by Blake Pierce
Fine. Omw.
Adele rolled her eyes, looking up again, scanning from one side of the street to the other and feeling her frustration mounting. How far had Agent Paige gone? Surely she hadn’t already gotten on a flight.
Already, Adele had waited nearly an hour outside the front doors of the office complex where Becker and Associates was located.
She could feel her anxiety returning, twisting in her stomach. She didn’t like standing still, motionless, waiting helplessly for the cavalry to arrive.
As she waited, Adele could feel old emotions cycling wildly once more. Not only did her stomach twist and turn, but she could also glimpse flashes of memories.
Some conclusions were inevitable. She could feel the clock ticking in her mind. The killer was out there. Other killers were also out there. But this one in particular was biding his time, one step ahead, hunting his victims one by one. And Adele was only able to pick up the pieces in his wake.
“Come on,” she muttered in frustration, glancing up and down the long street. She hastily pulled her phone out again, texting quickly: Where are you?
She waited, staring hopefully at the screen, but Agent Paige didn’t reply.
It wasn’t like she needed Paige, was it?
What was her next step?
She knew the killer was targeting people in this region, who had built homes on church land. She knew he was targeting them for religious reasons, that much seemed clear. He was resourceful, moving about the country and continent with impunity. Smart, strong, dangerous.
How would she find him, though?
Her stomach gave another twist, but just then a taxi appeared at the end of the road. Her heart skipped a beat and she stepped away from the wall, waving a hand.
The taxi pulled to a screeching halt next to the curb.
The vehicle moved with short, jolting motions, and the doors flung open, as if the taxi itself couldn’t wait to be rid of its occupant.
Agent Paige stepped onto the curb without so much as a glance back at the driver, and then stalked toward Adele. The taxi didn’t wait; no sooner had Agent Paige left than it squealed away, moving back up the streets.
“I’m here,” Paige called out, likely replying to the hurriedly sent message. The silver-haired agent looked past Adele, eyeing the old cathedral turned office complex. She shook her head. “The church owns the land?”
“Religious motives,” Adele said quickly. “It’s like we thought.” Part of her wanted to press, to make a deal out of it. Part of her wanted to simply yell I told you so and dance around, pointing a finger at Agent Paige.
Adele pictured the image in her mind and tried not to smile.
“All right, I’ll bite, what next?” Paige snapped. It was testament to just how stubborn the woman was that she offered nothing like an apology nor an attempted justification. She simply looked at Adele with her piercing gaze, her face framed with silver hair, not a strand out of place.
Adele would have to wait for apologies. She had a killer to catch rather than an ego to assuage.
Her lips felt dry as she spoke quickly. “I made contact with the property owner who sold one of the parcels. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of land acquisition in the area. He doesn’t like me much right now, as I may have hinted that I thought he was a suspect.”
“Is he?”
“I can’t be sure. He doesn’t have the physique for the kills.”
“Accomplice?” Agent Paige paused, but then answered her own question. “Nothing to suggest an accomplice.”
“Exactly. But we can’t rule it out either. Still, I need your help to get him to cooperate. We need to find any other tracts of land in the area that were sold. That’s how were going to find the next victim.”
Agent Paige nodded slowly, and if Adele hadn’t been paying attention, she might have missed the note of admiration flicker across the older woman’s eyes. Paige, not one to dawdle, brushed past Adele, moving toward the buzzers and pressing all of them at once. She waited impatiently, and a second later, the door buzzed. She shouldered into the old office complex, and, without waiting for Adele, marched up the stairs.
“Which one?” she called over her shoulder.
“Becker,” Adele replied. She hastened over, catching up with Paige and returning up the stairs toward the doors at the top.
This time, Paige didn’t knock, but simply barged in, coming to a halt in front of the desk, behind which the two secretaries were still seated.
By the looks of things, and their flustered conversations, they were still recovering from the last visit of the DGSI.
Now, though, they glanced nervously from Adele to Paige.
“We need to speak with Mr. Becker,” Paige snapped.
Instead of waiting for a reply, she moved past them toward the door, which was still slightly ajar, and pushed it open with her elbow.
Adele, like a leaf caught up in a whirlwind, simply followed.
The two agents stood in the doorway again, both of them ignoring the protests behind them.
This time, Mr. Becker was sitting behind his desk. He had his old, corded phone in one hand, which he lowered slowly, whispering as his head dipped, “I’ll call right back. I have clients.” There was a soft ding as the phone pressed into its cradle, and the old owner of the firm glanced between the two agents.
“You’re back,” he said to Adele, betraying no emotion save in the tightening of his lips.
“We have some more questions,” Adele said quickly.
Becker leaned back, folding his hands over his chest, resting the back of his head against the cold glass overlooking the small coastal town’s streets. “This is beginning to border on harassment, Agent Adele Sharp. And you might be?” he said, turning to Agent Paige.
