Left to Murder (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Five)

by Blake Pierce

  “Merde,” she cursed. “Sorry, one second.”

  She turned and hurried away, but a few seconds later, behind her, she heard a quiet pop. She glanced back, stunned, but realized the cork was now off, and the man was wafting his hand over the top of the bottle, inhaling deeply and then smiling.

  “Spatburgunder, no?” he called out, smiling.

  As she rejoined him a second time, leaving the bottle opener with the dishes, she slowly sat at the table and raised her eyebrows, impressed. “You know your grapes,” she said. “Are you a sommelier too?”

  He shook his head primly. His hands were clasped around the glass he poured, and she noted how he kept twisting it, studying the liquid within. One of his eyebrows arched delicately on his forehead.

  “You know, there are stories about wine… Have you heard of Dionysus, the Greek god?”

  She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head as she settled in the chair opposite him.

  He smiled. “Just a myth, of course. But some think Dionysus’s infatuation with wine was due to its god-making potential. The fruit in the garden of Eden, some say, was closer to a type of grape. It certainly wasn’t an apple.”

  She smiled, puzzled for a moment.

  Seemingly sensing her confusion, he gave a dismissive little laugh. “Wine is what you went to school for?” he asked.

  She puffed her chest a bit and said, “Actually no—agricultural engineering.” She still wished she hadn’t sweated so much, but it was nice to talk about herself. Not everyone shared her interest in wine. She studied his lips, his jawline, her eyes tracing up to his soul-searching gaze. For a second, she glanced back at the physician’s bag with the slightly open zipper. She still couldn’t quite see what was inside and realized perhaps it wasn’t polite to stare, so she looked back at him. “You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

  He curved one side of his lips up into an alley cat grin. “You can call me Gabriel.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel,” she said.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Amelia.”

  She smiled, but the expression became rather fixed. A slow, chilly wind seemed to suddenly creep through the studio. How had he known her name? Her name badge only had her last name. An intentional effort by the staff, after some unwanted phone calls from various customers.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  He smiled at her again, his startling blue eyes shifting in the fading sunlight, almost changing hue to a deep purple. “And besides wines, what other things do you enjoy?”

  She rubbed at one of her arms, unbuttoning the sleeve, deciding this only made her more uncomfortable, before buttoning it again. “Music, art, poetry.”

  “Wonderful. All of it, wonderful. You’re young, aren’t you?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I doubt I’m much younger than you.”

  He shrugged modestly. “What are you, twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

  She felt another bout of discomfort. Why was he asking her these questions? So quick, moving seamlessly from discussing wine to digging into her personal life. It wasn’t a huge bother from someone who looked like Gabriel, but Amelia wasn’t stupid, either. She suddenly realized she was alone with a stranger and glanced toward the gray sedan parked behind the dumpsters. She couldn’t quite make out the license plate.

  She watched as the man’s fingers twisted around and around the wine glass. He still had some wine left in his glass, along with a small bead of red on his upper lip, which, after a moment, he licked away and gave a satisfied sigh.

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” she said, softly. While his was nearly empty, her own glass was nearly untouched. “I really do need to be closing, though. It’s policy.”

  “Dear Amelia,” said Gabriel, “I fully understand. It is important to stick to one’s policies. I must ask you one other thing. Have you ever thought about the afterlife? Have you at least considered it?”

  Her stomach dropped, and now for the first time, she allowed the emotion to cross her face in a creased frown.

  He acknowledged her expression, curious, and smiled in return. “You really are quite pretty when you frown, you know that? Well, have you considered the afterlife?”

  “I’m sorry, what do you mean? That’s a very strange question.”

  She shivered, beginning to push back from the table. Perhaps it was simply an American thing. She often heard they would ask very personal questions, even of strangers. The French didn’t particularly like that sort of intrusion. Emotions and the like were all well and good, but certainly not among complete strangers, not even gorgeous ones. Then again, he had said she was pretty. But such words were beginning to lose their spell, and she was now past uncomfortable.

  “I have, Amelia, see?” he said, softly. “The great painter Albrecht Durer completed the piece about the key and the pit, you know. In it, he depicted the only way to the beyond. Have you read Revelation? Or have you considered the Norse end? So many theories, so many thoughts. The best ones, though, if you ask me,” he said, prattling on as if she were still interested and not scared, “they’re the ones, in my humble estimation, that speak of an eternal life. A continuation of this thing. Infinite health. No more sickness or sadness. Can you imagine?”

  She crossed her arms now. Of course, the one good-looking man who ever paid her attention was just trying to peddle his faith. She didn’t say it out loud, but she thought it. Who came into a wine studio after hours, with a young woman, and began speaking to them about the afterlife?

  She pushed away from the table, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly, “I’m not interested. Whatever church you’re a part of, sorry. I really do need you to leave now.”

  The man looked up at her, and his eyes were still twinkling with mirth. If anything in her countenance threw him off, he didn’t show it. He dipped his head in quiet acquiescence. Then he reached into his physician’s bag and withdrew his two black gloves. He pulled them on delicately, like a jockey before a horse race. Once they were on his hands, he retrieved the glass he had been drinking from, his fingers pressed against it, and then he tossed the contents of the wine off to the side.

