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

by Blake Pierce

  John stared, shaking his head. “Guy’s insane.” He looked at Adele. “He’s insane, right?”

  She sighed and gave a shrug. “As much as any person who murders others.” She turned away from the bookcase, now scanning the smashed bottle and discarded blood bag. “If he’s not here,” she said, trailing off.

  “Think he’s on a hunt?” John asked. “Or, I mean, looking for more spirit?” he said, reading the bookcase again.

  Adele didn’t reply, her eyes narrowed as she looked toward the display case. It was nearly empty. A few vintages at the top were from the last ten years. But these, it seemed, had been mostly undisturbed and some were even coated with a thin layer of dust as if they hadn’t been handled in all the time they’d been down here. But then her gaze was attracted by two bottles at the very base of the wine rack.

  “John, look here,” she said, suddenly.

  Adele bent and leaned in, eyeing the bottles and murmuring to herself as she read the labels. “See these? They’re marked. Numbers.”

  John left the bookcase and, though he remained standing, he read the labels. Adele envied a sharpshooter’s eyesight, but waited for him to say, “Numbers… This one,” he said, nudging at the shattered bottle on the ground. “See… number on the base as well.”

  Adele pulled a pen from her pocket and, delicately, so as to not contaminate evidence, she tilted the edge of the smashed base. A white label with a number on it read 1978.

  She looked up sharply at the wine rack. An identical label with a handwritten number also displayed beneath one of the empty compartments on the rack.

  “Matches,” she said, pointing with her pen and remaining crouched, her elbows pressed against her knees.

  “What’s the significance?” John said, slowly.

  Adele scanned the rest of the case, noting more numbers. At the top, the numbers started with two and zero, and toward the very bottom, they were ones and nines. “John,” Adele said, hesitantly, her gaze skipping to the blood bag. “What was the birth year of our third victim?”

  “Birth year? Dunno.”

  “Check.”

  Adele kept her eyes fixed on the blood bag and the shattered bottle, as if fearful they might flee without her attention. A few moments later, as John scrolled through his phone, he said, sharply, “1978. Same as the labels. She was born in 1978.”

  Adele huffed a breath. “Thought so,” she murmured. She reached out with her pen, tapping the wooden display case. “The numbers are years of the vintage… But… But I think he’s matching the blood year—the year of his victim—with the year of the wine.”

  The moment she said it, she realized how it sounded. She looked up at John and met his expression of disgust. She winced apologetically.

  “Gross,” he said.

  She didn’t disagree. She pointed toward the top of the case. “Looks like he had some younger vintages—but they’re untouched. Think he has a thing about killing kids?”

  John’s voice took on a growling tone. “For his sake, I hope so.”

  “Then that means he’s after one of these.” She extended her arm, moving the pen now and tapping it against the two remaining bottles at the very bottom of the wine rack. The pen against the glass made a dull tapping sound and she read both the labels. “1956 or 1958,” she said. “That’s the birth year of his next victim. It has to be.”

  “Older victims this time, then,” said John. “The bastard is going after someone’s grandmother, yes?”

  Adele shivered, rising again and standing in the basement, detecting a faint coppery and fruity odor on the air that made her stomach churn. As she breathed in the basement air, she also faintly smelled puke. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I’ll get Carter to bag and tag and photograph. I need fresh air.”

  As the two agents turned and moved slowly back toward the steps, Adele murmured beneath her breath. “We know his motive, his name, his license plate and his address. We know his MO… we just need to find out where he is.”

  John led onto the stairs, taking them three at a time with his lengthy strides. “Think he’s killing right now?”

  Adele winced at the thought. “Let’s check with Carter about blood type. It’s the only connection I can think of—might help us narrow his targets.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and it took the agents a few moments in the chaos of the raided house to move through a sea of blue to find Carter. Eventually, they did, locating him against a backdrop of flashing lights and ominous dark vehicles with tinted windows blockading the road outside the house. Adele spotted a couple of pedestrians walking their dogs being ushered away from watching by two officers.