It was to Adele’s absolute surprise that instead of a curt, biting answer, Paige simply dipped her head and in as polite a tone as had ever squeaked from those normally pursed lips, she said, “We don’t mean to bother you, sir. My name is Sophie Paige, and we’re here on government business, as my partner has informed you.”
“Also with the DGSI?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.” Paige nodded once.
Adele tried not to stare in shock at the polite and respectful conduct of her normally acerbic partner. Was it simply a tactic to gain his trust? Or a matter of the age difference? She’d always known Paige was somewhat old-fashioned.
The decorum wasn’t lost on Becker, it seemed, who turned slightly in his chair, facing Agent Paige rather than Adele and addressing his follow-up to her. “Am I still a suspect, hmm? What is this, property crime?”
Paige shook her head quickly. “We’re not here about you, sir. My partner here suggests you possess an encyclopedic knowledge of purchases and sales in the area.”
“Damn right,” Becker said, nodding once, some of his normally reserved demeanor cracking under the scrutiny. “I’ve been at this for nearly thirty years now. You’re not questioning my recollection, are you?”
“No, of course not, sir. I know how it is to have youngsters come in and start kicking things around.”
He snorted, but his eyes twinkled for a moment. “Tearing down fences they don’t even know the purpose of.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Adele could have sworn that both Becker and Paige glanced in her direction discreetly, before returning their attention to each other. For a moment, she felt like a stick in the mud just standing there and wondered if perhaps she ought to just leave the room.
But then she reminded herself why she was there, cleared her throat, and glanced toward Paige.
Becker, noting the exchange, leaned forward again, his chair creaking as he settled his elbows on the table in front of him. As he hunched, he looked even smaller and older than he had before, like some crooked gargoyle angled off a stone turret, his features wise and weathered.
“How can I help you, Agents?”
Paige gave a surreptitious glance askance at Adele, much like the
passing of a baton. Adele, mustering her courage, stepped forward and cleared her throat.
“Sir,” she said, delicately, “I’m wondering if you know of any other property sales in the area, about the same time when you purchased the tract from the church.”
“There were quite a few,” the man said, nodding once. He slid his fingers up his face, pressing them against the bridge of his nose as if against a headache, his eyes narrowing as if he were focusing on something interesting etched into the wooden table.” He coughed delicately. “I’ll need you to be more specific, Agent Adele Sharp.”
“Specifically,” she said, “any sales from the church to local land owners. Especially sales with cloisters or old churches on the land. Within the same time frame. Do you think you can remember that far back?”
Again, she noted the old, corded phone, the complete lack of computer on his desk. She winced in consideration, wondering if this recollection routine was too much for the man. Clearly he had a photographic memory of some form. Her own gaze flicked to the many legal tomes lining his ornate bookshelf against the wall, then back to the man.
He was still staring, his brow creased in concentration.
Adele opened her mouth to speak again, but Agent Paige reached out, tapping—a bit too firmly in Adele’s estimation—against the younger woman’s wrist. She fell silent, simply watching, waiting.
The three figures in the small office room on the second floor, illuminated by the light through the open window, stood in momentary suspended silence, sharing an amalgam of concentration and suppressed unease.
If he couldn’t remember, then Adele couldn’t find the next potential victim. The killer had shown his hand. Perhaps he hadn’t thought anyone would check vacation homes. Perhaps he hadn’t considered someone might fly to France when the murders were in Italy, England, and Germany.
For the first time on this case, Adele felt like they were catching up. The killer hadn’t seen them coming, and now it was entirely up to them to find his next step.
Which meant they needed targets.
She could still feel the pressure from Agent Paige’s silencing hand, but Adele couldn’t resist adding, like someone typing criteria into a search engine, “Specifically anyone who purchased from the church at that point, but who also is of a certain age,” she said. “Married couples, or single women who would now be in their fifties. We can’t discount male owners, if they’ve recently been married.”
She winced now, feeling uneasy. Would he remember that far back? Her gaze surreptitiously scanned the walls for any file cabinets. Surely he didn’t simply keep the information in his mind.
Even as the doubts began to creep in, Mr. Becker lowered a long finger, pressing it against his lips now, leaving a pale indentation and then looking between the two agents, blinking a few times as if suddenly exposed to sunlight.
“Twenty-three,” he said firmly.
Adele blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Of the public sales reported in a five to ten year time frame purchased from the church for private ownership, there are twenty-three options.”
Adele felt her heart clatter as if falling from a shelf and shattering on the floor. A jolt of horror filled her. “Twenty—twenty-three?” she said, her voice croaking. “Are you sure?”
He dipped his head a single time. “Very. I remember that sales period well. Was one of our best growth years, in fact.”
“Twenty-tree is a lot of locations,” Paige murmured next to Adele.
At the same time, the door behind them creaked open, and Adele heard the voice of one of the secretaries calling out, “Excuse me, Mr. Becker, you have another client. Is there anything I can get you?” She added this last part with an emphasis on the words.
Becker, though, held up a placating hand, watching the agents and waiting.
Adele, for her part, was shaking her head. “You’re not mistaken?” she said.
