Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  The razor moved across one eyebrow, taking away the final remnants of hair. The man hummed along with the saxophone solo pulsing in from the other room and reached for the tape he’d left on the back of the toilet. Still humming, he peeled off a fragment of tape, pressing it to his forehead around the eyebrow and pulling away. He gasped in pleasure at the sheer pain of the sudden removal. He pulled another section of tape and pressed it lower down his face now, over the eye, around the socket. He pulled away again, making sure to catch the final remnants of any fiber of hair from his eyebrow.

  Then, staring at the clear, translucent tape, he moved back to the razor, bringing it up to his next eyebrow. He continued to sway, feeling the breeze against his unclothed form in the still, darkened bathroom.

  The lights were off throughout most of the house, save the pulsing glare from the small screen he kept by the sink. The screen displayed video image of the apartment where Adele Sharp lived.

  The painter glanced down at the apartment again, smiling to himself and humming some more as he reached for the tape again.

  “Soon,” he murmured softly. “Dear, dear friend, very soon…”

  In the background, just above the sound of the pulsing music, he heard the faintest of mewls as if from a cat.

  A frown flickered across his face, and he glanced in frustration toward the open door. No rest for the wicked, he supposed. He looked back into the mirror.

  Of course, he couldn’t introduce himself to Adele first. No—best to let a mutual friend make the introductions. First impressions were hard to shake, and he intended to make a marvelous initial approach. He smiled at the thought, staring at the video feed. Someone was exiting the building. He leaned in, peering at the footage from the camera he’d managed to tap into across the street.

  “Is that…” The man’s eyes narrowed. He recognized that man, wearing a thin white T-shirt and a walrus mustache. He watched as the man left the apartment building, moving up the street and out of sight.

  Curious. Was Adele entertaining friends and family? Why hadn’t he been invited?

  Another mewling sound echoed from down the hall. He gritted his teeth now, not pressing too hard. His teeth, like some of his bones, weren’t the strongest things in his body.

  He frowned, his face collapsing into a glare as he gazed into the mirror, staring into his deep eye sockets, his bony cheeks etched against thin skin. Not nice to exclude your closest friends… Not nice at all.

  He puffed a breath, trying to calm himself, to still the rage suddenly burbling like hot tar from in his chest.

  Not nice at all. He’d have to introduce himself soon… Very soon.

  The thought of what he had planned for tonight prompted him to relax a bit, sighing in relief.

  He ripped the tape away again, wincing in delight at the pain and continuing to hum with the smooth jazz as his naked and bony body continued to sway and dance in the mirror… He trusted his source. Trusted the information.

  She’d served food to the agents after all. A cafeteria worker, she’d said. He hadn’t known when he’d picked her up late at night across from the DGSI. And yet, he’d struck the jackpot. She’d known Adele. Known Adele’s friends.

  Of course, he’d had her company for more than a week now. He’d only intended to keep her for three days, but after the first escape attempt, followed closely by a second, he’d been required to work a bit harder with the cafeteria worker. Some potter’s clay was tougher than others, needed more pressure, more force.

  He paused for a moment, some of the moisture from the dampened razor now trickling down his face. He licked his lips and stared into the mirror.

  He heard another whimpering sound and this time lost it.

  “God damn it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, slamming his bony hand against the mirror and shattering it. He cursed, glaring now at where blood dripped from his knuckles and speckled the porcelain sink. “Damn it,” he repeated, quieter now. The blood poured down his wrist and along his forearm, dripping off his elbow and spattering on the ground, flecking his bare toes.

  “Bitch,” he muttered to himself, growling through clenched teeth.

  He stomped away, leaving his clothing on top of the seat. He marched down the hall, approaching the sealed door with the many locks. The mewling was louder now, more a whimper, really.

