by Blake Pierce
Already, John's arms were crossed, and he was shooting annoyed looks through hooded eyes at Agent Leoni. If Christopher noticed this, he didn't show it. Rather, he gave a little laugh, slapping John on the back in a genial fashion but then stepping deliberately past him and gripping Adele's forearms, looking her in the eyes.
“How are you?” he said, everything in his tone and gaze suggesting an earnestness that was often off-putting.
Adele didn't think Leoni had a deceptive bone in his body. Still, she could sense John's discomfort, could sense the shift in atmosphere, and she coughed delicately, giving Leoni's hands a quick squeeze of greeting, before glancing towards the mask.
“It's good to see you,” she said. “I'm glad,” she hesitated on the word, considering amending it, but then allowing it to stay, “yes, glad you're here to help. On the case.” She didn't mean to emphasize these last few words, but Agent Leoni responded quickly with another congenial chuckle.
“Don't worry Agent Sharp, we're here to catch a killer. All of us, yes?” He glanced from John, back to the mask.
“If that's the case,” John said, clearing his throat and pushing back some of his open distrust, “What can you tell us about the mask? Why is it cracked?”
“Cracked? Where?”
John's toe jutted out, his black shoe pointing towards the spiderweb imperfection.
Leoni leaned in, frowning, his single superman curl of hair darting over his eyes. He reached up, brushing it aside and straightening as he did. “The killer, perhaps?”
“No,” John said. “Crack wasn't in the crime scene photos. Happened after.”
Leoni frowned at this, turning and waving towards one of the policemen moving between the apartment-dwellers. He called out in Italian, rattling off a question. The police officer called back, wincing as he did and waving towards one of the other officers who was searching beneath an old metal trash can soldered to the brick floor.
Leoni turned back, some of his chipper attitude having faded to mild frustration. “Ah, well,” he said, delicately. “I guess one of the workers with the coroner accidentally dropped the body. They thought the mask was attached, but rather it had only just been laid across the victim's face.”
“They cracked it,” John said.
“Yes. They cracked it, I'm afraid.”
“Anything else we should know?” Adele asked, frowning at Leoni. “Anything about the victim in particular.”
Christopher turned to her, his suit sleeves straining as he crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't as well built as John, but was in excellent shape, nonetheless. Something, Adele desperately wished she didn't keep noticing. Focus Sharp, she thought to herself. Get your head in the game, damn it.
Still, there was a part of her that was glad she was noticing such simple, superficial things again. It felt like stepping from a shadowed room out into a sunbeam. For nearly a month there, she had cut off all contact with her friends, with anyone who'd attempted to get close. A strange thing to find solace in the recognition of a beautiful man. And yet, she hoped such things hinted at a return to some normalcy. At the very least, she wasn't trying to avoid John or Christopher.
If only to spite her inner critic, she took another long look at John's biceps where they also crossed his suit and then, coughing delicately, returned her attention to Leoni as he answered, “We're looking into details,” he said. “Apparently, she was staying in a small hotel only a few minutes’ walk from here. She came with friends.”
“Understandable,” John said. “Given her age. Anything else? Was anything stolen?”
At this Christopher frowned so deeply his eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of his nose. “I—I'm afraid not. That is to say, no—the killer took nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” Adele said. “You're sure.”
“Yes, very much. Ms. Strasser had over two hundred euros still on her person. She was carrying a small purse which was left, along with a room key and an expensive cell phone.” Leoni shook his head. “Whatever the motive, it was not theft.”
Silence fell after this declaration, with each of the agents frowning now. John's eyes traced the mask, still looking towards the crack. Agent Leoni was watching the police move about the alleys. Adele, though, stared directly at the blood stain beneath the bronze bench, her eyes fixed and unblinking.
A slow chill crept up her spine at Leoni's words.
No theft. No signs of sexual assault.
Which meant the killer, whoever he was, was hunting for some other reason entirely. Normally, crimes could be traced to one of three motives: sex, money,... or power.
The third was often the most violent of the three.
Killers who did so to simply sate their bloodlust never found the satisfaction they were after. It only increased their appetite for pain and death.
A sadist was one thing... Predictable in a way.
Consummate killers, though, who were fascinated by the simple act of murder—these tended to be the most careful, the most meticulous. And the least likely to leave a trace.
Adele gritted her teeth, looking away from the blood stain and glancing towards John. In a soft murmur, she said, “Perhaps we'd best go see the bodies now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele saw that the entrance to the coroner's office was in the base of a canal-facing office space strangely centered across from a dock surrounded by all manner of vessels and even small, luxury craft. The boats rocked on the water, swishing softly back and forth as other vessels traveled up and down the wide channel. A small clearing on the opposite side of the canal, accessible over a looping bridge with a grey stone railing, cradled a small dance troupe, all wearing masks, who were moving in time with the music from a live band.
As the agents moved towards the entrance of the coroner's office, following Leoni's lead, Adele spared a glance towards the strange amalgamation of art, music, and costume. Briefly, she wished she'd had a chance to come to such a festival on her own time, simply to enjoy it.
