by Blake Pierce
Leoni was already moving towards the gondola they'd rented. As he brushed past Adele he said, “Which hotel was it?”
“The Fauna Hotel.”
“That's not far from here. We can get there by the canal.”
Adele glanced to John, whose face was greenish again. She patted him consolingly on the arm and began to help Leoni untie their vessel.
As she did, she considered their options. Mr. Krupp was involved. He had to be—too many connections, too many little threads leading back to him. He'd dated the third victim in secret. The second victim was also seeing someone in secret—possibly the same man. Why all the secrecy? Just a little Venetian romance? Forbidden love? Or could it be something more sinister? Could he be the killer? Circumstantial evidence wasn't enough to indict. But it was enough to arrest.
She could only hope he was at his hotel, rather than preparing for another kill.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Adele heard the clap of footsteps on the stairs as, flanked by her two colleagues, she hurried up the final flight to the penthouse of the Venetian hotel. The buildings in Venice weren't as tall as she was accustomed to, neither were the hotels, and so after six brisk flights, they were already stepping into the hall towards the door at the far end.
“This one?” Leoni said quickly, his voice low.
John had his weapon in hand, his shoulders set as he moved quickly down the hall, framing the door across from them.
Adele nodded quickly. “Concierge said East penthouse. That's the one.” She also spoke soft, low, but her voice strained with a sudden spurt of adrenaline.
“And he's here, we're sure?” John murmured back.
Adele shook her head. “Concierge seems to think so. Mr. Krupp hasn't left his room. Remember, he's a suspect, not a killer.”
“Not that we know of,” Leoni said.
“Yet,” John added.
Agent Renee seemed pleased to once more have his feet on solid ground and he took the lead, hurrying towards the Eastern penthouse. The long windows, tinged with red and green swirls overlooked the canal and the city, staring down at the hundred little islands of the Venetian lagoon. For a moment, Adele was distracted by the view alone, but then, Agent Leoni stepped past her and she was jarred back into focus, her eyes fixed on the sealed door at the end of the long hall.
John reached the door first, large fist raised, gun in his other hand. He pounded his hand on the door. “DGSI!” he called. “Open up!”
Leoni's back pressed to the opposite side of the door frame and Adele had stepped against the hallway's wall, out of the line of potential fire from the penthouse doorway itself.
“No room service!” A voice shouted back in German. “Go away!”
“Law enforcement!” Adele called, in the same language. “Open up!”
She heard a pause, and then a string of German curse words. “Go away!” the voice yelled. “I'm busy!”
John glanced at Adele and she nodded again. He pounded his fist against the door a third time. Adele heard the sound of an exhausted sigh and a rattling sound, then the door opened briefly. A brass chain secured it shut, and, judging by the sound, Adele guessed he'd just placed it.
A thick eyebrow arched over an intelligent and annoyed eye staring out into the hall. “What?” the man demanded.
But before he could proceed, Agent Renee—doing Agent Renee things—slammed the bulk of his form against the door, snapping the brass chain easily and sending the man inside tumbling back with a howl.
Adele allowed herself a moment of frustration, wondering if John was trying to get Foucault to come down on them both. Still, she supposed what the Executive didn't know couldn't hurt him. Leoni stared, blinking and giving a little sniff of surprise. Adele shrugged, then followed her partner quickly into the penthouse of the Venetian hotel. The room was twice the size of Lorraine Strasser's. The walls were windows, again making use of the views of the city and the canal. She spotted a small in-room bar, with a row of bottles on multiple shelves.
The bed frame seemed to hover off the ground as if levitated by magnets. The room itself smelled of sweat and room service. And Adele spotted a small trolley with the remains of what looked like an expensive steak.
The man in question was cursing and spluttering, wearing a woolly white bathrobe as he pushed back to his feet, grumbling in frustration and murmuring dark words in German. He pushed one hand off the ceramic bowl of an in-suite Jacuzzi in the center of the room itself. A couple of blue towels were bunched up, damp and abandoned on the floor. The room, Adele realized a second later, also smelled of weed.
