really do have an ear for accents. A German killer in America and France.” John reached across the small coffee table next to him and pulled the manila folder they’d been copied in on, flipping it open to examine the contents once more. Adele had memorized the thing already when it had first arrived two hours ago—they’d gone directly to Executive Foucault with the results.

  In the opposite room, Adele could still hear the chatter of urgent voices in the office.

  Every train station, bus stop, airport, and border would be watched for red-haired German citizens trying to flee the country.

  But it was too late.

  She knew it in her bones. He had been one step ahead the entire time. Last time, in the US, when she’d gotten close, he had fled the next day.

  After the debacle the previous night, with his victim escaping, surviving, there was no way he would have stayed in the country. He’d had ample time to get out. He wouldn’t have waited.

  Too late. Always just a moment too late…

  Adele shook her head firmly. “What’s taking them so long?”

  John shrugged, scanning the folder once more. “You know how the BKA is,” he said. “Germans are official folk. Not like your FBI. Not like DGSI either. They have more red tape than both our agencies combined. Especially with Interpol presiding.”

  Adele shook her head. “You’d think with Interpol’s help we could get something done.”

  John shrugged. “It’s always been difficult tracking criminals across borders.” He sighed, puffing out his chest. “I doubt that’ll change now.”

  Adele clenched her teeth. “But he’s killed in the US and France. For all we know he’s killed in Germany too. Everyone should want him caught.”

  John shoved the manila folder beneath her nose, flapping it up and down and causing the sides to wiggle like butterfly wings. “He’s not identified. All we know is that the substance in the victim’s veins is from Lion Pharmaceutical in Hamburg.”

  “Yes,” said Adele, keeping her tone patient. “But it was an unreleased substance. It didn’t meet approval standards.” Adele kept her gaze fixed on Foucault’s door. “Which means the only people with access to it would be working for the pharmaceutical company. That narrows down our suspects by a lot. How many of them do you think travel frequently to the US and France? How many of them do you think have red hair?”

  “Could be a wig,” said John. “Think of that?”

  Adele hesitated. She had thought of that. But Robert had seemed so confident in his deduction that the man wouldn’t have displayed red hair if it hadn’t naturally been his. A man of vanity, clinging onto his youth. That had been Robert’s prescription. And her old mentor was rarely wrong. Still, maybe he had lost a step. Time passed; he had aged. Maybe it was a wig.

  Secretly, Adele hoped it wasn’t. Not only would red hair make it easier to track the killer down, but it would mean that Robert was right. That he was still one of the best investigators in France.

  “One step at a time,” said John. “I don’t want to go to Germany anyway. What do the Germans have that we don’t in France?”

  Adele rolled her eyes. This time she did look over at her tall, hunched partner. “We’re not going on a vacation. We need to find a killer; is that a good enough reason to take a sabbatical from your beloved Paris?”

  John scratched his jaw, and shrugged with one shoulder. “Not really.”

  Adele would’ve continued harassing her teammate in part good humor and part exasperation, but the glass door to Foucault’s office opened, nearly whacking John’s extended legs.

  Adele’s partner jerked his feet back, and the door scraped across the thin carpet, revealing an older woman with pursed lips and intelligent eyes.

  “The Interpol correspondent,” John whispered to Adele.

  “I know; I was here before you.”

  This time John rolled his eyes.

  Behind the correspondent from Interpol, the executive was on the phone, the receiver pressed to his ear. He yammered away in accented English, but then his eyes flicked toward the open door, and he turned, shielding his mouth and lowering his voice.

  The door shut, and the Interpol correspondent stepped over John’s extended legs.

  John made no move to pull back a second time, allowing the neatly dressed older woman to primly step over him one leg at a time.

  Adele jammed her elbow into her partner’s shoulder, but received only a grunt for her efforts. Renee kept his legs out, smirking after the lady from Interpol.

  This wasn’t John’s lab friend. Rather, the woman had been sent to help coordinate between the BKA and the DGSI, serving essentially as moderator, a babysitter between the intelligence agencies of France and Germany.

  “Well?” Adele called after the woman as she continued down the hall. The correspondent paused and glanced back.

  “Do we have permission to enter Germany?” Adele called again, this time pushing off her chair and standing up. She moved after the agent and kicked John’s leg until he pulled it out of the way.

  The Interpol agent glanced from Adele to John’s slouched form and pursed her lips again. Her silver curls were pressed tight to her head by the stems of thick glasses. She was a larger woman, but with a pleasant face. Her intelligent eyes twinkled behind her glasses, and she said, in a careful, precise tone, “I think it is best if you speak with the executive. He’ll fill you in on the details.”

  Agent Renee harrumphed and slid lower in his seat, like a child outside the principal’s office.

  Adele, though, took another few steps up the hall, her expression pleading. “We can’t wait,” she said. “Each moment that passes is another moment where he could escape. He could try to change his identity. He could leave Germany. We may not be able to find him if we don’t hurry.” Adele realized her voice was rising, and so she took a quick breath, steadying herself before finishing, in an even tone, “For now, he doesn’t know we found the source of his paralytic.”