  She noted other homes, across the street had lights emanating from their windows and citizens standing, peering out into the dark. The killer had been operating in secrecy—that, now, was no longer an option. But if they didn’t find him soon, another victim might lose their life.

  Agent Carter spotted them and at a wave from John, he approached like a Labrador, half-smiling and moving with urgent motions.

  “Sam,” Adele said, quickly, “my tip about the blood type. Have we heard back on that yet?”

  Agent Carter winced and said, “I—I totally forgot. I was supposed to call them back. Sorry, really, just with all the craziness, I thought—”

  “Sam,” Adele said, impatiently. “It’s fine. Could you call them now? How late is the lab open?”

  Sam, though, was already fishing his phone from his pocket, nodding quickly and then scrolling through his contacts. He half-turned in the universal gesture of phone etiquette and held the device to his ear as he peered across the flashing police vehicles beneath the darkening sky.

  A few moments passed, and then Adele heard a quiet, clipped voice on the other end.

  “Hey, Amy,” Agent Carter said, quickly, “look… No, no—it’s not about that.” His cheeks went red. “I’m calling about a case,” he muttered. Then, his eyes shifting to John and back, and shielding his phone with a shoulder again, he muttered, “Fine—I had a good time too. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay. I’m calling about the blood type. Is that in yet?”

  Another pause, and Agent Carter nodded quickly. “Thanks—yeah, thanks. I’m with them now. I’ll tell them. Great job.”

  He clicked the phone and looked up, his cheeks still tinged red. He glanced from Adele to John and said, in a clipped tone, “You were right, Agent Sharp. The blood types are a match. All of them are AB negative. From the victims in Germany, France, and also here.”

  “AB negative,” said Adele, her eyebrows flinching at a sudden pulse of excitement. “Let me guess; that’s rare.”

  Agent Carter dipped his head quickly. “Sounded like it. But another thing—all of the people were donors.”

  Adele was already turning though, looking at John. “We need to bring Agent Grant in on this. Carter, follow us!” Then she began moving back toward her parked car, her hand slipping into her pocket to pull her own phone. Gravel crunched beneath her feet and skittered onto lawn grass as she moved past the rows of cops.

  “We need to look for donors in the same area, Sam. John… those numbers—the two at the bottom. What were they?”

  Agent Renee rattled off, “1956 and 1958.”

  “Good.” She reached their parked car and turned fully to Carter now. “I don’t care if it is off-hours or not. I need your people to run a search.”

  Carter hesitated. “Like I said… it’s office politics and all, but the lead for this week won’t do any more off-hours. It’s this whole thing from last month—fourteen-hour days and—”

  “Carter, I don’t care!” Adele said, shouting at him now. A couple of the officers nearby glanced over, watching them. Adele didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Someone’s going to die, probably tonight if you don’t get this done.”

  Carter hesitated. “Normally… Normally they would—it’s like I said, though. The data team has been refusing—”

  Adele rubbed at he
r temples. “Fine—you do it then. Can you do that?”

  Carter winced. “I’ll need to go back to the office.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll put you in contact with Lumen Relief. Ms. Jayne, she’s with Interpol, will most likely be able to make the connection, seeing as they operate in Europe too. You’ll need to coordinate with them.”

  “And… all right,” Carter said, swallowing and trying to keep up. “What exactly am I looking for?”

  Adele exhaled, nodding, closing her eyes to focus. “I need you to find anyone born in the years 1956 through 1958 in the local area. But cast a wide net—include counties two over if you have to. I also need you to make sure they’re AB negative.”

  “Oh—okay,” Carter said, wincing. “Ummm… Should I do that now?”

  “Carter, you should’ve done that five minutes ago.”

  The agent quickly nodded and gestured toward John. “Keys?” he said, wincing.

  Agent Renee tossed the car keys to Carter and stood, watching as the young man scrambled into the front seat, did a fifteen-point turn to try to move out from behind another SUV, and then sped onto the road, lights flashing, pulling away and down the road.