  She nearly shouted, watching the splatter against the grain wood of the floor.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she snapped, angry now. It didn’t matter how good-looking someone was, there was no sense in wasting wine, nor in staining the floor.

  He didn’t reply right away, but instead placed the glass in his small bag.

  “Hang on,” she protested, “you can’t take that.”

  “Oh,” he said, “how about if I just buy it from you?” He tried to zip the bag, but it didn’t fully close over the stem of the glass. Now, the physician’s bag was open, wider, and she stared in at the contents. Her heart nearly escaped her chest. A cold, freezing sensation spread over her spine and up toward the base of her skull.

  There was rope, and duct tape, and an assortment of small knives seemingly bound together by a thin strap. She spotted other instruments she had no name for, some with small hooks and others with probing needles. She spotted an IV bag and rubber hosing.

  She felt a flicker of fear, and then it came flooding into her chest all at once, dropping to her stomach like the sudden hot swish of whiskey, spinning toward her belly. She quickly looked away, hoping the man hadn’t spotted her attention.

  She dipped her head in what she hoped would be perceived as a polite nod, rather than a terrified adjustment.

  “Apologies,” she said. “I must powder my nose.”

  The man just looked at her and gestured gallantly toward the back. “Do what you must,” he said. “I’ll be leaving soon as it is. I don’t want to intrude.”

  Trying to hide her trembling hands, she began to move away quickly.

  Fingerprints, she thought to herself. Such a strange thought. An odd thought, but one that struck her as true. He didn’t want to leave the glass behind, because it had his fingerprints on it. This thought
only further propelled her into another bout of terror.

  She needed to get out. But where could she go? Her car was parked in the same lot as his gray sedan. She would have to exit the back, circle the building, and he would see her through the glass. She would have to cross in front of the dumpsters to reach her car. He might be fast enough to reach her before she could. Especially with her twinged back. She would barely make it.

  She needed help. Was Andre here? No, she hadn’t seen his car. She needed to call the police.

  She walked stiffly, straight-backed, no longer caring about the sweat blotches against her uniform. She moved hastily toward one of the side rooms in the back of the wine-tasting studio. The room here was cold, where they would often chill some of the older vintages before serving them to richer clients. She pushed under the stray, dangling plastic barrier of rectangular strips, like the spinning rags at a car wash. She pushed at the cold plastic and stepped deeper into the cooling room.

  With scrambling fingers, she groped for her pocket, hastily pulling out her phone. It took her a couple of tries to remember her own pass-code, as fearful as she was. Adrenaline was coursing through her, pulsing up and down her body.

  “Come on,” she muttered darkly. “Come on.”

  Then she heard a quiet click. A tap on the side of her neck. A patient, even tap from a gloved finger, the sensation of smooth leather.

  A blossom of absolute horror pulsed through her.

  She whirled around, and was struck in the side of the head, hard, with an open hand. A second blow followed, but not a wild, untrained punch. A strange shooting motion, straight into her throat.

  She gurgled, gasping, and heard a quiet, soothing voice, as more pressure was applied to her neck. “It will all be over soon, dear Amelia. Don’t struggle, it might break your windpipe. I wouldn’t want that.”

  Then she blacked out.

  ***

  Twisting pain, pulsing needles in her eyes, her head.

  She felt weak, sluggish, and her headache only increased. It was like a headache she’d once gotten when her nose had been congested, and she had breathed through a thin blanket at night. Not enough oxygen.

  Her eyes fluttered sluggishly, and her eyelids felt heavy, weighted with lead. The insides of her eyeballs were scratchy, and hurt, and she blinked against a sudden glare.

  She tried to look around, and found that though her head could move, her body was restrained. This filled her with an even greater terror. But the fear also moved like a steady prickle up her body, through her like seeping molasses across a floor.

  She tried to rise, but found that her back was pressed against something cool. A second later, she realized she wasn’t wearing her shirt. For some reason, this sent an even greater bolt of fear through her.

  Glancing down, she realized her bra straps had been lowered past her shoulders, and there were metal clamps against her arms, holding them in place. Her legs couldn’t move either; she tried to kick them. She glanced down, fearing the worst, but saw she was still wearing her pants; there was at least that.

  Exposed like this, she looked around and realized she was in an unfamiliar room. Bright glows, like movie theater lights, were blazing down on her. She looked at her arm suddenly, and nearly screamed. A needle was gouged into her wrist, leading to an IV and a bag with rubber hosing.

  For a moment, she wondered if they were pumping something into her body. But it became clear enough, after a moment of disoriented staring, that they were pumping something out.

  Someone was taking her blood.

  “Help,” she croaked in a weakened voice. The words barely managed to escape her lips before dying from their own frailty.

  How much blood had she already lost?

  She tried to look one way and then the other, but the blinding light still pulsed ahead of her. The cool metal pressed against the back of her half naked torso. And then, a blurring shadow.

  It took her a moment to adjust, but she realized the shadow was that of the man.