She fixed her eyes on the man she recognized from his file as Paul Krupp.
Still blustering and growling, he finally regained his feet, jabbing a quivering finger in Agent Renee's direction and uttering a series of words that John—thankfully—couldn't understand.
“What's he saying?” John muttered.
“He's politely wondering why you slammed his door into his chin,” Adele replied in French, quiet and allowing interpretive license.
Paul Krupp was finally settled, his finger still pointing at John, his jaw jutting defiantly. The German millionaire had a weak chin with bristles. His eyes were lovely, though, like twin black opals, reflecting a strange amalgamation of blues and orange, as if the colors were mismatched, or perhaps he was wearing contacts.
He was average height and, judging by the proportions of his fluffy white bathrobe, of average build.
He wasn't ugly, as the uncharitable suggestion of the hostess at Ricardo's had implied, but judging by the silver in his hair and his average features, something a bit more akin to personality or bank account was likely what had attracted someone so young and beautiful as Fiorella Lettiere.
“I'm sorry for the intrusion,” Adele tried, hoping to at least correct some of the swirling ill will.
Krupp touched gingerly at his chin, turning his glare from John to Adele, who was speaking in his language. “You know German?” he said, his voice much deeper than his physique might have suggested. A smooth, velvety voice, like rich chocolate now that it wasn't shouting through a penthouse door.
“Yes, sir,” she said, quickly. She glanced towards John whose weapon was at his side now, aiming towards the floor. Behind her back, her fingers twitched in a sort of waving motion. Her attention mostly on Krupp, she did note John react to her movement and slowly holster his weapon.
Krupp, to his credit, didn't exude fear as most might at having their room intruded by three armed persons. Instead, he seemed angry, his eyes flashing.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded in that rich, smooth voice of his.
“Paul Krupp, yes?” Adele asked.
He blinked. “What is this about?”
“We have some questions about your whereabouts last night,” Adele said quickly, standing awkwardly in the doorway that her partner had busted.
“What about last night?” he demanded.
“Were you in contact with Lorraine Strasser?”
She watched his reaction firmly. But the man didn't even blink at the name. His face remained impassive, almost reptilian. Not even a blink. The sort of face used to hiding emotions. Perhaps a banker, or a lawyer, or a poker player.
“I don't know that name,” he said, stiffly. “But I do believe you need to speak with my lawyer.”
Adele frowned. “She was a German too.”
“No clue who that is.” Again, the man didn't even blink. But his tone was too dead, now—too impassive. He'd just been hit by a door; he'd been furious seconds before. Now, though, he seemed calm, cool, entirely indifferent. But the absence of an emotion was just as telling as the presence of one.
He had shifted seamlessly into a defensive mode, betraying nothing...
“Are you sure?” Adele said. “I can show you a picture.”
“I don't need a picture. I don't know these women.”
“You were seen with one of them, last night. You paid for her meal,
in fact. And now she's dead.”
At this, the man's face flickered. A frown creased his brow, and he glanced sharply towards Agent Leoni who was also watching him.
“Dead?” He swallowed once, his eyes fluttering, like a camera lens, adjusting, calculating and making a decision. At last, he shrugged. “I wish I could help you, agents. I don't know what you mean. You need to speak with my lawyer.
Adele gritted her teeth, taking her turn for frustration now. She pulled handcuffs from her waist, approaching the middle-aged man. “Turn around,” she said, firmly. “Paul Krupp, you're under arrest.”
***
The Italian precinct North of Venice smelled like Executive Foucault's office used to—expensive cigars mixed with cheap cigarettes covered by air freshener. Even the interrogation room they found themselves in, which Leoni said carried the more friendly title of “interview room” at this particular precinct, had the stale odor wafting on the air, likely introduced by the black vent set just below an ancient camera which looked older than Adele.
