by Blake Pierce
She winced against the invasion of vulnerability, and doubled down on the teasing, if only to cover the wound of affection with a veneer of mockery.
“Hey! John! You're shaking the foundation. Get up!”
The snoring paused for a moment, followed by a couple of grunts, then another couple of words that caused Leoni's eyebrows to rise.
“Is that any way to speak to a lady?” Adele replied.
“I wasn't speaking to Leoni,” John's voice grunted from beneath his pillows.
“Funny. Leoni's standing right next to me.”
Another grunt.
“Hey, we have a lead,” Adele said, feeling by now that all sense of awkwardness had faded in the face of mild amusement and major annoyance.
John remained bundled up, pulling the comforter over his head, even tighter, it seemed to hold back the sound of her voice.
Adele sighed, but then stalked over, muttering darkly and poking at John's ribs with a sharp finger. Still no response. She reached out, yanked the pillow and tossed it across the room, before turning and heading back down the hall. “Gonna grab a shower,” she said to Leoni. “Let's leave in ten.”
The Italian agent flicked an amused glanced towards where John was trying to fling his blankets after Adele, but then flashed a quick thumbs up, returning his attention to his phone.
For Adele, some of her own amusement faded. She knew what came next would be crucial. Had the roommate seen anything about the killer? Had she perhaps been there in time to catch the murder?
Adele shivered at the thought, but pushed into the bathroom door, frowning as she did.
They were quickly running out of leads. Something had to stick, and soon, or the killer's rampage had only just begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A small, blue twostory just north of Venice welcomed the three agents as they exited Leoni's tinted-windowed sedan. Adele hesitated, frowning towards the small, glass-enclosed entry room. Three figures were seated around a thick, wooden table, their eyes staring unblinking through the windows, watching the approaching agents.
“Guess we're not invited inside,” Adele murmured, approaching the porch-enclosure.
John, next to her, who still hadn't quite woken, or smoothed his hair for that matter, took the lead regardless, heading towards the two-story. He didn't bother to knock on the glass door, but instead said, “DGSI.”
Adele recognized Drina Sargese, the roommate of the third victim, sitting between her parents, a blanket thrown over her shoulders, her tanned features fixed in a sort of distant gaze, watching them through the glass.
“May we come in Mr. and Mrs. Sargese?” Agent Leoni called over John.
The parents were both tall, apparent even as they sat in wicker chairs, their eyes set in wrinkle-free skin, despite their age. Adele supposed they might have had some professional help with some of their features. Something was just a bit too symmetrical, too perfect about their appearances. They couldn't have been much younger than forty, given the age of their daughter, but neither of them had a grey hair to be spoken of.
At last, the woman, who was wearing a shawl with braided tassels, beckoned towards them. She had Spanish features, and her eyes lingered on John but then slipped to Adele, and finally landed on Leoni.
One by one, the agents filed through the glass door, into the enclosed porch.
Two empty chairs also face the table. Adele took one, Leoni the other, and John, slow on the uptake was left to sit on a small red, wooden rocking horse, or remain standing. He opted for the latter, leaning against the glass door, shut now, and watching the three Sargeses.
“We were told you'd come an hour ago,” said the woman in nearly perfect French.
Adele blinked, glancing at John, who was still frowning towards the rocking horse. Leoni, who'd been poised to speak first, it seemed, leaned back now, relaxing a bit and glancing towards Adele as if handing a baton.
“Apologies,” she said, quickly. “The drive was longer than we'd thought.”
“Drive? Not from Venice then?” the woman said, continuing in French.
Adele glanced towards Drina Sargese, the daughter, who was still staring off into the distance, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. She returned her attention to the matriarch and spokesperson of the small family.
“No ma'am,” she said, simply. “We don't intend to take up much of your time.” She glanced towards Drina. “But we had a couple of questions, if you can indulge us for a moment.”