  He was still as handsome as she remembered. Still, not a single hair out of place. Still wearing the same black gloves: riding gloves? Driving gloves?

  He was whistling softly to himself, tapping against a needle. He flicked the tip of the needle a couple of times, and she realized it was at the end of an injection. He held the shot up, examining it against the light, and then moved toward her.

  A second later, though, he paused. “Ah, dear Amelia, you’re awake. A pity. I had hoped you might stay out a bit longer. This isn’t a pleasant process. I didn’t want to put you out.”

  She groaned, trying to speak. “Fuck you,” she managed to say.

  He tutted quietly, still speaking in that American accent. It had been so charming at first, but now it felt like he was taunting her. “Amelia,” he said, quietly, “look, I don’t mean to cause you discomfort or displeasure. I promise you,” he said, crossing a finger over his chest, “I did not manhandle you inappropriately in any way.”

  He patted her on the cheek and made a modest gesture toward her unclothed torso. “Just looking for the best vein. It’s an art form, truly. The way you speak of wine, I understand.” He smiled at her. “I didn’t do anything untoward. I hope you believe me.”

  She didn’t nod, she didn’t respond. She strained against the bindings on her wrists and legs. But she was held fast.

  He placed one of his gloved fingers to his perfect lips, and his blue eyes peered out at her. “Dear Amelia, I had asked if you’d considered the afterlife. It didn’t seem to interest you. I suppose that might be a good thing. If you think of it, on the other side, I hope you would tell me about it. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure getting to know you. I hope to see you again. Thank you.” He added this last part quickly and dipped his head. “Thank you dearly.”

  And then, with the same fast motion he’d used to knock her unconscious, a hand darted to his waist, pulled out something sharp. There was a flash of metal, and a sudden pain across her throat.

  She gagged, choked, and then died.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Adele gagged, choked, and reached up, waving a hand in front of her face as the cloud of dust kicked up by the truck wafted over her. She frowned, lowered her head, and kept running. She could feel her breath squeezing from her lips, emitted in quiet puffs that met the chill morning air. One foot in front of the other, a jogging stride.

  Inhale, exhale, reach up, wipe sweat. Inhale, exhale. She continued to jog, picking up the pace, her eyes fixed ahead.

  Five-thirty in the morning. That’s when the plant opened. She’d already memorized the factory schedule. She’d already read the names of the various workers on shift. She’d already stretched the limit of her discretion as a DGSI agent. Technically not actually employed by the agency, but in a freelance capacity now that she had moved back to Paris.

  She jogged up the road, continuing a familiar path she had carved out over the last two weeks.

  As she ran, she glanced toward the facility beyond.

  The path she had chosen, circling the enormous plant in the distance, was little more than a two-hour run. She did it every morning. Easy. Momentum bred discipline. Discipline bred endurance. Small effects compounded over time.

  And yet, today she had decided was the day she entered the plant. The case of her mother’s murder needed planning, but not dawdling. She’d done her homework; now was time to act. No more scouting, no more tracking the trucks and watching the loading docks. Now, she went into the belly of the beast.

  Candy bars. A strange thing to consider packaged in something so gray and gloomy, behind a thin wire fence topped with barbed wire.

  The sun was also rising, seemingly reluctant to confront the morning, as if it had hit a snooze button in the clouds. And yet, Adele was itching to go.

  Today was the day. It didn’t matter she was wearing jogging clothes. It didn’t matter she was sweating. Today she would speak to the manager, find the truck driver in question. Today she would find
out the truth. She jogged along the trail, refusing to get off the road even as a truck barreled down.

  There was enough space for the two of them. The truck leaned on its horn, and she ignored it; eventually, the truck moved a bit to the side, passing her. She swallowed a mouthful of dust and spat off to the side, waving a hand in front of her eyes, blinking tears against the sudden swirl.

  She turned up the road and moved toward the fence. The gate was running on a trolley, closing automatically. The guard sitting behind the desk, inside his small cubicle in the gatehouse, looked at her, a slight flicker of surprise in his expression.

  She gave a little wave, hoping to put him at ease, but he didn’t return the gesture. He reached down, grabbed a steaming mug, and took a long sip of the contents. She could practically feel the disgruntlement emanating from him. Clearly, this was not a morning person, but Adele was on a mission.

  “Bonjour,” she said, with a dip of her head. “Good morning.”

  “How can I help you?” the guard said, skipping pleasantries.

  Adele swallowed and spat, realizing there was still dust tinging her lips. Sweaty, spitting, in running shoes and a running outfit, she supposed it didn’t present her in the most professional light.

  “Apologies,” she said, curtly. “My name is Agent Sharp. I work with DGSI and Interpol.” She reached into her side plastic pouch which was strapped around her leg with Velcro. The same place where she held her phone to listen to music. Of course, Adele didn’t particularly enjoy music when she was running. She considered the distraction cheating. Endurance was built through pain; distraction numbed the effect.

  “I need to enter and speak with the manager.”

  She flashed her credentials and held them up for the guard to see. He looked at them, and then his eyes flicked to her. His gaze scanned her outfit, and then glanced back at the credentials. He scratched at the side of his chin and muttered something beneath his breath.