Her focus though remained on Paul Krupp. The German millionaire took a posture she was long familiar with. Wearing his white bathrobe and leaning in his folding chair, he made it seem like a king on his throne. All that was missing was his scepter and armed guards.
Though the latter had already been phoned and would be arriving soon enough from a local, high-end law firm Leoni warned them about.
Now, though, they had a brief window to themselves before the lawyer arrived.
Adele cleared her throat where she sat just off from the suspect. John sat on her side of the table, on the far edge, watching Krupp with hooded eyes. John had a dangerous look in his gaze that unsettled Adele. She knew better than to ask him to wait outside, but the way he sometimes got, especially when young women were concerned was unnerving. The last thing she needed was for Agent Renee to knock out their suspect before the lawyer arrived. They'd be lucky to escape Italy if that happened. Foucault would have both their jobs, especially after his warning at the start of the case.
Thankfully, Leoni—who also seemed a good judge of human nature—had surreptitiously maneuvered to the wall between the suspect and John, leaning against the cold concrete, and watching the scene where he stood.
Krupp kept shooting unnerved glances towards John, but he kept his lips sealed tight, breathing only through his nose, like a child refusing to spit out a marble he was chewing on.
Adele rubbed at her temples briefly, rolling her shoulders. No one spoke in the still room, and she didn't break the silence either.
Instead, she beckoned with her fingers towards Leoni. He approached, handing her three photographs he'd printed for her before entering the room.
One by one, like laying place mats, Adele set the photographs of Rebekah James, Lorraine Strasser and Fiorella Lettiere in front of Mr. Krupp. She watched his eyes as she laid them down and his gaze flitted away from John to acknowledge the photos. He swallowed briefly, staring, but didn't flinch, didn't blink.
The three young women smiled out from their head shots—all of them having aspirations in the theater or modeling had ample photos to choose from.
Adele tapped her fingers above each of the smiling faces staring up at Krupp. Leoni took this cue and leaned in, producing three more photos. He laid them each on their respective counterpart and stepped back.
John's fist tightened where it rested on the table. Krupp actually blinked now, a gasp for anyone besides the poker-faced German.
The three new photos displayed the coroner pictures of the woman's heads—each of them with their necks slit, their eyes closed, their flesh cold.
Adele just watched him, not saying a word, allowing the photos to speak for themselves. Mr. Krupp continued to stare, no longer glancing in John's direction at all. He opened his mouth, briefly, letting out a soft little sigh.
He looked towards the door sharply, all of a sudden, as if willing his lawyer to arrive. Then he looked back towards the photos, blinking now and, by the sound of things, tapping his foot hurriedly against the ground.
Adele crossed her arms, still quiet. Thankfully, Renee also kept his lips sealed, and Leoni satisfied himself with the role of spectator.
She watched Krupp, allowing the sheer weight of the six faces in the room, staring at him, to be pressure enough.
The German looked around, glanced down at the photos and winced again. His facade was crumbling now, whether from guilt or grief, Adele wasn't sure. One way or another, though, it seemed clear he knew the subjects of the photos.
“H—how did it happen?” he said at last, breaking the long silence.
Adele took her time, allowing his own words to remain heavy on the air, to stand for themselves. “They were killed by an unknown assailant,” Adele said, softly. She tapped a finger over Fiorella's photo. “She was with you last night.” She tapped another finger over Loraine's lifeless photo. “She was also seeing someone in the city...”
This last part was a hunch alone—she had nothing to tie Lorraine Strasser's secret boyfriend to Krupp save the connection of the masquerade ball. And also their deaths...
For a moment, the words remained heavy on the air, right where Krupp had placed his own, but then, heaving a sigh as if collapsing under the pressure of it all, he exclaimed, “I didn't kill anyone! I—I cared for them! Truly—I did. I was quite fond of both Lorraine and Fiorella!”
