Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine)

by Blake Pierce

  “Drina!” she screamed again.

  But Drina would have to park, first. In the sparsely available spots outside the building. She'd have to then reach the buzzers. Enter the code. Take the stairs... Reach the door.

  Far, far too late.

  The man in the mask descended on her. She tried to bolt past him, but fingers caught her curls, yanking, hard. Her head snapped back in pain, her chin angled up, her neck exposed.

  She tried to yell again, but the man jerked her hair again and she let loose a sob of pain instead.

  The pale, inexpressive mask stared down at her as the man's hand whipped forward, and a blade flashed in the dimming light.

  She could still hear the chug of her roommate's moped before she died.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The smell of flowers wafted on the air, intermingling with the overbearing scent of the canal behind him. John had given the waterway a wide berth as he'd strolled to this particular outdoor stall. He glanced up at the title of the small, river-side shop, and double checked the list he'd been provided.

  Marotta Flowers.

  He glanced at the stall once more. The same name painted in curving, flowing green and pink and purple letters, matching the wares displayed beneath the small umbrella. An older woman was sitting on a small stool, smiling up at John and displaying a row of pearly whites with more gaps than teeth.

  “Flowers?” the woman said in English.

  “No thank you,” John replied, tiring once again of the foreign language. He had to resign himself to the inevitability of it though, especially given the tourist nature of this case.

  “Are you Margherita Marotta,” he asked, consulting his list of festival employees again.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Flowers?”

  John frowned. “No, thank you. I had a couple of questions. I was sent to you by Mr. Fazio.” He waved a hand across the canal towards the edge of a bridge where a man was walking along a thin wire from the middle of the bridge to a boat tied off at the dock. Crowds were watching, clapping. The man made a big show of almost losing his balance, before doing a front flip, and landing on the bouncing wire.

  He spread his arms and bowed, still over the canal and everyone clapped again.

  “Damn fool,” John muttered. He glanced back at Mrs. Marotta. “Fazio said you were having trouble recently with one of the festival employees. Is this true?”

  “Flowers?”

  John nearly bit his tongue.

  “No, flowers. Are you having trouble with an employee, Mrs. Marotta?”

  She winced, shaking her head apologetically and shrugging.

  John resisted the urge to scream. His hand hesitated, nearly moving towards his phone, but then he froze. He refused to do it. He simply wouldn't. Christopher Leoni might have been willing to translate, but John didn't need anything from that underwear model. He'd been working cases long before that toothpaste commercial had shown up on his doorstep. He could still remember the last case they'd worked together. The man had nearly snapped his ankle repelling from a helicopter onto a moving train because of a faulty harness.

  “Amateur,” John muttered. “Mrs. Moratta,” he said, slowly, pulling up his phone and shifting to Google translate. He pressed French for the first box, and then Italian for the second. He cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone. “Trouble with an employee.”

  He waited for a moment... Then, words appeared in the second box... He frowned. The words were in English, not Italian. He gritted his teeth.

  Now, Mrs. Moratta was watching his hands. She leaned in, peering at his phone.

  “French?” she said, suddenly, spotting the box over his thumb.

  John's heart skipped. “Yes,” he said, quickly, in the best language ever invented. “Yes, please. Do you speak French?”

  She smiled at him, nodding. “Yes, a bit, yes.” She had an accent, but still, John had never heard anything so clear and sweet.

  He resisted the urge to lean down and kiss her. “I'll buy flowers,” he said, gratitude welling in his chest. “As many flowers as you'd like. Just first, I need to know,” he said, slowing down a bit and enunciating precisely, “Fazio over there, the one playing fast and loose with the canal—he mentioned you'd been having trouble with one of the festival employees. Is that true?”

  Mrs. Moratta leaned back, folding her arms over her stomach, smiling at John. “Flowers?” she said in French.

  He nearly yelled, but then, his eyes narrowed at the shrewd look in the woman's eyes.