  Adele sighed, watching him go.

  John frowned. He pointed one finger in the opposite direction of the car. “Isn’t San Francisco that way?” he asked.

  Adele nodded wearily. She watched as Carter reached the end of the road, then came to a screeching stop. He backed up, turned the vehicle, and came breezing past the other way, his eyes fixed determinedly on the road, refusing to look toward his captive audience, his cheeks tinged red through the open front window.

  “How long of a drive back to the office?” John asked, muttering.

  Adele shook her head. “An hour—too long.”

  “So we wait? Hope Carter can figure it out?”

  Adele looked up at the darkening sky and massaged the back of her neck. “It is what it is,” she said, softly. “Hopefully our killer waits until nightfall to strike.”

  Evening had already inserted itself across the horizon.

  John glanced to Adele. “Work hours are almost done, yes? The roads will be clogged.”

  Adele shook her head. “Carter’s not stupid. He’ll be fine. I’m sure he will.”

  John pursed his lips, but didn’t comment, turning away to move back toward the house and join the search while they waited for Agent Carter to reach the office and run their search.

  Adele waited for John to step back into the house before quickly fishing her phone out and texting Carter. “Use the shoulder and siren. Fast.”

  Then she stood on the curb, beneath the dimming sky, waiting and watching the flickering blue and red lights dancing across her vision, reflecting off tinted glass and the windows of the houses lining the street.

  An hour, maybe two. That’s how long it would take to get the information they needed. She could only hope the killer didn’t strike before then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  “Got a car?” Adele asked from where she leaned in the broken and splintered doorway of Jonathan Davis’s home. John took the porch steps in one stride and the floorboards creaked as he stopped in front of her.

  He nodded. “Yeah—got a car but it comes with a chauffeur. They don’t trust us with it.”

  “Guess your reputation precedes you,” Adele muttered. Though she teased, her heart wasn’t in it. Her eyes kept flicking down toward her phone which she clutched desperately in her hand.

  “He call yet?”

  She shook her head. Now, night had fallen complete, inserting itself across the sky. Already, she spotted other vehicles pulling into driveways as their residents returned from work.

  Agent Renee also leaned against the splintered door, his legs crossed, extending across the threshold. A couple of cops tried to pass, waiting for him to move, but John stayed put.

  “Excuse me, sir?” said the nearest officer.

  John winced, tapped his ear and with an apologetic inflection, and said, in French, “Sorry, I don’t speak English.”

  The officer scowled, but stepped over John’s leg and moved down the porch toward the squad cars on the street.

  Adele and John reclined in the splintered doorway, waiting, the atmosphere tense with anticipation. Adele didn’t have it in her to strike up a conversation. Already, they were running late—she felt certain. The killer was on the move—hasty, desperate. The scene back in his basement suggested he hadn’t even stopped to clean the shattered bottle and blood bag. Which meant he was acting rashly.

  Adele still wasn’t certain of the killer’s motive. But with men like this, more and more, she was realizing how little she cared. It didn’t matter why they killed—all that mattered was she stopped them. AB negative—wine of the same vintage year… It all ended with one conclusion: Jonathan Davis would kill another and another until she put him behind bars or placed a bullet between his eyes.

  “Hear anything from Robert?” John asked, his voice low.

  She glanced over and shook her head. Her eyes flicked back to her phone. The longer this case took, the longer it would be before she could see her old mentor. Would he still be alive by the end? “Come on,” she muttered, shaking free of the oppressive thoughts. How long did it take Carter to drive back to the office and run a quick search? Adele twisted her fingers in frustration around the smooth glass surface of her phone, now warm from holding it so long.

  Nearly an hour and a half had passed since the young agent had set off back to the agency. An hour and a half was a long time.

  Adele pressed her head back against the door, closing her eyes and exhaling.

  “Adele,” John said.

  “I haven’t heard from him,” she replied, curtly.

