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

by Blake Pierce

  Adele waited, but the person didn’t reply again. She waited a bit more, then hung up—it would have to do. At least, by the sound of things, it seemed as if they were complying with the directive. She had two other numbers to go.

  The next two calls went a bit more smoothly. One of them, another local officer had already notified. Though they seemed panicked and badgered her with questions she couldn’t answer, it felt as if at least they would take care for the night. A locked door wouldn’t keep the killer out if he was determined, but it would help.

  She looked at John. His voice had been a humming background noise up to this point. But now, as he cursed, muttering, “Merde,” a couple of times between breaths, she frowned. “What?” she asked.

  He was looking at his phone, dialing a number and waiting. “No response,” he said, growling. “They’re not answering.”

  Adele looked over his shoulder. A local number, belonging to one Arthur Castle. In his sixties—lived alone.

  She cursed and dialed the number herself. She waited—no response. She tried again, still no response.

  “Stop,” John snapped. “You might be blocking me from reaching him. Hang up—I’ll try.”

  Adele complied and waited impatiently as John’s fingers tapped the number. They both waited with bated breath in the wreath of splintered wood, watching the white numbers against the backdrop of blue.

  “No answer,” John cursed. He looked at her.

  Adele was already moving down the porch and called, “Which car is ours?”

  John followed quickly, pointing out the vehicle he’d managed to wrangle. “We’re supposed to wait for an officer to come with—”

  But Adele was already moving to the driver’s side. Keys were in the ignition. She hopped in the front, waited for John to follow and, using the sound of the slamming door as a starter pistol, she gunned the engine.

  “John, call Carter. Tell him to get the locals to head toward the addresses. I want at least two officers outside each house, understand?”

  John nodded, already dialing.

  Adele turned to face the windshield, grimacing and pulling away from the curb, maneuvering rapidly through the parked vehicles. She scraped against a mailbox and winced. She didn’t have time for Agent Carter’s patented fifteen-point turn, though. Paint on a car could be replaced, blood in a person would be far more difficult.

  Why wasn’t Mr. Castle answering? Was the killer with him already?

  She slammed a hand into the steering wheel and, pulling past the final SUV blockading the side street, she glanced down, looking to the address and, with one trembling hand, programmed it into her phone’s GPS. The device calculated the journey for far too long, in Adele’s estimation, but at last, when she was on the verge of pulling hair, it began directing her toward Mr. Castle’s home.

  She could only hope they weren’t already too late.

  ***

  Adele jumped the curb, slammed the brakes, put the car in park, and hopped out, ignoring John’s pointed look at the parking job. He followed close behind, clearing his throat, having spent the duration of the ten-minute trip advising officers to head toward the other potential victims.

  Adele raced toward the small single-story beige cottage-shaped home. The paint job seemed fresh and the roof looked as if it had been recently replaced. A renovation? A strange thought—irrelevant, she decided.

  Adele and John hastened along the sidewalk, across the lawn. A small asphalt roundabout led to the garage and then, along the front of the house and back to the street on the other side. She ignored the gray and trampled the green, reaching the door a step ahead of John.

  “Mr. Castle?” she called, her voice loud. She pounded on the door with a clenched fist. “Mr. Castle?” she repeated, raising her voice even more now.

  She glanced toward a nearby window. The lights were off inside.

  “FBI!” John called, and pounded on the door as well, his massive fist sending tremors through the wood.

  Still no response.

  “Damn it,” Adele muttered. She paced around the side of the house, looking for lights in the windows, for any sign of movement.

  “Adele, I’m taking it down,” John growled. He faced the door, breathing heavy and preparing himself. He took a couple of steps back, preparing to charge. Adele winced in anticipation, but just then, her phone began to ring.

  “John!” she called sharply.

  He pulled up, looking over at where she stood beneath one of the dark windows. A number without a name—the same number she’d been trying to call. “It’s him!” she said, sharply. John still heaved a breath skyward, but, at least for now, he didn’t rearrange the door.

  She answered the phone. “Agent Sharp—is this Mr. Castle?”

  A swallow, and then a dazed voice. “Did you say Agent?”

  “Is this Mr. Castle?” she repeated. “I’m outside your home at 311 West Monroe. Sir, where are you?”

  Another swallow, but then the man replied, “I’m—yes, this is Arthur Castle. Look—why are you at my house?”

  “Sir, for your own safety, please—where are you?”

  “I’m—I’m not home,” he said, frowning. “I’m working late. What’s this about? Is Jeremy okay?” he said, suddenly, his voice sharp.

  “Sir, I don’t know a Jeremy—”

  “My son—he works in the city. Was he—”

  “Your son is fine. This is about you, sir. Where are you, right now?”

  “Work, I said.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “I’m in real estate. I was showing a client an hour ago and I’m closing up. Why?”

  Adele felt a shiver. “Are you on your own now?”

  “Yes… The client left a while ago. What’s this about?”

  “Sir, I need you to stay exactly where you are. Tell me your address, please. We’ll meet you there—I need you to stay put.”

  “Adele,” John called from the front of the house, waving his phone at her.

  She held up a finger, but he called more insistently.