  “Alright,” he muttered. “Have it your way.” He pulled his wallet out, peeling off a crisp hundred euro note—his entire spend for the day. “How many flowers will that get me?”

  She beamed at him, pulled out two red roses and handed them to him.

  “Fifty per flower,” he muttered. “Steep.” For a moment, John considered the flowers, wondering if perhaps he could give them to Adele... Even as he thought it, though, he snorted and shook his head. She'd just spent a month ignoring him. No sense tossing more ammunition on to her side of the line... Then again, Adele was anything but petty. Not where important things were concerned. He sighed softly, returning his attention to the florist who was speaking again.

  “For the flowers and information,” she said, in French. “Yes... I've had some trouble. Normally, the stalls are opened by the festival. But last few days I've had to open myself. No help with the flowers. No help with the stand.” She shook her head, wagging a finger impatiently. “Not good,” she said in English.

  “No, not good,” John replied.

  “So one of the employees just ditched? Know his name by any chance?”

  “I know more than that,” she said, smiling widely. “Flowers?”

  John pointed a finger at her. “I like you, lady, but don't push it or I'll take my money back and chuck your bloody flowers in the canal.”

  She frowned a bit now but seemed to decide the large Frenchman was being serious. Which he was.

  “Normally,” she said, treading the words carefully, picking them out with a frown of concentration as she translated them in her mind. “Little Jacopo.”

  “Who's that?”

  “No little now,” she said, shaking her head. “Use to be. But now just Jacopo Siciliano.”

  The name slid off her tongue twice as fast and comfortable as the rest of the words in French.

  “I see. Any idea why Little Jacopo has been missing work?”

  The woman winced, shaking her head. But it wasn't denying knowledge, rather it seemed a commiseration. “Poor Jacopo,” she said. “His heart bread.”

  “His heart bread?” John said, frowning.

  “No. Sorry. Break. His heart break.” she nodded once.

  “Someone broke up with Little Jacopo? That's why he's skipping work?”

  She nodded happily.

  “Happen to have an address for Little Jacopo?”

  “He young,” she said. “No. She is young.”

  “She? The girlfriend.”

  The woman nodded, her eyes widening in the excited and scandalized way that only florists of a certain age could manage.

  “Oh... So Little Jacopo was dating a much younger woman, is that what you're saying?”

  She smiled again, nodding, tapping her nose. “Flowers?”

  “Keep the rest of your flowers, lady. Thanks.” John poked the roses into his jacket pocket. “How about an address?” he said, trying again.

  She sighed, glancing at the money in her hand and the flowers as if wondering if she might be able to press further. But then, she conceded and said, “Yes. 13 Calle Basego.”

  John was already moving, glancing at his phone and nodding his thanks. He hastily typed in the address, following the purple line, and frowning as he began to move.

  ***

  Little Jacopo Siciliano only lived about a ten-minute jog from the florist stand. John approached the apartment, wedged between two others, all of them tan, all of them at least four floor
s and all of them with even smaller alleys than the first one he'd attempted to enter.

  John reached the front door, scanning the names on the buzzers. Siciliano was the third one up.

  “There we go,” John muttered to himself.

  He glanced over his shoulder, towards the canal behind him, and then eyed a gathering of small children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk with multi-colored chalk. “Might wanna stand back,” he said, nodding knowingly at the kids.

  They ignored him completely.

  He reached out, pressing the buzzer with Siciliano's name on it, then waited.

  To his surprise, it buzzed nearly instantly. No voice, no questions, just a buzz. The door clicked open and, frowning to himself, John pushed into the building.

  He wished he'd taken the time to look up more about Jacopo Siciliano... Surely the old lady would have mentioned if the man had a criminal record, wouldn't she have? Besides, how dangerous could someone named Little Jacopo really be?

  John took the stairs up to the second landing, pausing outside the door marked with the big silver numeral 3.