  “No… wasn’t going to say that,” he continued hesitantly. “About… About our talk… in your room at the hotel… I just…”

  Adele winced. Not now, she thought desperately. Let’s not talk about this now.

  As if in response to her urging thoughts, her phone suddenly began to buzz. Adele’s fingers vibrated, prickling at the tips, and she looked down sharply as John fell silent also noting her reaction.

  She read the name and quickly answered the phone. “Carter,” she barked, her voice louder than she’d intended. “Tell me good news.”

  She heard Sam Carter on the other end, mumbling and bumbling a greeting, an introduction, but at last, he stammered out, “I-I worked with the files your friend at Interpol sent over. Lumen Relief has donors in the area. But they also have access to the names from other agencies—Red Cross, et cetera…”

  “And?” Adele pressed. She now leaned forward, her head no longer pressed against the wood grain.

  “And,” Carter supplied, “I found five names. Five names in those birth years, with AB negative in a fifty-mile radius.”

  “Five?” Adele said, a prickle across the back of her hand. “That’s… that’s not many at all. Excellent—excellent work! Do you have numbers—addresses? We need to warn them—right now!”

  “I’m sending the info now. Also sending it to dispatch for the backup with you.”

  “Excellent, perfect,” Adele said, practically crowing. “Great work, Sam. I’m hanging up—send me the numbers. Now!”

  She heard the line die, and then, a few moments later, her phone buzzed. She glanced around and noticed the officers standing by their vehicles answering their radios, or looking at their own phones as the notifications came up.

  Adele scrolled to her messages, found the unmarked number, and opened the file. Five names, five addresses, five phone numbers.

  “John,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “Start calling. Right now—we have to warn them.”

  Hastily, John fished his phone out. He leaned in next to Adele, his breath warm and heavy against her cheek. Together, they parsed the numbers. Adele took the bottom three numbers and John took the top two.

  After a moment, her fingers still prickling, Adele has
tily dialed her first one. She heard John do the same. She waited, and the person in question picked up on the third ring.

  “Hello?” said a voice on the other end. “Who is this?”

  “My name is Agent Sharp,” Adele rattled off, now stepping down the porch and into the lawn. “I’m with the FBI. I need you to listen closely.”

  “Is—is this a joke? Sal, is that you?” The voice seemed equal parts annoyed and amused. It creaked with age and Adele heard another voice in the background. “Who is it, Greg?” Adele tried to interject, but before she could, she heard a muffled voice replying, suggesting the phone had been pressed against someone’s shirt.

  She scowled in frustration, waiting expectantly. A moment later, the voice on the other end said, “All right, Sal—good one. I’m watching the game and you better believe I remember our wager.”

  “No, sir,” Adele said quickly. “I really am with the FBI. You’re in danger. I’ll have an officer call you as well to confirm. I need you to stay inside, understand? You and anyone in your household. Lock the doors, don’t talk to anyone.”

  A pause, a stretch of silence as the person on the other end seemed to be determining if she was serious or not.

  “Sal?” the voice said hesitantly.

  Adele swallowed back a shout. “No—I’m not Sal. My name is Adele Sharp. I work with Interpol, DGSI, and the FBI. You’ll receive a confirmation call soon from local police. For now, though, it’s imperative you listen to me. Stay inside, lock your doors, don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. Understand? Do you have family?”

  The voice started to crack now, prickles of panic interjected into the tone. “Hang on, you’re not joking?”

  “No, sir. Look—I have others I need to call. Please, just follow my instructions.”

  “Wait—hang on, am I in danger?”

  “I hope not. But possibly. Look, I need you to—”

  “Is this connected to that body dropped over on Darby?”

  Adele breathed heavily. “Yes sir,” she said. “Please, just do as I say.”

  She heard another muffled sound as the phone was once again pressed to a shirt or a leg. A shrill voice now called out, “Honey—lock the doors! No, it’s the police. I don’t know. Yes, now!”