  The Interpol correspondent raised a calming hand. “I’m not in charge of DGSI employees. Like I said, it’s best to speak with the executive. He should be off the phone soon. Good day.”

  The correspondent nodded and then turned, hurrying back up the hall and turning a corner out of sight.

  Adele stared after the woman, shaking her head side to side. “Well, that was cryptic as hell. Do you think Germany’s going to play nice?” She glanced over at John.

  Agent Renee had his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the wall, and he looked like he was trying to sleep.

  She growled and resisted the urge to kick him again. Instead, Adele stomped back to her seat and flopped into the chair. It also creaked as John’s had under the sudden jolt of her weight. Vaguely, Adele wondered if perhaps she should stop eating so much cereal. She reached out and patted her stomach, but determined if she was still in healthy enough shape to chase men down stairwells and tackle them, then she was allowed the occasional bowl of Chocapic.

  “Could you stop that? It’s annoying.”

  John was glaring at her fingers with one open eye and the other one still shut. Adele glanced down and realize she’d been tapping a rhythm against the wooden chair.

  She flung up her hands in mock surrender and glared at the opaque glass of Foucault’s door once more, and then surged back to her feet. “If he asks, I’m in Robert’s office.”

  John shrugged and closed his eyes again.

 
; Adele hurried down a couple of flights of stairs and then moved along a stretch of hall, brushing past only one other man moving quickly in the opposite direction.

  Adele had left Robert’s mansion in a rush the previous day. His offers of lodging were still fresh in her mind. It would be nicer than a hotel to stay in the old room she’d occupied for a year back when she first joined the DGSI. But then again, she wasn’t going to be in France for long.

  She paused at the thought. She thought of Agent Renee, of her trip to the park, of the smell of the river and Robert’s kindness. It wasn’t as bad as she remembered. The pain of losing her mother had faded somewhat. The double pain of failing to capture her mother’s killer was still fresh in a way, but it too had lessened. Adele needed time to think, and space to do it. John was distracting. It was like working with a monkey. A very dangerous, deadly monkey in the right circumstances.

  The Commandos Marine were renowned for their operations throughout Europe and the Middle East. But from an investigative perspective, John seemed to have the subtlety of a jackhammer.

  Adele reached Robert’s door and tapped on the glass. There was a pause, then a voice called, “Come in!”

  Adele pushed into her old mentor’s office. It was as sparse as when she’d first visited, but he was no longer in a bathrobe and slippers, and wore his neat, pressed suit where he sat behind his large desk, staring with a frown at a computer screen.

  It had only been eight hours since she’d left him in his house, but he looked well rested, carrying no bags under his eyes.

  For her part, Adele had only managed two hours of sleep in the parking lot, waiting for the expedited tox report to come in. She could feel exhaustion taking its toll and envied Robert’s ability to get by on such little rest.

  He looked cheerfully up at her and flashed a smile. He pushed back from the desk, folding his hands in his lap and adjusting his posture so he sat straight-backed in his custom leather chair. “I hear there’s good news.”

  She nodded and leaned against the doorjamb, glancing out the window of her mentor’s office toward the city beyond. “I think we have a shot of getting him this time. We just have to hurry.”

  Robert nodded and scratched at his wrist. “I…” he began, but trailed off.

  A moment of silence fell over the room as both of them seemed lost in their thoughts. Robert always considered his words carefully before he spoke. This time, it took nearly another minute before he opened his mouth. “It wasn’t fair of me to offer you your old room back,” he said, softly. “I apologize.”

  Adele looked up, jolted, for a moment, from her worries about the case, Executive Foucault’s phone calls, and Germany’s compliance.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “I know it wasn’t fair of me. I apologize.”

  Adele frowned, but then corrected her expression lest her mentor think it was directed at him. “What do you mean? There isn’t anything unfair. It was very kind of you.”

  But Robert held up a quieting hand, and waited for her to dwindle into silence. “That’s accommodating of you to say. But I think we both know that your heart isn’t in France. And it is true that my house feels empty at times, but that was my choice; a choice I made years ago.”

  “It’s not a choice you still have to make,” Adele said quietly with a shrug. It was a conversation she’d tried to have with him before, and one he’d masterfully avoided on many occasions.

  “Perhaps not. But either way, it isn’t fair of me to put you in that position. I hope you know that I do care for you. Greatly. And I want to see you succeed. There are very few agents that I’ve worked with who are as talented as you. You’re more relentless than any of them. And more determined than even I was at your age.”

  Adele smiled at this, but then fidgeted. She thought of her father, and how little chance she’d had to become accustomed to kind words, the thought propelling her into a flush of gratitude toward Robert.

  “I care about you too,” she said, glancing out the window again. “You’ve been like a father to me; I hope you know that. And my heart may not be in France, but a piece of it is. I don’t know quite where I belong. I hope to figure that out. You’d think in my thirties I would have some idea.”

  Robert chuckled at this, though, and shook his head. “It doesn’t get any better toward the end of sixty either. Trust me.”