Now Becker bristled, frowning. “No—I’m not. Not all of us require those infernal devices your generation substitutes for memory. Twenty-three at least. Those are of the ones publicly declared. Private sales also occur, of course. Sometimes through less than reputable agents hoping to offset transactional costs. Mr. Durand, for instance.”
At least twenty-three sales from the church…
At least twenty-three potential victims.
Adele felt like she’d been walloped in the gut. All sense of momentum she’d been feeling now came to a screeching, painful halt.
There was no way they could track down that many potential victims. No way in that amount of time, especially given how many of them might live in other regions if not countries. It would take weeks, at best.
She felt her stomach twisting again, the nerves rising, her chest beginning to prickle in horror and frustration. For a moment, as she stared out the window, Adele felt like she couldn’t breathe. She heard, as if echoing down a tunnel, the voice of the secretary again, trying to gain Mr. Becker’s attention once more.
She heard, as well, the soft sound of another man—the aforementioned client, most likely—speaking with the second secretary in the lobby, murmuring the words, “How much longer for my appointment do you think?”
Damn his appointment! Adele thought to herself, feeling the rising wave of frustration washing over her now. So close, yet so far.
She thought they’d found a lead, but now she’d simply dove headfirst into a pile of hay, looking for a yellow-painted needle.
All the victims so far had been women in their fifties. But the property owners could just as easily be male with wives. Or, further, she couldn’t simply assume the killer might not murder someone younger or older with another connection she hadn’t spotted yet.
Too many variables.
Not enough time.
Despite herself, she found her chest heaving, hyperventilating. She could feel Agent Paige’s gaze fixed on her now as Adele stood there, a culmination of nerves and frustration and anxiety and sleep-deprivation.
She was losing this race against time. And now, the flurry of emotions she’d endeavored to suppress, to subdue, came rushing back, rising like shadows against a cavern wall, cast wide and large by flames of opposition.
“Damn it,” she muttered softly. “Damn it!” she repeated, a bit louder now.
“Agent Sharp,” Paige said quickly, reaching out a steady hand and touching her elbow. “Perhaps we’d best consider things outside.”
Adele could feel everyone’s eyes on her now. Feel, even without looking, the secretary behind her, the new client waiting for his appointment, Mr. Becker in his chair, Agent Paige at her side. Could feel everyone watching, waiting.
She could feel, in addition, other eyes. Eyes not currently present.
But eyes just as searching and eager for her collapse.
Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.
A small sob crept from the twisting stage fright in her belly and escaped up her throat and out her lips.
Just then, her phone began to ring.
With trembling fingers, Adele reached down, pulling the device from her pocket, looking for a lifeline of some sort. Something to help the case. Some clue—something at all.
She glanced at the number.
John Renee.
Everything collapsed then. She wanted to answer, more than anything… But she couldn’t. He’d know what to say, he might be able to help. But she couldn’t bring him into it. Not now. Not again.
If you let them close, they’ll all die! the voice said in her mind.
“God damn it!” she screamed, flinging the phone suddenly away from her lest she give in to the temptation and answer. The device bounced off the large bookcase, ricocheting from the large tomes of green and purple with golden lettering.
The phone continued to buzz against the light carpet. Adele continued to gasp.
And she suddenly realized the scene she was causing.
She blinked, looking around slowly, breathing as if she’d jus
t completed a marathon as her eyes grazed Mr. Becker’s, darted to Paige, and then took in the two secretaries and new client staring open-mouthed at her through the doorway.
She closed her eyes, feeling on the verge of a mental breakdown.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Sorry,” she said a third time, now using it as a marching chant as she hastened across the room, ripped her phone from the ground and, eyes glued to the floor, marched past Paige, shouldered roughly through the gaggle in the doorway, and hurried out the front door.
Her phone continued to buzz beneath her numb fingers as she tried to escape the oppressive room and her equally oppressive thoughts.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
John sighed, staring at the rejected call. He lowered his phone, closing his fist tight around it and leaning back in the recliner he’d managed to smuggle into his makeshift bachelor pad in the basement of the DGSI.
Across from him, his distillery bubbled and dripped, the beakers and glass tubing swirling with clear moonshine. The odor of the concoction wafted in the small room, carried by the air conditioning through the vents in the ceiling.
He glanced down at the cold glass in his hand, staring at the ice swishing around the clear liquid. On the floor, scattered across the ground—files. More files than John would ever admit to having studied. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. Some agents didn’t think he could read.
But he’d done his homework, helping out the task force assigned to the murder of Robert Henry.
But still, everyone was turning up a blank. The Spade Killer, this man who styled himself some sort of sick artist—his name received from the park paths and gardens where he’d abandoned his victims—was still on the loose.
They even had a composite sketch now, thanks to John. But nothing.
No clues, no leads…
John had managed, even, to sneak into the room on the third floor, where the task force had been working. Their damn corkboard was practically blank. John had long suspected one could often tell the progress of an investigation by the number of items pinned to the inevitably available corkboard.