  “Shut up!” he screamed. “Shut up, shut up!” He flung his hand toward the white painted door, sending a spray of blood from his injured fingers to dapple the doorway itself. He ripped open the bolts, turned the lock, used the final key, and shoved open the door. He jammed his head into the room, like a gopher emerging in daylight, and screamed, “Shut your damned mouth!”

  A woman sat strapped to a chair. Shivering, gasping, covered in injures of a different variety. No, none of her injuries had come from glass. He preferred other tools.

  The woman’s eyes were sealed shut, bloody, her lips could barely move where she gasped, head tilted in the chair.

  Seven days of torture had a way of limiting one’s awareness.

  “Honestly,” he said, exhaling now, standing naked in the threshold of the door. “I thought you were already dead.”

  The woman whimpered again, shaking, trying to cry, it seemed, but failing to emit a full sound.

  He sighed, staring at her near corpse. Of course, he’d ruined this canvas. Something about his anger was harder to control when at home. It was easier to manage his emotions when he was out and about. He supposed most people had this issue. Manners were best displayed with new company, and the devil inside often was witnessed by the closest friends.

  Not that he considered the cafeteria worker much of a friend. He hadn’t even properly spent time with her. He’d ruined some of the intricate patterns. Ripped more than cut in places.

  He sighed. “Just die already, will you?” he said. “And in the meantime, shut the hell up.”

  He slammed the door, whistling now with the saxophone music coming from the kitchen and stomping back in the direction of the bathroom to finish up. She didn’t have long for this world. Maybe an hour, tops.

  The information she’d provided though… That would last. That had true implications for his real friends. For the masterpieces that actually mattered.

  He couldn’t wait for night to come.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Adele and John took his Cadillac lease to the Gare de Rue in Northern France where the Normandie Express had been held.

  She regarded John as he exited the vehicle onto the smooth, almost glassy black cement of the parking lot. A stream of passengers moved through the train station, heading in and out in a cavalcade of daily sojourners.

  “I hate trains,” John muttered as Adele slammed the door and fell into step behind him.

  She perked at this sudden interest in conversation. The ride had continued in an impressive stretch of silence, with neither John nor Adele willing to break the ice. Adele hadn’t even quibbled with her tall partner about who should drive the vehicle—normally a matter of great contention. Jumping on the chance to hopefully smooth things a bit with her partner, she said, “Oh? What about them?”

  “I get sick,” John said. “Sick like a dog and puke over everything. Last time, I only had one shirt on a road trip—I stank like vomit for days.”

  “Lovely,” Adele said.

  John often said gross or offensive things—it was his way of rattling cages. Now, though, instead of playful, his words felt barbed, as if he were interested in simply offending her for the sake of the offense rather than a shared joke or a playful tease.

  Maybe she was simply reading too much into it. Adele sighed, wishing she’d had a chance to go for her usual morning run before her father had arrived, and instead contenting herself with a brisk walk after John’s long-legged form in the direction of the large train station built into the flatland of the northern country. Adele acknowledged the tall, curving structure of the station. From within, she could hear the chug of locomotiv
es and the sound of milling passengers.

  A local uniform was waiting in front of the station. When he spotted them, the young man glanced at his phone as if double-checking something, and then his expression brightened. He was a round, cherubic-faced fellow, with dimpled cheeks and a thin hairline visible beneath his police officer’s hat.

  “Hello!” the man called, waving his pudgy fingers in a hyper sort of greeting.

  John’s eyes narrowed and Adele smiled. Nothing pissed her partner off more than good cheer, and this jolly fellow seemed to have it in spades.

  “Bonjour,” Adele replied. “Are you here for show and tell?”

  The man wrinkled his nose for a moment, but then laughed, even though she wasn’t sure what at. “Ah, yes, mademoiselle. Agent Sharp and Agent Renee, yes?”

  Adele nodded. John just glared.

  “Well, come this way, the Normandie Express is sequestered. We transferred the passengers to their destinations, of course,” he said, more prattling than advising. As he turned to lead them away, though, Adele coughed, frowning herself now.

