by Blake Pierce
"This masks, may be mine, but sold, years ago," he said quickly, nodding for emphasis.
"So these are yours," Adele asked, leaning in now and tapping the photos as well. She scanned the wall behind the counter, trying to match any of the masks with the ones in the photos. But there was no perfect match. In fact, there were no two alike.
"So what?" the mask maker said, grunting. "I painted. My mask. I sell. I sell many mask. So what?" He repeated.
"So," Adele said, delicately, "both those masks were discovered on the faces of two murdered women in the last week."
She left the time frame sufficiently vague to try and see if the shopkeeper might fill in details she hadn't yet offered. But the shopkeeper seemed too stunned by this news to get bogged down in the details. "Murder? Dead?" He said something in Italian to Christopher, who nodded.
The man cursed, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. "No, no no. I sell mask. Years ago. I no kill. I here all night."
Adele glanced at Christopher. Who shrugged back at her. "That does mesh with what the other shopkeeper was saying. He says Mr. Angelo here works until midnight, especially during busy season."
Adele frowned, shaking her head. "You have any idea who you sold those masks to?"
The shopkeeper shrugged his large shoulders. "No. Years ago."
Adele closed her eyes hard in mild frustration but opened them just as quickly. "You don't keep records or anything?"
He waved this away with a flourish of his fingers. "Years ago," he said, repeating the two words with emphasis. "No records. You sure you don't want mask?"
Adele began to shake her head, but ever the persistent businessman, Mr. Angelo tapped a pudgy finger against the photos. He spread an arm towards a section of the masks on the wall behind him, saying, "17th-century French," speaking those words with a surprisingly small amount of accent, suggesting perhaps they were a practiced spiel.
Adele said. "I'm not shopping. Thank you though."
Adele glanced around the shop once more, frowning as she did. "You don't happen to have proof you were here late last night, do you?” she said, hesitantly.
Mr. Angelo didn't look like he had the physique to go chasing after young women in the dark and executing them without a fight. But looks could always be deceiving, especially where masks were concerned.
In answer, though, the Italian shopkeeper ducked behind the counter, and he emerged with a small iPad. He waved fingers towards the ceiling, pointing, and Adele followed his gaze, spotting, there, behind an ebony mask, a blinking red light from a security camera.
For a moment, she jolted, her mind taken back to Paris, to the small apartments. But then, she focused again as Angelo tapped the small screen, and then turned it so she could see. John and Christopher both leaned in as well.
Still without a word, the shopkeeper pressed a button, and the screen began to display a video feed. It showed Angelo himself, moving about the shop, and he sped up the image, pointing with a finger towards the date in the top right.
"Last night," Christopher said, softly.
Adele had already discerned this. She watched, as Angelo fast forwarded through the video. There wasn't a moment where he disappeared from behind the counter. Every time a customer come in, Angelo himself would greet them, and walk them through the different masks. He sold a surprising number in the short period between 9 and 11 PM. Even until midnight, though the trickle of tourist traffic diminished somewhat, the large mask maker remained in his position behind the counter, like a lion waiting to pounce.
"You were here all of last night?" Adele said, softly.
Angelo again instead of answering, just rewound the video and pointed at the date.
"I get it," Adele said, with mild annoyance. "Thank you," she added, hoping to offset her tone. She turned away from the large shopkeeper, glancing at John and raising an eyebrow. John coughed delicately, and then in French said, "Probably not him."
"He doesn't seem the type," Adele said, also in French.
"So now what?"
Adele considered it for a moment. Sex, money, or power.
The killer was after the third, in part... But perhaps a lack of one of the other two?
For what end, and why, she couldn't be sure.
Why was he hunting tourists? Was it a nationalistic sense? Pure hatred?
A racial motive, perhaps?
Angelo might have sold the masks in question, but if he didn't have records, it didn't matter. For all she knew, the masks had traded hands many times before ending up with the killer. Or, even more likely, he had stolen the masks to use for his kills.
She sighed and shook her head. Still in French, she said, "Maybe we should start working on phone records. It's like Ella said, we can't forget about that strange boyfriend Lorraine was going off to meet. Maybe he's involved."
At that point, the shopkeeper cleared his throat, and wiggled his fingers, saying, in equally accented French, "Are you sure you don't want to mask? Especially you," he said, nodding to John. "A mask would look very good on you."
John frowned. Adele tried not to chuckle. She said, beneath her breath, "You'd look really good with your face covered."
John waved away Mr. Angelo a final time, turning to Adele and muttering, "Funny, really funny. Look, whoever's hunting these girls, there's no way he's done. He's already killed two and has the taste for it. The festival is still on for another few days."
Adele winced, nodding and sobering at this. "All right, well, we're going to have to try to track down this boyfriend then. And in the meantime, we can talk to the American victims' friends.” She turned, slowly, switching from French. “Christopher, I have another favor to ask.”
CHAPTER TEN
He faced the small gathering before the elevated wooden platform and puffed his chest, feeling the mask cold and smooth against his face. He stood beneath the dipping sun, the shade from the buildings behind him cast over his form as he adjusted his suit, raised his voice, and began to sing, powerfully at first, belting the lines, allowing the music to swell.