  She rounded on her partner, scowling. “What?”

  He waved his phone and said, “Carter—the other potential victims are safe and accounted for. Uniforms outside their homes. Doors locked. Mr. Castle is the only one in the wind.”

  Adele cursed and returned her attention to her phone. “Mr. Castle, look, I know you’re a blood donor, AB negative, I know you were born 1956. All right—I’m saying this not to scare you, but so you know I’m with the agency. I need you to tell me where you are, right this instant.”

  A pause—a precious pause. Adele knew at this very moment, he was deciding if he could trust her. She exhaled in frustration, closing her eyes and waiting.

  And then the voice on the other end said, “214 East Sage Street. There’s a key in a plastic stone out front. I’ll be inside—I’ll head to the basement. Can’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “I will, sir. Don’t panic, but please do lock yourself in. Do not let anyone in. I mean it! Are the doors already locked?”

  “The front is. But…” He trailed off and then his voice carried an edge. “I let the couple I was showing the house onto the back porch—they wanted to look at the bird feeders. I—I think I may have forgotten to lock it.”

  Adele bit her lip, but said, “Sir, please, do so now. Head to the basement and stay put. We’re on our way.”

  Then she spun on John. “Others are all accounted for?”

  He nodded. “Their babysitters will call if they get a glimpse of Mr. Davis.”

  “So they haven’t? No sign of him?”

  John winced and shook his head. He gestured airily toward her ear. “Was that our missing puzzle piece?”

  Adele was already rushing back to the car. She was sick of driving, sick of GPS, sick of rushing place to place. It felt like they were still one step behind.

  She felt a shivering sensation at the thought as she thrust into the driver’s seat. One
step behind… Just one step… But sometimes, one step was all a killer needed.

  ***

  Arthur Castle lowered his phone, wrinkling his nose. He sighed softly and glanced along the dim glow from the light above the kitchen table. He hesitated for a moment, spotting a streak in the polish of the furniture. He frowned now, retrieving a paper towel and rubbing at the streak.

  He hoped the clients hadn’t seen it—this sale was an important one. Inwardly, he made a mental note to hire another cleaning service next time. Streaks on tables were unacceptable, especially given the amount he’d paid the cleaning crew.

  Mr. Castle frowned, pausing for a moment and feeling his back begin to ache from where he bent over. He winced and straightened—he didn’t move like he used to. His son, Jeremy, had often tried to convince him to retire. But Mr. Castle hated the very thought—what would he do all day? Watch TV, mull over crosswords? No thank you. He’d be selling houses until the day he died.

  For a moment, all that mattered was the streak on the table. He rubbed at it, and even retrieved some soap, scrubbing the surface with a rag. He frowned—not much better. Maybe it was an imperfection in the wood itself. He’d have to see if he could still return the piece.

  As he stood there, he felt a faint breeze across his neck and frowned. He looked up, glancing through the house. Such a strange phone call. He’d thought it had been a particularly zealous client given the volume of missed calls. He always kept his phone on silent when showing a house. Now, though, he began to move away from the table.

  That was right, the loud lady had wanted him to lock the back door. Hadn’t even bothered to tell him what this was about. Jeremy was a powerful attorney in San Francisco—and Mr. Castle was very proud of his son. If something had happened to his only child, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  These thoughts troubled him as he moved slowly, carefully, along the hall toward the back sliding screen door which led into the backyard.

  He paused for a moment, feeling another breeze across his face. Had he left a window open, too? The house was quite large—quite nice. It would be a big sale if he could manage it.

  Then again, Mr. Castle was the third most prolific agent in the county. He smiled in pride at the thought and moved toward the back door before pulling up sharply.

  His expression of satisfaction slowly morphed into a frown. He stared at the sliding glass. He’d suspected he’d forgotten to lock it—but he was near certain he hadn’t left it open.

  So why was the door ajar? The small plastic curtain partitions swept and swayed on the quiet nighttime breeze, clacking against each other and against the glass. Mr. Castle moved forward, his frown ever deepening. He reached out with a soft hand and held the door handle. For a moment he paused, peering out into the garden.

  A flicker of movement.

  He nearly yelped, but caught himself. And then laughed. A blue jay had landed in one of the bird feeders. The bird was pecking at the seed and flitting along the edge of the thing. Mr. Castle smiled for a moment, watching the bird. The bird feeders came with the house, a big selling point. A local carpenter had crafted them—intricate pieces of art, each one. And below, the spilling waterscape in the small pond created a serene foreground to the white wooden fence circling the yard.

  He smiled at the bird, clicking his tongue to catch its attention. The bird glanced over, went stiff, then fluttered off.

  Mr. Castle chuckled and watched the creature flit away, searching for more private feeding grounds. Then he stepped back into the house fully and slid the glass door shut. He locked the door and slowly turned. The agent had told him to wait here. Wait he would.

  He glanced along the hall toward the basement door and began to move toward it.

  He frowned—why could he still feel a breeze? His gaze moved toward the dining room, next to the sliding glass door. Dark, no lights, but a window was open. A window on the side of the house facing the woods.

  He felt a trickle of fear now seeping down his neck.