Adele blinked, refusing to betray the sudden jolt of excitement.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Apparently, the pressure of three murders was too much to allow the German millionaire to wait for his lawyer. Adele knew men like this were used to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it—understandable perhaps, given how money opened doors for everyone with a heartbeat—and were not used to waiting for anything. Least of all lawyers, or peace of mind.
But now, peace of mind was distant at best, chased away by the sightless gaze of three dead women.
“So you admit to knowing both of them?” Adele said, carefully, speaking German.
John was frowning, likely only catching a word or two of his non-native tongue. Leoni knew German perfectly but remained silent.
“We were acquaintances, yes,” Krupp said, delicately, sniffing once and shrugging. “Lorraine and Fiora were friends—that's all. To see them like this...” He wrinkled his nose and looked away. “Please—I don't want to look at them. Such a shame.”
“You don't seem too broken up about it,” Adele said, softly.
Krupp looked back at her, frowning. “Would you like me to cry? I could do that for you. But I'm being honest, agent. They were friends... Acquaintances. Temporary companions, nothing more.”
“Were you sleeping with them?” Adele said without batting an eyelid. “I can't help but notice they're quite young... You're what, forty-three?” She knew the actual age but wanted to knock him off guard even further.
“Age is a number,” he spat back. “It's not like they didn't have fun too.”
“So is that a yes? Were you sleeping with them?”
Krupp muttered beneath his breath for a moment, glancing to the door again as if looking for an exit now. “Move the pictures,” he said through gritted teeth. Then, adding, as if it took all his willpower to do so, “please.”
Adele nodded to Leoni, who stepped in, carefully, respectfully, placing each photo on top of each other, and then lifting the stack, stepping back to lean against the wall once more.
Krupp stared pointedly away from where the Italian reclined.
“I noticed when I was going through your records,” Adele said, quietly, “That you have a wife back in Berlin. Does she know about your... acquaintances?”
Krupp's demeanor changed all at once, the blood practically draining from his face to match the coroner photos. “You—you didn't tell her, did you?” he said, his voice straining. “I—hang on. Don't—she doesn't need to know. I didn't kill anyone! I didn't! I couldn't. Why would I? Two gorgeous women in Venic
e that let me sleep with them whenever I wanted in exchange for a few small gifts and some meals?”
Adele refused to wrinkle her nose. “So you were sleeping with them? That's how you saw them, then, is it? As high-end hookers? Did they see it the same way?”
Krupp snorted. “Like you said, they were young. They wanted some fun just as much as me. I'm not the bad guy here.”
“Unless you killed them.”
“I didn't.”
Adele's eyes narrowed. “I'm not sure I believe you.”
Krupp's lips pressed into a thin line again, but this time in a sort of expression of pain. He closed his eyes for a second, gathering himself. Then, in a calmer voice he said, carefully, “I come to Venice for the festival... It's a sort of break—a relief from my life back in Berlin. It's stressful, doing what I do. My wife—as you've so kindly brought up—doesn't...” He swallowed. “Doesn't appreciate the needs a man like me has.”
Adele tried not to gag. “Needs? Is that what it is? So you come here from Germany every year for the festival to sleep with young women, is that right? Luring them with money?”
He glared at her. “I don't kill anyone.”
Adele pointed back towards the photo stack in Leoni's hand. “And what about Rebekah James? Did you know her too?”
“That third photo?” he said, shaking his head quickly.
Leoni leaned in with the head-shot of the pretty American, holding it in front of Krupp's face. The German man barely glanced at it before shrugging and shaking his head. “Don't know her—never met her.”
“Look longer,” Adele said. “And try to be more convincing.” She could feel her own temper rising at the cavalier way in which Krupp was simply dismissing these two women who he'd wined and dined for one purpose only. She highly doubted either of them knew about Mrs. Krupp, or the other lover in Venice. She wanted it to be Krupp—she wanted him to be guilty.
But as he looked longer at the photo of Rebekah, again there was no recognition on his face. He shrugged. “No clue who that is,” he said, firmly.