A few of the tourists were clapping already and others were smiling, pointing at each other and then to him.
He ignored the attention at first, singing louder, deeper, his voice piercing across the canal, attracting more attention.
The anonymity of beauty was his favorite part. No one knew his face. No one knew his name.
Most of the tourists thought he was just another commissioned artist, part of the act. But he hadn't reserved the spot. The musicians who would use it later that night didn't know he was here.
Beautiful anonymity.
Of course, he hadn't chosen this particular spot randomly.
He watched, his eyes flickering through his mask, as the young and gorgeous Fiorella paused where she had been exiting from her apartment. She glanced over towards where he was singing, and then, frowning in curiosity, began to move in his direction.
This only emboldened him. He sang even louder, belting the lines, breathing in deeply, and holding the high note until another round of applause swept through the onlookers.
He dipped his masked face in a sort of bow, and then with a final flourish, ended the Venetian boat song.
The applause pattered throughout the audience, and he felt a flicker of frustration.
Fifteen maybe twenty spectators. Hardly what a man of his talents deserved. Fiorella Lettiere, the 23-year-old Venetian, stared at him. She was smiling, her blonde curls bouncing as she clapped too.
He smiled behind his mask, bowing at the waist now, and receiving his just due of praise.
Fiorella Lettiere, twenty-three—the only facts he knew about her. Her name and age. And where she had been staying. That was it. He didn't need much else.
She would fit perfectly into what he was planning, of course. She would have to, as like a musical note in any composed song, she had been chosen, fitting perfectly between the other notes. They were all the same anyway. He sneered behind his mask, but
the facial covering hid the twisted lip.
Like the conductor he was, the maestro, every composition required creativity and improvisation at first.
He already knew the climax, the ultimate crescendo, but leading up to it, he was delightfully surprising even to himself. Yes, now that he saw her, he knew she would do just fine.
Fiorella was beginning to turn away, and she began to move down one of the small paths between the buildings. Where would she head to now?
He took another bow, and then skipped off the wooden platform, humming to himself. Beneath his breath, his voice hissing in his mask, he murmured, "Where are you going my dear?"
He didn't say it loud enough for anyone to hear; some music was just meant for his own ears. Not all creations needed to be displayed so gaudily.
The beautiful of Venice didn't understand this. Those moving statues, with the features they had, would often flaunt them. The Internet had ruined art. Now, art was dying, music was fading, and it took the truly courageous, those with iron wills, to bring back and resurrect the painful crafts once more.
Without pain there couldn't be creativity. Without determination, beauty would be forgotten.
He followed after Fiorella, whistling beneath his breath, strolling along through the gathering crowds who were preparing for the rest of the night's festival.
He was in no rush.
One couldn't rush such endeavors.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adele glanced around the large, nearly empty theater. This was the widest building she had yet to see in Venice. There were nearly five hundred seats, facing a small wooden stage, with a red curtain pulled back on either side and tied with a crimson sash like two bathrobes.
There, in the front row, she spotted a police officer waiting for them, standing by the seats.
Reclined in the cushioned chairs, three girls were glancing nervously at each other, whispering, and then turning sharply as the sound of Adele and John's footsteps reached their ears. The police officer nodded once, gesturing at the agents. Adele stepped down the walkway, leading to the VIP seats facing the empty stage.
Her footsteps, in the acoustics of the room, echoed in a strange, ominous sort of way. She offset the sound by clearing her throat, and murmuring to John, "What was the first victim's name again?"
"Rebekah James," John replied. "She was the American."
"I remember that."
"I don't know what you remember. Say, that underwear model of yours, is he going to follow through on that phone?"
Adele frowned at John, continuing towards where the nervous girls were waiting. "He's not an underwear model. And yes, Agent Leoni is excellent at his job. He'll be able to tell us if Lorraine's phone has anything about that strange and secret lover she was going off to meet."
"We still don't know it was a lover," John said, firmly.
"Oh, well maybe he was just an underwear model then," Adele said. Before John could offer a rejoinder, they reached the first row of seats, and Adele nodded in gratitude towards the stationed officer, who moved off to the side, giving them space.
Adele cleared her throat, glancing at the three women who were sitting uneasily in the otherwise expensive chairs.
None of them could have been much older than mid-twenties.
"Can we go yet?" said the woman closest to Adele, her one hand gripping the seat rest, and twisting at the felt. "We've been here for hours," she said.
"If I'm correct, you've only been here for thirty minutes," Adele murmured, softly. "My name is Adele Sharp; this is John Renee. We're with DGSI."
The middle girl glanced at both of them, shaking her head. "DGSI?" She said in an American accent. "What's that?"
"French FBI," Adele replied, and then pressed, "I don't mean to take up much of your time, and I'll make this as brief as possible. I'm sure you know, I'm here about Rebekah."
The moment she said the name, all three girls reacted.