But while she was noticing the music and dancers, John kept staring at the boats and the water.
This, in turn, had seemed to cast a greenish tinge across Agent Renee's face, which he quickly hid by glancing into the darker, shadowed portions of the awning above the office-entrance.
“This it?” he said, turning his back fully to the water now and staring—rather pale-faced—at the office entrance.
In answer, Leoni pushed his way through, allowing a little brass bell to jingle above as he entered. The bell reminded Adele of Gobert's, a small shop back in Paris. To have a joyful little tinkling bell above a door that led to a morgue seemed a strange and morbid contradiction.
She followed Leoni into a cold hall, with John squeezing in behind her. The halls in the buildings seemed smaller too, similar to the alleys outside. John even had to duck as he took a step down into a lower portion of the office complex and moved along the dim hallway towards a glass door at the far end. Other doors, sealed and without illumination, lined the hall on either side.
“We're low,” John murmured, shooting a glance towards the two steps that had dipped down from the entrance into the hall. “Very low.”
“It's not going to sink, John,” Adele said.
“I didn't say that. I just observed.”
“You observed with a squeak in your voice.”
“Did not. Shut up. I didn't.”
Adele patted the muscled man on the arm. “I used to swim, you know,” she said. “Back in high school. If you fall in, I promise to jump in after you.” She smiled in a would-be comforting way, and then, picking up the pace, muttered, loud enough for him to hear, “Big baby.”
John muttered as well, seemingly more for his sake than hers. “It's all fun and games until Renee drowns in Venice.”
Adele smirked, reaching where Leoni was pushing open the only illuminated glass door at the far end of the cramped, lower-level hall. Briefly, she considered John's aversion to the water. She supposed it
made sense; he'd been a helicopter pilot during his service days. The further from the water, the better, it seemed.
Leoni was waiting patiently but as she neared, he led the way into a small room. Immediately, Adele was assailed by a frigid breeze and the scent of cleaning fluids like from a hospital floor. She wrinkled her nose at the offending odor, glancing around the small morgue.
“Hello?” Leoni called. “Dr. Fazio?”
A voice called from out of sight behind a supporting pillar of concrete, shouting something in Italian.
Adele took a moment to further scan the room, her eyes darting from the expected metal cooling closets to the two gurneys against them. On the metal platforms, two pale sheets were draped over the unmistakable forms of bodies.
Adele felt John nudge her from behind, pointing.
“Yes, I see,” she said. “Let's wait. I prefer the guided tour.”
Adele watched as an old, stooped man moved from behind the pillar, zipping up his pants, and wiping his hands off on the sides of his white lab coat. Adele frowned, watching the old fellow limp towards the bodies.
He shot a glance towards them, his eyes surrounded with bright liver spots, staring over the top of the spectacles perched on the bridge of his large nose. The coroner's hair was dyed pitch black, which contrasted sharply with his aged and wizened features.
He waved again, saying something in Italian, which Leoni translated, "He says to follow him.”
Adele fell into step behind Christopher, and shot a glance behind the pillar, towards a urinal built into the floor, without a door to speak of.
She uncomfortably adjusted her sleeves and approached the two bodies beneath the white sheets.
The coroner waved a hand over the nearest form, murmuring something which Christopher translated as, "He says both of them were killed rather quickly. No defensive wounds to speak of."
"Nothing at all?" Adele asked. "Has he checked thoroughly?" She wasn't sure why she asked it this way but supposed the older gentleman's demeanor didn't exactly scream professionalism.
Leoni waited for a response, and then translated back, "He's double checked. Nothing beneath the fingernails, no wounds on the hands. Nothing suggesting a struggle at all."
"And both of them died from throat wounds?"
In answer, the old coroner pulled down the tops of the sheets.
Adele stared at the two pale faces staring at the ceiling. One of the women had dark hair, pulled back. The other's was blonde, and cut short.
The coroner lowered the sheets just a bit more, displaying the slits across their throats. The cuts were no longer bleeding, like gouge marks on a hunk of meat. Adele shivered at the thought, trying to dislodge the comparison.
Both women looked like they'd once been quite beautiful, but now lay lifeless in the dim, cold room, across from the urinal. Adele felt a twist of sadness flutter up in her chest, but quickly looked away, inhaling softly.
"Any fingerprints?" Adele said, quietly, leaning in, but not too close.
John was glaring, and something about his posture had gone more aggressive, as if he were taking it even more personally now that he'd seen the victims. Adele knew he always had a soft spot for young women. Some might have called this propensity chauvinist, but she thought it more of an evolved instinct. John was a warrior, through and through, and the best of those types were always the sort to go to battle on behalf of someone. John would never have called himself a gentleman, but he sometimes behaved like one, despite his best efforts to the contrary.
"The second mask?" John said, stiffly. "Is it here?"
Agent Leoni didn't need to translate this time, and instead moved over towards a portion of counter, next to a row of sinks. He pulled past a red towel, upon which another porcelain, Venetian mask had settled.
This one, Adele recognized from the second crime scene photo the Executive had shown them back in the office.
Grateful to turn away from the morbid scene behind her, Adele approached, glancing at this newest face covering.