  Adele chuckled. She hesitated, then said, “If it’s all right with you, I would like to stay in my old room instead of that cold hotel. I don’t know how long I’ll be in France. And if the phone call with Executive Foucault goes well, Germany will be allowing us temporary jurisdiction as soon as possible. But when I return, I might have to spend a couple of nights in France still. It would be nice to have a home.”

  Robert watched her for a moment, his face expressionless. For a moment, Adele wasn’t sure if she’d offended him somehow. But then she spotted the moistness in his eyes, and his right hand trembling slightly where it was tucked over his left.

  “I would very much like that,” he said, clearing his throat. “There are a couple of books that I think you might like. I’ll have them placed in your room before you get there. Should I have someone retrieve your things?”

  Adele shrugged. “If you’d like. It’s only really a suitcase. In fact, I haven’t even opened it yet, except for a change of clothes.”

  Robert grinned, revealing his two missing teeth; his gap-toothed smile clashing with the rest of his immaculately maintained appearance. Adele allowed herself a quiet chuckle, remembering the many farfetched stories her mentor told about how he lost his teeth.

  “Well,” said Robert, “I’ll—” But before he could finish his sentence, Adele felt a hand grip her shoulder.

  She jolted and whirled sharply around, resisting the urge to strike out with the flat of her palm to distance herself from an attacker. Agent Renee was staring down at her, his eyes holding a mirth that Adele couldn’t quite place. But it was similar to the look he’d carried when he’d teased her about inside information pertaining to Agent Paige.

  “What?” Adele snapped.

  “Foucault’s off the phone. He sorted it with the BKA.”

  Adele’s eyes widened. “Sorted it? What do you mean?”

  John cleared his throat, and his expression soured. “I mean we’re headed to Germany. We don’t have time to pack bags. Anything we need we can buy there. But BKA is willing to work with us on this temporarily. They want to catch the guy too.”

  John turned and began stalking up the hall, not waiting for Adele to fall into step.

  For a moment she stood in the doorway, staring after a partner, her mouth wide. An FBI agent partnered with a DGSI operative, heading to Germany to work with the BKA, all under the supervision of Interpol. It was unheard of.

  Adele shook her head in mild shock. The killer wouldn’t escape. Not this time. They were going to catch him. She knew it. They had to.

  At the thought, a strange sensation came over her, like shivering after being doused with ice water. She frowned at the ominous feeling, unsure of its origin for the moment. Somehow, though, as the dreadful feeling spread, she knew that what came next wouldn’t be easy. The killer was not the sort to go down lightly. He was arrogant and dangerous; a deadly man. She would have to do her best to make sure no one else was hurt in his apprehension.

  Adele glanced back over her shoulder toward Robert, raising an eyebrow. “You still think he has red hair?” she said.

  Robert paused, thought, then nodded. “I’m confident he does. I don’t think it’s a wig. But I think you shouldn’t underestimate this man. He’s confident and has been leading the chase for a while now. He won’t go down easy. And if he can, he’s going to take bodies with him.”

  Adele pursed her lips. “I think you’re right. See you in a few days, hopefully.”

  Robert gave a small rolling finger wave, but he was no longer smiling as he watched her exit the door and hurry after John, racing down the hal
l to catch up with his long strides.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  So many flights in so few days. Adele could feel the exhaustion weighing on her like sandbags strapped to her limbs. Still, as she settled in the limousine, with Agent Renee against the other window, she glanced toward the young woman seated across from them.

  Their German attaché couldn’t have been older than twenty. She had a nervous, excited energy about her as she surveyed the two agents settling in the back seat of the limousine. If the age of their BKA connection didn’t suggest the German authorities were sending a message, then the provided vehicle certainly did. Adele had never been picked up by a limousine in her life.

  A twenty-year-old tour guide in a gauche limousine—the BKA were having a go and Adele wasn’t amused.

  Through the window, Adele spotted passengers streaming through sliding glass doors toward waiting vehicles or toward the taxis lining the gates. She heard the sound of jet engines rumbling the sky above and could smell gasoline and stale smoke on the air, settling in the still cabin.

  Adele moved her right hand between her leg and the door, so the others couldn’t see, and she pinched herself, trying to propel the pain through her system to jolt herself awake. She needed caffeine. They’d served coffee on the plane, though, and it had done little to revive her.

  “You’re the BKA correspondent?” said John, eyeing the young attaché.

  The German shifted uncomfortably and adjusted in her seat. “Yes,” she answered in nearly flawless English. “My name is Beatrice Marshall. You may call me Agent Marshall.” She inhaled and then, in a rehearsed fashion, declared, “The BKA is happy to work with the FBI and the DGSI, but where you go, I’m required to go—understand?”

  Adele smiled at the young woman, remembering her first year working for the DGSI fresh out of college.

  Agent Marshall tapped politely on the window divider between them and the driver. “Please take us to Lion Pharmaceutical now,” she said.

  “That’s it?” Adele asked, frowning. “We don’t need to shake hands with some supervisors or make nice with your boss?”