The quiet one, who hadn't yet spoken, furthest from Adele, stared at her hands, hunching her shoulders, her bangs draping past her face to shield her eyes.
The girl who'd spoken loudest and first, closest to Adele, let out a soft little sob. The one with the American accent, looked like she'd stepped on a nail, her face twisting in pain, and she glanced off, blinking, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," Adele said, delicately.
"I don't want to be here anymore," said the American. "Please, we just want to go home. Everything is ruined. This whole festival was a terrible idea."
Adele nodded sympathetically. "You can leave after just a couple of questions. Look, I just need you to tell me about your friend. Anything you might have seen, anything that stood out."
The first girl, with a loud voice said, "We had only just arrived.”
"You were only here one night with Rebekah?"
"Yes," said the first girl crossing her arms over a pink sweater with a small, stenciled heart over the sleeves. "We were celebrating. She had signed a contract with J.P Azienda. You know who that is?"
"No," Adele said.
"Yes," John said. “The fashion studio. I love their commercials.”
Adele shot John a long look, then glanced back at the girls. "So you were here to celebrate."
"Yes. All of us go to a school in California. You know where that is?"
Adele blinked, unsure whether the girl was being sarcastic or not. She looked sincere enough, though, so Adele nodded slowly. "Yes, I know where California is."
"Yes, well, we came here for the week. We were going to be here for the festival. We were excited, Rebekah most of all."
The girl on the far end, whose hair was still hiding her face, began to shake once more, sobbing, her shoulders trembling. Adele felt a jolt of sympathy, and in a gentle tone, murmured, "All right, and then she got separated from you? What happened?”
"Not separated," said the American girl. "She went off on her own; she wanted to ride one of the gondolas. The rest of us were too tired from the airplane. She was always the most energetic of us. It was one of the reasons she got hired so quickly. She was only twenty-five.”
"It's very rare for someone so young to be hired by J.P. Azienda. They're unique in that way. They don't just prey on teenagers and the like. They actually look for talent."
At this, all three of the girls nodded their heads. Even the one who was still shaking in the corner.
"All right, so she went off on her own. Does she know anyone else in the city?"
"No." The American girl shook her head. Adele glanced towards the third woman who was still shaking.
The loud one said, "She doesn't know anyone else. None of us do. We haven't been to Venice before. It was going to be our first time. And now, I never want to come back. Please, we just want to leave. They've been keeping us here for so long."
Adele sighed. "I am very sorry. Just another question. Is there a chance that your friend was going off to see a boy? Anyone like that?”
The American girl blanched at this, and the first one said, "Definitely not. She had a boyfriend back in California. They loved each other. There was no way she cheated on him. Why, are you saying she did?"
Adele quickly shook her head. "No, I'm just exploring all options."
John had moved around the front of the chairs and now he sat on the edge of the stage, facing the girl who hadn't looked up yet. He crossed his arms, frowning slightly, and clearing his throat as if to catch her attention.
Everyone else fell silent for a moment, looking towards the large Frenchman. He cleared his throat again, a bit more emphatically this time, but still the girl in question kept her head ducked, her bangs shielding her eyes.
At last, John said, loudly, "Excuse me, young lady!"
She looked up now, tears streaking her face, her eyes baggy and red. She looked like she might have been the youngest of the group.
“What's your name?” John said.
The girl coughed and then murmured, “
Izzie.”
“Right, Izzie, good to meet you. What can you tell me about your whereabouts on the first night of the festival?" John said, firmly.
The girls all looked stunned for a moment, considering the implications of the question while staring at Renee. Adele's brow flickered into a frown. And then, at once, they all began to talk the same time.
"Never, I wouldn't—"
"—We were all in the same room. All of us."
"—Talking about the ball. Talking about boys."
"—We were there. We didn't see anything."
John frowned even more deeply. He glanced at Adele and back at the girls. "One at a time please. Where were you that night?” He spoke a little bit more firmly now, his scowl deepening.
The girls all seemed to sense they were now being questioned in a different manner. The American was crying now too. Izzie sniffled, and, in a shaky voice, said, "We were trying to get some sleep. We just got in on the flight. None of us saw her, sir. I promise. None of us saw her. I wish I had. I wish I'd gone with her."
John didn't seem moved by the tears, though. He said, even more firmly, “You were sleeping? Can anyone else verify that?”
Adele, though, had heard enough. She cleared her throat, and stepped next to John, placing a hand back against his leg, as if to withhold him. "What my partner means to say," she said, softly, "is there anyone else who might have known where Rebekah went? Anyone who might've seen where she'd gone?"
Each of the girls was shaking their heads now, though. The first one was saying, even more insistently now, "I'm too tired. Please, let me go. We don't know anything. We didn't see anything. Please, that's your job."
John looked ready to question even further, still scowling, but again, Adele tapped a hand against his leg, and said, delicately, "I'm very sorry for your loss; the police over there will escort you back to your hotel. If you can think of anything, please, contact me." She pulled out a business card, handing it to the first girl, and watching as she shakily put it in her pocket. The three girls, with an air of extreme relief, slowly rose from the chairs, turning away from the theater.