The mother turned to her daughter and raised a perfectly stenciled eyebrow. The young woman didn't seem to notice this attention at first, but as all sets of eyes landed on her, she blinked at last, reacting finally, it seemed, to the sheer weight of watching.
She glanced around, spoke softly in Italian to her father, but then looked to Adele. Also in French, nearly as strong as her mother's she said, “I don't know anything...”
Her voice came soft and hoarse, and no sooner had she spoken, she looked away again as if hoping by speaking those words it would expel the agents from among them.
Adele nodded slowly, wondering just how direct she could be. Drina's fingers, which gripped the hem of the blanket over her shoulders, were trembling slightly. Adele winced and wanted to say something, anything, to assuage the young woman. Instead, though, she went quiet for a moment, allowing the odd silence to stretch.
She knew what it was to stumble upon the body of someone she was close with. Those images never left. Drina had no choice now but to be strong. Hopefully, others would come alongside and make it easier. But sink or swim moments in life were unavoidable.
Adele still wasn't sure if she was treading water herself or submerged entirely.
She blinked and cleared her throat. “I'm very sorry, Drina. If any of this is too taxing, we can come back later.”
“No,” the young woman said, quickly, shaking her head. “No, please. I couldn't bear postponing. No thank you.”
“Alright then,” Adele murmured. “What can you tell me about that night? Anything at all could help.”
“I said, I didn't see anything. Not really.”
“What does not really mean?”
Drina winced, closing her eyes for a moment as if against a sudden headache, or a taxing memory. “Fiora and I were friends,” she said, softly. “Not too close, mind you. Mostly, we lived together for the rent.”
“I told her Venice was no good,” her mother said quickly. “Told her not to spend time with a Venetian. Too many parties, too many festivals. Not enough study.”
Drina frowned towards her mother, muttering something in Italian. This prompted a reaction from the father who scowled and shook a finger at his daughter but didn't speak.
Drina glanced back towards Adele. “Like I said, we weren't that close,” she insisted, not looking to her mother, but clearly directing the words that way.
“Right,” said Adele. “So you didn't see anything that night?”
“I arrived home after work... The door to our unit was open. I thought I might have heard footsteps above me. As I entered the unit, it almost sounded like someone, from a higher floor was passing back down the stairs.” She shivered visibly, shaking her head. “I think the man might have been waiting for me. What if... what if he'd come in after me, too? What if—” Her voice cracked, and her eyes widened in horror.
Her mother and father both reached out, one hand on each shoulder, patting comfortingly. Drina shook again, whispering now, “But no... I didn't see anything. I just... I just entered and then... There on the ground...” She sobbed again, her head jerking down, staring at her lap now.
Adele sighed softly, nodding in a comforting sort of way and waiting a moment, allowing the girl to recover. John began to clear his throat behind her, but Adele glanced back and gave a quick shake of her head.
At last, Drina looked up again of her own volition. She seemed sad to see the agents still sitting there.
“I don't know what else to say,” sh
e whispered. “I don't know anything.”
“You didn't hear anything?” Adele asked.
“Only the footsteps,” she replied.
Adele paused for a moment, considering this. By all accounts, it had been a close thing. Drina had nearly stumbled on the killer. What did that mean, though? Perhaps he wasn't as careful as Adele first thought. Or perhaps he was so precise, he'd planned his attack within a short window, like a bloody heist.
She winced at this comparison and decided to change track.
“I don't want to keep you too long. Just one other, thing, your mother mentioned she opposed Venice...” Adele glanced towards the severe-faced woman who was nodding adamantly, her sculpted lips pressed in a thin line. Adele looked back at Drina. “She mentioned parties, festivals... Were you and Fiorella heading to any party in particular?”
Agent Leoni shifted nearly imperceptibly next to Adele. Drina, though, glanced up, swallowing. “I...” She swallowed. “I... no... No, not really.”
Adele glanced towards the parents, noting the way Mrs. Sargese's shoulders sagged a bit in relief at her daughter's reply.