  And then a form suddenly emerged from beneath the dining table. A man, clad in black, rushing forward. Mr. Castle cried out, tried to protect himself. He glimpsed blue eyes, then a swiping hand. And then he felt something hard, like iron, slam into his throat.

  His eyes went sightless—black spots—streaks of white pain.

  Then nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Adele strode past the For Sale sign in the front yard. She gestured toward John to hasten after her. Both of them moved quietly, and John dropped into a crouch, his firearm in his hands. They reached the front door and Adele put her hand on the brass knob.

  John looked at her, waiting.

  “Locked,” she mouthed.

  John mimed kicking, but Adele shook her head. She held up a finger and fished her phone from her pocket. She returned the most recent call and waited, watching the windows, her eyes on the house, looking for any reaction.

  None was forthcoming.

  John kept his eyes fixed on her, waiting, watching.

  She held up a cautioning finger and tried the number again. Still no answer—no ring. She felt a prickle along her spine.

  “I don’t think we should knock,” she said, in a nearly inaudible whisper.

  John pressed against the nearest window, his eye against a crack between the wall outside and the drapes within.

  “Anything?” she whispered.

  He shook his head.

  Adele nodded, took stock of the house, and her eyes slid around the brown siding toward a small green gate set between the house and a large, white fence. She gestured at John, pointing, and together, they stepped off the porch and moved, quietly, cautiously, circling around the house. Adele opened the gate, wincing as it creaked on tired hinges.

  She sidled along the house, taking quick and hurried steps along the stones set in the grass and ground. She moved around the back of the house and spotted three bird feeders lined over a small pond.

  John, though, hadn’t stopped at the spectacle and instead was gesturing wildly at her. She followed his gaze toward an open window on the first floor next to a large glass sliding door.

  For a moment, Adele frowned and then she heard John curse. His weapon shot up and he pointed straight at the window.

  “Put the knife down!” he shouted, his voice blasting next to Adele like a cannon.

  For a moment, disoriented, she struggled to place the source of his consternation, and then, through the open window, she spotted it. A man was stooped over a still form pressed to a dining room table. The upright fellow had a plastic bag clutched in one hand and a knife in the other. The bag extended to a tube which curled around and around, resting against the back of a chair before ending in a needle inserted into the other form’s arm.

  “Damn it!” Adele shouted. “Get down!” she screamed. “Drop the knife!”

  John aimed and fired, two shots. He hadn’t been aiming through the window, though, on account of possibly hitting the victim. Instead, he shot the glass sliding door.

  The shards hung suspended for a moment, displaying all manner of cracks and facets, and then they rained down, collapsing with a mighty crash across the deck and into the house.

  Adele was already stumbling through the opening, her own weapon clutched cold and firm in her palms. She pointed the firearm toward the man by the table.

  “Jonathan Davis, lower the knife!”

  The man still held his blade aloft, staring at her, a crazed look in his eyes. He swallowed, emitting a dry sound so loud that Adele could practically hear it echo. She watched his Adam’s apple bob and he pressed his blade hard into the skin of the other form on the table.

  Now in the house, hearing John curse and growl as he maneuvered over scattered glass, she got a good look at the victim.

  Mr. Castle, she presumed. An older gentleman, his eyes closed, his face and skin pale, slick. The IV in his arm continued to pump blood into the bag gripped in Mr. Davis’s other hand.

&nbs
p; “Drop the knife, now!” Adele shouted, angling for a shot.

  But Mr. Davis, still breathing heavily, his eyes still widened, shifted, following her steps and keeping his victim between himself and the agents.

  “Back!” Davis spat. He had pulsing blue eyes and features that would have been handsome if not for the crazed sheen over his countenance. “Get back!” he screamed, waving his knife threateningly beneath his victim’s chin.

  “Drop it!” John’s voice boomed.

  Davis was gasping and spitting now, looking to the window next to him, glancing frantically around the dining room, seemingly in search of some escape route.

  “Don’t even try it,” Adele snarled. “Mr. Davis, lower the knife, or I’ll shoot!”

  He looked at her now, for a moment seemingly forgetting the blood bag. “Do you really mean it?” he asked, a tinge of hope to his voice. “You would send me south? Would you pay the river fare? Hmm?”

  Adele blinked. She didn’t look at John, but could sense his confusion as well as he shifted cautiously along the hall in a half-step, his weapon still pinpointing the murderer.

  “Sir, we can talk about it—just lower the knife.”

  Mr. Davis licked his lips, a pink tongue darting out and slipping across dry flesh like a lizard.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, snorting now as if trying to breathe and swallow at the same time. He gasped. “I need this—I need it. I must—must strengthen my spirit. It’s the code, I’m sure of it now. This is Gabriel’s number—he’ll usher me home. I know he will!”

  John made a quiet whistling sound next to Adele’s ear.

  “I’m not crazy!” Mr. Davis screamed now, pointing the knife toward John.

  For a moment, Adele felt like he’d presented an opportunity, but just as quickly, he ducked behind a chair, cursing, hiding from line of sight.

  “Mr. Davis, I’m sure you’re not,” Adele said, scowling. “Now lower that blade and we can all get out of this in one piece.”