  “You sent the passengers away?”

  The man hesitated, turning back, his double chin pressing against the side of his uniform as he twisted. His dimpled cheeks seemed a bit less pronounced as he cleared his throat. “Umm, yes,” he said. “Is that… is that all right?”

  Adele shook her head. Friendly and chipper was one thing. Incompetent and people-pleasing was another. Now, she noted, it was John’s turn to give a ghost of a smile. This only further darkened her mood.

  “Damn it,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, ah, yes… I’m Officer Allard.”

  “Do you have a first name, Officer Allard?”

  “Ah, yes. Francis.”

  “Well,” Adele said, testily, “Francis, we’re here investigating a potential murder. Sending the passengers home is the same as sending the potential killer home with plenty of time to cook up an alibi, destroy evidence, or simply disappear to the four winds. Do you see why that might be an issue?”

  She tried to keep her tone matter-of-fact, but couldn’t help the edge creeping in.

  If he noted it, Allard didn’t seem to mind. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, well, that wasn’t an option, unfortunately. My captain made sure of that.”

  Adele sighed. Great. A local cop was already meddling. She shook her head and amended her mood, trying to at least maintain a working relationship. “Thank you for your help, regardless. Well, I suppose it is what it is. Did you at least keep the staff around?”

  “Yes, of course!” he said, brightly. “Follow me, please, Agent Sharp and Agent Renee.”

  Then, with a slight skip to his step despite his heavy frame, the jolly officer led the two grumbling agents into a side service door of the massive train station, and down a long gray hall with thick, edged brick-work.

  At last, they reached a white door, which he pushed open. As Adele followed with John and the door hissed, closing on a contained spring system, the train station became suddenly much more muted.

  John whistled beneath his breath, pursing his lips and transitioning the expression into one of mild awe. He looked around the high ceilings and the varnished wooden archways. For her part, Adele glanced down, regarding the marble fountain in the center of what was purportedly a train station, and the old-fashioned, wooden ticket-collecting stand with old photographs framed and pinned to the side. She spotted a rest area in one corner, complete with an ottoman and six recliners all facing a sputtering projected screen playing a black-and-white video of some kind.

  And the centerpiece of it all, sealed in the strange area, cordoned off from the rest of the train station, was the train itself. Except it didn’t look like any train Adele had seen before.

  It looked… old, though she knew the Normandie Express was a newer circuit. The train itself had drapes in the windows and a balcony around the front locomotive. Crisp green paint with golden lettering on each of the compartments displayed the name for the company.

  Officer Allard, noting their astounded looks, coughed sheepishly and said, “Ah, yes… Part of the deal the Normandie Express made when contributing to the station—an allowance for a private holding area in six of the nineteen stops it makes on its seven-day journey.”

  “Seven days?” John asked, seemingly even more surprised than before. “Who wants to be trapped on a blasted puke box for seven days?”

  Allard chuckled good-naturedly, as if they were sharing a joke rather than listening to a complaint. He turned to Adele as if sensing she were the less prickly of the two agents, or perhaps designating her the senior partner, and said, “Here it is. Would you like to see the crime scene? We’ve left it mostly as we found it. Without the body of poor Ms. Mayfield, of course.”

  “Mayfield?” said Adele. “That’s not a French name…”

  “She came on a boat across the English Channel,” the jolly officer said. “A two-week vacation, by the sound of it. I spoke to her son-in-law on the phone. He’s agreed to fly in tomorrow and confirm the body.”

  Adele sighed. This was going to be tricky. Normally, the killers were the ones on the move. This time, the crime scene was. It made routes through at least four countries, and had been traveling for half a day before the murder. The first heart attack had occurred on a separate train line in Italy, but part of Adele—deep down—was hoping they could simply confirm this was an accident and move on. She had other things to worry about back in Paris, and wasn’t particularly interested in having to also head over to Italy… though… she did have a friend or two in Bel Paese.