  He hesitated briefly, wondering exactly what sort of posture he ought to go for. Contain and control...

  He nodded to himself, that would have to do. Leave the schmoozing to Adele. Sometimes even one trick ponies could win a race.

  He cleared his throat, raised his large fist and then, in a booming voice, bellowed, “Jacopo Siciliano! DGSI! Open up!”

  He pounded his hand hard against the doorway. And then, stepped back, one hand darting to his weapon, his eyes fixed on the doorway as he scowled.

  No answer.

  John frowned. The man had been quick enough to buzz him in, but now wasn't responding. He tried again, pounding his hand against the frame once more. “Jacopo Siciliano!” He yelled. “Open up! DGSI!”

  Perhaps he wasn't yelling loud enough. He inhaled deeply, preparing for the best bellow yet...

  And then, the door swung open fast and a large form came barreling out. A thick shoulder, like from an American linebacker, caught him in the chest and sent John reeling backwards. He slammed into the opposite door, watching a large blur burst down the stairs, racing.

  John cursed... Little indeed. The man had to be as large as he was.

  “Stop!” John yelled.

  But Jacopo, perhaps, predictably at this point, didn't. He slammed into the door at the base of the stairs, tearing out into the streets.

  John growled, keeping his gun holstered and breaking into a sprint himself.

  “Stop!” he yelled.

  Jacopo yelled something in Italian over his shoulder.

  John supposed now wasn't the time to request for French. He continued chasing as Little Jacopo, who looked more like a giant Jacopo bolted in one large leap over the chalk outline of the hopscotch. A couple of the kids chucked chalk at his back, but the absent festival employee kept running.

  “Stop!” John tried again. “You stupid lump! Stop!”

  Jacopo was now making his way to a bridge, heading towards the angled structure. By now, though, the large man was wheezing, gasping as he did.

  John, not for the first time, felt a flash of gratitude he'd finally decided to pick up running over the summer.

  “Don't move!” John tried again.

  Jacopo, winded now, spun around, fists raised. The man looked a bit like a cross between a grizzly bear and an oncoming train.

  John's eyes narrowed. Jacopo's thick fists danced beneath his chin as he stood gasping at the front of the bridge, trying to regain his deflated breath.

  “Bitch!” Jacopo said. A word that needed no translation.

  John lowered his head, his chest still aching from where Jacopo had slammed into it. Instead of swinging a punch, John kept his head tucked and dove hard.

  Jacopo had positioned himself in just such a way so his back was to the railing of the canal. John had noticed the posture. Perhaps the man had thought with water to his back, he'd be safe.

  But if there was one thing John hated more than water, more than Venice's endless canals, it was being slammed in the chest by a suspect.

  And so he collided with Jacopo, grunting as he did, feeling a lancing pain behind his ear as a fist collided and then, the two of them with shouts, toppled over the railing into the canal.

  A mighty splash, followed by a mouthful of horrible-tasting water. John spluttered and kicked, dragging desperately at the large bean-bag who he'd tackled. For a moment, images flashes across his mind. John went stiff, like a plank of wood. His ears echoed with machine-gun fire, the shouts of men, and the sound of explosions. The heat of sand against his cheeks, the lapping of saltwater against a grainy shore. He blinked, shaking his head in the water, splashing it across his cheeks as he growled.

  Even still, as he focused, forcing himself to snap out of it, the images and memories still played across his mind's eye. He heard the screams of his friends, the sound of shrapnel ripping through—

  John clenched his teeth until a tooth hurt, gasping heavily now, treading water.

  Jacopo, though, wasn't giving him a moment to recover. Instead, the large Venetian was kicking at John, hard, trying to shove him under. For a moment, they tangled, splashing around in the frothing water, neither speaking, both gasping and grunting in fury and frustration. John hated swimming—but even pilots had to go through basic training, so he could passably float. The memories were dull aches now, still resounding in his ears and playing across his mind's eye.