It was even more beautiful in person than it had been in the picture. The same silk mesh extended past the top, and the two star-shaped eyeholes stared out, with the crimson towel beneath it adding a veneer to the gaze. Again, the lips were crisscrossed with a lipstick X.
Adele shivered, staring at the mask.
"Can you ask him if he found any fingerprints?” Adele murmured.
Agent Leoni repeated the question, and the old Italian coroner brushed a gnarled hand through his pitch-black hair. Leoni translated, "He says there were no fingerprints. No signs of the killer at all. That, with the lack of defensive wounds, makes it difficult for him to say anything about the nature of the attacker, except that they were shrewd. To be able to cut someone's neck, that quickly, would require speed and surprise.”
Adele blinked, picturing a nighttime stroll through the Venetian alleyways, with someone crouched, hiding just out of sight. She shivered, wondering if the women had even seen their killer coming.
"Is there anything else you can tell us?” She asked, still staring at the beautiful mask.
Leoni translated, and then said, "Nothing currently. He's running some tests on the blood, just in case. But in his words, he's not finding anything unusual. They were killed with single cuts across the neck."
Adele frowned at Agent Leoni. "So the killer is practiced? He knows how to wield his blade."
"Seems like it. Yes. And strong, very strong, to kill with a single stroke."
Adele crossed her arms, her back to the gurneys, grateful as she heard the rustle of the sheets being pulled back over the young, bloodless faces. She stared at the porcelain mask, considering her next move.
"Both those masks are really quite beautiful," she murmured. "Pieces of art even."
"I was thinking the same thing," Leoni said.
"There's no autograph is there? A painter signing their work?"
"I can try and check," Christopher said, with an apologetic shrug. "But I can try to find something."
She turned to him, looking away from the mask and nodded once. "Perfect. If you could, I'd be obliged and indebted.”
"While he's tracking down the mask maker," John said, “What should we do? It isn't like we have any witnesses to the murders."
"No," Leoni replied, quickly. "But we did have a roommate for Ms. Strasser. The second victim, the German. She too was staying with an Italian girl in the city. We haven't had a chance to interview her yet. We had to call her back from activities in the city. She should be at their shared hotel room within the next hour or so."
Adele paused, considering this. The young woman's friend might have heard something. It wasn't like they had anything else to go on. Besides, again, they were running against a clock. The moment the identities of the victims made the rounds, it would be a lot more difficult to move without gaining unwanted attention.
"All right, Christopher, if you don't mind, track down what you can about those masks. See if we can trace them to a seller. John, you and I can go speak to this young woman. She's not another actress, is she?"
Christopher winced, and scratched at the back of his head. "Actually, she is, after a fashion." He swallowed delicately, and to Adele's surprise, his cheeks were turning red.
"What?" she pressed.
"Ella Onio is," he said, trailing off, "an actress involved in more adult entertainment."
Adele blinked. John tried to hide a cough, but ended up choking on it and turning, coughing into his hand.
"A porn star?"
"No, not exactly," said Christopher quickly. "More of an erotic actress, in the style of Edwige Fenech.”
"I have no clue who that is."
John said, "She started in a couple of movies like All the Colors of the Dark or, a personal favorite, My Sister-In-Law."
Leoni and Adele both looked at him hard, and John coughed again, looking away. "At least, I think so."
"Nice cover," Adele grunted, rolling her eyes. "All right, s
o she's an erotic actress. Just tell me where she's staying. Hopefully she might know something about the killer."
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Adele and John took the final flight of stairs to the address Leoni had provided, Adele marveled at the view over the open-air balcony next to the door of the hotel. The scene overlooked much of the city, staring down the Grand Canal itself, witnessing the horizon against the Adriatic as if suspended above the water. For a moment Adele just stood, enjoying the sights, and then she allowed the more analytical part of herself to catch up with her thoughts. "Imagine how much this has to cost per night," she grunted.
John, next to her, shook his head. "Too much for the Executive to ever lodge us.”
Adele wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. They hadn't yet stopped off at the small hotel that Executive Focault had stationed them in. But according to the pictures she'd been sent, there wasn't a window in the space. Which, she supposed, was the sort of thing in Venice that suited John's tastes. Still, as she marveled at the display across the Grand Canal, she reached up, knocking delicately on the door. Even the wood grain, and the inlay of silver and brass suggested the door itself might've cost an entire month's salary.
"Come in!" a voice called out in English.
Adele frowned. A second later, there was a click, followed by the rattle of a chain, then another click. Then, the door opened.
"Sorry," said a voice as the door swung in, "you can never be too careful."
The woman speaking couldn't have been much older than Lorraine had been, and she carried a youthful vibrancy that exuded in her words and the way she moved, gesturing at both of them to enter the small apartment overlooking the Grand Canal.
"Come, come," the young woman said, gesturing. "I saw you two walking up. DGSI? That's what the police said. They mentioned you were coming by."
Adele blinked, trying to keep track of it all. On one hand, the woman had locked her door multiple times; on the other, she was just inviting the two of them in. The strange juxtaposition of youthful caution and trust.