Adele frowned. “Do you all mind if I take a second with Drina? Alone? There are so many people here, it might be nice for us to have some breathing room.”
Agent Leoni was already rising out of his seat before she'd finished. But Drina's parents were frowning. and her mother was already shaking her head. “Certainly no,” she said. “Our daughter has been through a horrible experience. You can't expect us to—”
“It's fine,” Drina said, quickly. She was watching Adele, a shrewd look in her eyes.
Her mother tried to protest again, but Drina shook her head quickly. “It's fine. I'm fine. Only a couple of minutes. It's fine.”
Her mother sighed. She looked like she wanted to protest more.
Adele interjected before she could, “Truly, only another question or two. It just might be best for everyone if we give your daughter some space.”
The mother looked ready to resist, but then Mr. Sargese rose from his seat, still having spoken nary a word. But he took his wife by the arm, and gestured towards the door, his eyebrows rising. Mrs. Sargese sighed, pulled her arm away from her husband, but then growled and turned, marching back into the house ahead of her husband.
Mr. Sargese looked over his daughter's head, his dark eyes meeting Adele's in a significant tilt.
“We're going to be fine,” Adele murmured.
The father waited still, his hands on his daughter's shoulders as Leoni and John beat a retreat back through the glass door, out onto the lawn. The door creaked as it swung shut, and at last, Mr. Sargese turned, entering the house as well and closing the door, leaving his daughter and Adele on the glass-enclosed porch.
Adele waited for the sound of movement and footsteps to fade, before meeting Drina's searching gaze and saying, “There were no parties you were planning on going to?” She murmured. “None at all?”
Drina licked her lips, half glancing over her shoulder towards the house. But then, in a quiet tone, she murmured. “The Compagnia dei Cielo ball.” She spoke so quietly, Adele had to lean in to hear. “Don't tell my mother,” Drina added, quickly. “She doesn't approve of that sort of thing. Fiora and I were both going. Both excited to go.”
She sobbed now, shaking her head, her eyes scrunching up, her nose bunching. “I guess that's not going to happen now.”
Adele did her best to look consoling, but on the inside, her mind was whirring. Another victim from the same ball. The same masquerade party that would take place that evening. All three victims were connected to it now.
The killer was killing guests going to the masquerade. That much was now obvious, but why? And how was he choosing them? Randomly? Some other method? The guest list was already a no-go.
Still quiet, careful, Adele said, her throat dry all of a sudden, “Were you going alone?”
To her surprise, Drina gave a quick shake of her head. She paused, though, head half tilted as if wondering if she could take back the motion. But then she doubled down and shook her head again. “Not alone, no...” she said, quietly. “My boyfriend lives nearby—he was going to try and get some time off work to come.”
“And Fiorella?” Adele said.
“Fiora was...” Drina frowned, troubled. “Dating someone. Someone much older—she'd hinted as much at least. But I'd never met the man.”
Adele stared. Another secret lover. Just like Lorraine Strasser.
“Do you know his name?”
Drina shook her head adamantly. “No. Fiora was secretive about that sort of thing.” She winced again, breathing quickly all of a sudden as if after a sprint. At last, though, finding a sort of hidden strength, she pressed through the sudden bout of fear, swallowing and speaking, “None of our friends knew who she was seeing. It was this big secret. I think Fiora liked it that way. Liked the attention.”
“When's the last time she saw this mystery man?”
“That night, in fact. She'd gone on a date with him that very night. She'd bragged about it for a week. Apparently, he was very wealthy.” Drina shrugged. “They went to Ricardo's on the Grand Canal. One of the more expensive restaurants in all of Italy. She wouldn't stop talking about it...”
Drina stared off, biting her lip, peering again into the distance through the glass around them.
“Ricardo's?” Adele murmured. “That's where she was for dinner. You're sure?”