  Jacopo kicked again and John kicked just to maintain his head above water. He was anything but a strong swimmer, and with the muscle mass he had, even floating was often optional.

  Still, he wasn't about to drown because of a man named Little Jacopo. He'd never hear the end of it from Adele. Besides, John wasn't about to let a little bout of PTSD derail him now. So he reached out and gripped the man's throat, hard.

  Jacopo began to wheeze, trying to kick away and swim, but John's thumb and forefinger pressed until the man was gasping desperately. A second longer, and the big guy went limp, unconscious.

  Growling to himself now, hefting the limp form of the large festival worker, John kicked, desperately, moving towards the lowest dock at a slow, steady pace. Adele might have swum in high school, but John had survived in high school.

  And this time would be no different.

  He kicked a bit more, floating with the current, and dragging his suspect along behind him, using the man's own momentum to float them both back towards safety.

  God, how he hated Venice.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Adele now found herself at an Italian precinct. She'd called in backup in the form of Agent Christopher Leoni who sat across from her.

  Adele frowned in frustration, feeling the weight of the task before her creasing her brow in a frown. The expression was mirrored by Agent Leoni across the table. The handsome Italian was shaking his head, his lips moving silently as he read the names on the list in front of him. Every couple of moments, Adele would glance at her own list, her eyes searching the various columns of information, before returning to Christopher and watching him to see if he was faring any better.

  At least the precinct was well illuminated.

  "Anything?" Adele said.

  "I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to be finding," he replied.

  Adele shrugged helplessly. "Potential victims. Where the killer might strike next."

  Agent Leoni sighed softly, moving his finger along the names again. "I can't help but notice," he said softly, "we don't have a date of birth for any of these.”

  Adele winced. This had become readily apparent on her first read-through of the list, and one of the reasons she'd asked for Leoni's help. She had been stuck for the last couple of hours trying to find a clue hidden somewhere in the list. But the names were often repeated by the ticket purchaser, and there was no way to tell how old the guests on the ballroom list were. Not only that, but the information contained didn't even tell whe
re the guests were from. Tourist or Venetian, they were all listed the same. Adele could pick out a name here or there, judging by the familiarity of the region, but even this didn't help. There had to be at least two hundred names on the list that could potentially be tourists.

  "I don't know what to do next," she murmured.

  "Where's John?"

  "Tracking another lead."

  "Have you thought of running the names through any database?"

  "I could, but something like that, with this many names would take hours. Plus, it doesn't help with the sections of guests who had tickets purchased for them."

  Leoni sighed softly, which, for the good-natured, quiet man was akin to a growl of frustration. "Did you think of finding who might have access to the list? Try to find the culprit rather than the victim?"

  Adele nodded. "Already did it. The vendors, employees, and participants at the ball are in the hundreds too."

  Both of them leaned back, slumping in their chairs. Agent Leoni scratched at his chin, and finally put a hand over the list, as if trying to hide it from view. He sighed softly, and then with the air of a man changing the subject he said, "This is near where I live you know."

  Grateful for the opportunity to look away from the list herself, Adele watched Christopher. "In Venice? I didn't know that."

  "No, I'm about thirty minutes north of here. In Treviso."

  "I've never been actually. I hear it's nice."

  "Do you think the killer is targeting people outside of Venice? Or Italy? In the former case, our list of suspects is much larger."

  Adele frowned at this horrible thought, but before she could reply, there was a sudden banging sound on the interrogation room door they had borrowed.

  Adele heard yelling voices, growling, and she spun around, staring as the door was flung open.

  A large man with blunt features, his hands cuffed behind him was shoved unceremoniously into the room. Behind him, the tall, lanky frame of Agent John Renee strolled in after, his bangs damp, his clothing, similarly, seeming wet. Adele could even hear his shoes squish as he marched the equally waterlogged civilian in front of him. The door slammed shut behind John.