  She hid a soft smile at the recollection of Agent Christopher Leoni from Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna. The Calvin Klein good looks and immaculate manners mixed with a determination to match her own had made them fast friends.

  Adele brought her attention back to the moment. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have to stay on this particular case for a couple of days.

  “Show me where the woman died,” Adele said.

  Officer Allard nodded, and whistling to himself, he moved past the marble fountain and toward the stationary train. He led them onto the boarding platform, through an open partition in the back of the second car, and into a spacious compartment with chesterfield sofas and blue drapes on the windows.

  Adele stepped into the place, impressed John didn’t even need to duck beneath the miniature chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.

  “Looks smaller from the outside,” she said.

  Allard cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Part of the charm, I’m told. Normandie Express promises the charm of a traditional carriage with the luxury of all the modern amenities. I don’t know much about trains, but it seems… nice.” He shrugged and nodded.

  “Nice,” grunted John. “Hell with drapes is still hell.”

  Don’t be so dramatic, Adele thought, but didn’t say it. Normally, she never would have held back. But as things seemed to have shifted between her and the lanky agent, she didn’t want to stir up any more hard feelings, so she let it lie. And for his part, Officer Allard didn’t seem to notice John’s grumbling.

  “Here’s where she was found,” said Allard, stepping forward and gesturing toward a seat facing the largest window in the compartment.

  “On the chair?”

  “Well—ah, according to the witness who was here, she was sitting and then jumped up all of a sudden. She died seconds later, sort of draped across the ground and the cushions… like here.” Allard gestured with one hand in a sweeping motion.

  Adele looked over. “Witness? Someone was here when she died?”

  “Oh… Yes? Didn’t anyone tell you? Sorry. There was a young woman who’d been here from the start of the trip. A Parisian, in fact. However, she’s currently at a nearby hospital being treated for shock.”

  Adele glanced at John and her partner shrugged back. “Shock?” Adele said.

  Allard winced. “She seemed quite upset by the whole exper
ience. Not that I can blame her, of course. It must have been very frightening.”

  “Well,” Adele said, “I can’t really do anything here. And no passengers to interview. We’ll save the staff for a bit—I think it best we go talk to the young woman. John?”

  “Sure,” he grunted. “Anything to get us off this contraption.”

  This time Adele did speak her mind. “It’s not even moving,” she replied.

  Instead of riposting back, John just shrugged and left the train. Adele found her temper rising; it was almost as if he were intentionally trying to make her feel the cold shoulder as much as possible. Well, two could play at that game.

  She made to follow her partner, but just then, she heard someone clear their throat and she looked up. There, at the back of the compartment, next to an open door that had a sign which read Staff Only, a bald man in a blue and gray uniform, boasting a pointy, pitch-black goatee that reminded her of shoe polish, said, “Excuse me—are you the detective in charge?”

  “Agent,” she said, pausing, then following with, “Sharp. And you are?”

  The man with the goatee glanced at Allard, who quickly said, “Ah, yes—this is the conductor, Mr. Granet.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the man, speaking quickly. He began to move, and Adele realized everything about him seemed quick, as if he were a human played on double speed. He moved hastily across the car in half the time it might take most and came to a halt in front of her, not gasping, but breathing in a loud, obvious sort of way. She didn’t have much time to listen, though, as the sounds of his rapidly spewed words overtook her attention.

  “Ah,” he said, “Agent Sharp. Look—I’m on a tight schedule. We’re a new company, you have to see it our way. Already, we’re making headlines—the wrong sorts, I’m sure you understand.”

  Adele just stood waiting.

  His face reddened a bit and he seemed to be resisting the urge to stroke his goatee, instead, doing this strange thing with his hand where he absentmindedly pinched at his neck, squeezing the skin together just about his throat. The skin was quite loose, and for a moment Adele was reminded of a friend she’d once had who’d lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time, causing the skin to be similarly elastic.