Drina shrugged. “That's what she said. Like I said, I don't know who she was with. No one did. I... I'm tired, Agent Sharp. I'm sorry. There's nothing else I know.”
Adele smiled at Drina, nodding quickly and pushing away from the table. “Get some rest. And...” She paused for a moment, one hand pushing back the chair, the other hovering somewhere near where she kept her business cards. At last, she pulled one out, and slid it across the table. “I know how jarring it must be... All of this. And I'm sorry.” Adele winced. “If you need to talk...” She shrugged, tapping a finger against the card.
Drina didn't look up, but at least she didn't push the card away.
Adele nodded one last time, as if settling a matter for herself, and then she turned, pushing back out of the porch and rejoining Leoni and Renee who were waiting for her by the car.
Both of them watched inquisitively as she approached, their eyes fixed on her expression.
“Definitely another attendee of the same ball,” she said, matter-of-factly, frowning as she did. Her feet tapped against the concrete sidewalk, and her hands jammed into her pockets as she rejoined her partners. “But also, apparently Fiorella, like Lorraine, had a mystery guy in the wings. Someone she was seeing on the sly.”
Leoni frowned. “Think our first victim might have also had a secret lover?”
Adele shrugged once. “Worth checking out. Apparently, Fiorella and this mystery boyfriend were at a restaurant called Ricardo's the night she died.”
Leoni whistled softly. “Ricardo's? On the Grand Canal?” He winced, shaking his head. “A very wealthy secret boyfriend in that case.”
John grunted, though, already sliding into the front, driver's seat, even though it was Leoni's car. “Food is food,” he muttered. “Killers are killers. Here,” he clicked his fingers. “Give me the keys.”
Leoni to his credit didn't even roll his eyes. He sighed softly, like a father maintaining patience with a rambunctious child, but then pulled his keys out and handed them to John's hand which was clicking over the top of the sedan.
Then, Leoni slid into the backseat, allowing Adele the front passenger side.
The door had barely closed, before John put the car in motion, squealing away from the curb. As he did, he muttered, “Directions towards Ricardo's?”
“Can't drive the whole way,” Leoni replied from the back. “Parking lot outside Venice. Then have to take a boat.”
“A boat?” John said, sounding scandalized. For a moment, it looked like his cheeks might have tinged green. “A damn b
oat?”
Leoni chuckled. “I mentioned Ricardo's is patronized by the wealthy, yes? Only access is by a boat.”
John muttered darkly. Adele, for her part, stared through the windshield as they headed back towards Venice. Wealthy killers often had more means than others. Wealthy killers might have contacts too. Compagnia dei Cielo was patronized by influential sorts to...
Someone like this secret boyfriend? Someone who used their influence to gain access to a guest list?
She shivered at the thought, frowning now through the windshield as they moved away from the Sargeses’ home and headed in the direction of the last-known location of their most recent victim.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
One home gone, ransacked and raided.
Six left, though. The painter reclined in the bubbling tub in the center of his living room, facing the balcony which overlooked Paris, in his fifth favorite spot... One didn't have the funds to travel, to remain low-key without some source of passive income, and for him, real estate had always made sense. The buildings themselves were like art, after a fashion. And he'd been careful—only ever killing one of his tenants over a dispute about rent. The tenant in question had been drunk at the time and insulted the Painter's eye... Such things now wouldn't have gotten under his pallid skin, but then... He'd been younger then. Police still hadn't found the body.
The Painter reclined in the hot tub, feeling the trail of warm bubbles against his sensitive skin. The lights were off, and the windows filmed with a tint, preventing too much sunlight from stretching into the apartment.
He winced, blinking his one good eye and exhaling slowly towards the ceiling as his head pressed against the back of the porcelain.
It felt nice to lounge, to think.
But his mind kept flitting back to the same thought...
She'd seen his face.
He gritted his teeth in frustration.
She'd seen his face.
She'd seen his face.
Damn it.