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

by Blake Pierce

  Adele stared back.

  “Come on, Adele,” John probed. “Call me—”

  This time, it was her turn to roll her eyes and mutter, “Shut up.” She leaned in, hard, giving just as much of the fire, the fury, as he’d provided, leaning into him. She shared her breath with his, feeling the way his lips fit to hers, soft and yet rigid. The way he leaned in, hard, his eyes closed the moment they drew too near. Her own eyes flickered, flashing and casting images of his features like through an old projection screen across her vision.

  At last, when she was good and ready, she let him go, stepping back and staring at him. This time, she flashed a grin and also winked for good measure.

  Even in this shared embrace, it seemed impossible to fully put aside the edge to their relationship. And perhaps that’s what made it intoxicating.

  “Well then,” John murmured.

  “Well then,” Adele returned.

  She paused, breathing, gathering her thoughts. She watched John, staring at him, frozen in that delightful moment a second longer. She didn’t want to leave it. It seemed a warm cocoon, a shield from the rest of the world, from… everything.

  But like all cocoons, this one began to shatter the moment she heard the squeak of taxi wheels against the road. She glanced over and spotted two cabs coming down the road outside the terminal. She blinked, and glanced at John.

  “Called two,” he murmured in matter of explanation. “Figured we’d be going opposite directions.”

  Adele nodded, biting her lower lip and frowning for a moment. She thought of Leoni, of his offer for a ride to the airport. Of the way he listened, the way he seemed to care about what she thought. He had limped along the train, following after them with gritted teeth. A liability more than anything on that case.

  But did that matter at all?

  John was an agent, through and through. A reliable partner, dangerous in battle and trustworthy in a fox hole.

  But was that what she wanted? The cocoon seemed shattered completely now. John almost seemed to sense it, and his eyes narrowed, flicking from the nearest taxi to her. He exhaled softly. Then, as if in manner of explanation, he murmured. “I wish I didn’t feel this way,” he said. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. And I thought you should know.” He reached up, teeth pressed against his lower lip as if in thought. Then he shrugged, turned, and approached the nearest taxi. “Good night, American Princess,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

  The warmth was gone, the cocoon had vanished, and once more she stood on the cold, hard sidewalk, numb and frowning, watching John Renee enter the taxi and watching him instruct the driver. A moment later, the vehicle pulled away, leaving her standing in front of the second cab that pulled to the curb.

  She leaned down, picking up her carry-on and laptop bag and sighing into the night. She could still just about smell his cologne. What did any of that even mean? He wished he didn’t feel that way?

  Did she?

  Adele didn’t know what she wished. Which was half the trouble.

  Adele sighed, shaking her head and stepping toward the taxi, entering the back passenger seat. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  Adele paused, began to answer, but then frowned as her phone vibrated.

  She glanced down. Nearly two thirty in the morning now. They’d been standing outside the airport for nearly half an hour.

  Damn.

  She shook her head in exhaustion, but then stared at the notification on her phone. A message. Her frown settled, and she felt a sudden flutter of the same sense of foreboding that had been haunting her ever since she’d left the DGSI headquarters two days ago.

  But as she opened the message, she sighed in relief.

  From Robert Henry. The words were short, to the point, sent only a minute ago.

  Land yet? Could you come visit? I have something I need to show you.

  Adele stared at the message. She paused, shaking her head, and muttered to the cabbie. “Sorry, one second.”

  Then she texted back. Right now?

  A pause as she stared at the blank phone.

  Then three words flashed across the text chain.

  Right now, please.

  Adele stared at the glowing white light from her phone inside the still taxi. She felt a flicker of tiredness try to compete with her other emotions. Couldn’t it wait, Robert? She thought to herself. So late at night? Then again, she’d always known Agent Henry to be a night owl. She smiled, recollecting moments by the fireplace, reading books together well into the morning, sitting in those twin red leather chairs. She remembered more than one bowl of chocolate cereal late at night, discussing politics or philosophy or simply listening to Robert share old war stories from his younger years.

  Two thirty in the morning wasn’t so late. Not for Robert. Besides, she’d wanted to see him when she got back any way.

  “All right, sorry,” Adele said, quickly, glancing up into the mirror again. She pushed her phone into her pocket and then provided the taxi driver with Robert Henry’s address. “It’s a big place,” she added. “Lot of statues in the garden.”

  The driver nodded once, plotting the course on his GPS, and Adele leaned back in the passenger seat, staring out the window and smiling at the thought of reuniting with her old mentor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  The taxi rolled to a gentle stop on the curb outside Robert’s mansion.

  “This it?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror and waiting expectantly.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Adele said, handing a fifty-euro note to the man and adding, “Keep the change.”

  The driver gave a quick nod of gratitude as Adele extricated herself, her carry-on, and her laptop bag from the back seat. She turned away as the taxi wheeled softly out the of the suburb on the outskirts of Paris. Adele paused for a moment, staring up at Robert’s old home, her eyes flicking along the statues in the yard. She felt a flush of relief, like slipping into a warm bath. It was a homecoming of sorts, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, thinking to all the moments and times she’d missed this place and her old mentor, also recollecting the times she’d spent here, just her and Robert, alone in the mansion, reading books, laughing, living.

  She sighed softly at this final thought. Remembering the way Robert had looked in that hospital bed, draped in the gown of death. He’d been so shriveled, so small, so weak. She hated the thought of her old mentor in pain. Hated contemplating what he was going through.

  She pressed the buzzer at the gate and waited quietly.

  A moment passed, then another. She frowned, her eyes flicking toward the old mansion. The light was on inside the study, beaming through a cracked window.

  “Robert?” she called, her voice faint in the darkness.

  No answer.

  She glanced at her phone—no new texts. She buzzed the intercom again.

  Nothing.

  Three a.m. now. Nearly a half hour since he’d invited her over. Had Robert fallen asleep? For a moment she considered leaving, letting her old mentor get his rest. But then her eyes flitted to the light inside the mansion, and she went still.

  Robert wasn’t the sort to leave a light on. He was very conscious about that sort of thing. And why was the window open? Again, not something Robert would do before falling asleep—he was a security snob too. Hence the cameras, the gate, and the alarm system on the front and back doors.

  “Robert?” she called, a bit louder this time, then glancing sheepishly toward a couple of the other enormous houses across the street.

  No lights from within those. Only a single beacon of illumination streaming through Robert’s window.

  Adele sighed, raised her phone, and called her old mentor.

  She waited as the dial tone continued ringing in the background. Her eyes flitted through the black marble bars, settling on one of the statues. A small marble angel had been topple
d, planted face-first in the mud.

  “Robert?” Adele called a bit louder now, facing the open window and still hearing the sound of the ring tone in her ear.

  After another few rings, she hung up and stared at the fence.

  “Great,” she muttered to herself. She leaned her laptop bag and old carry-on against the ivy-covered wall and backed up a few steps, preparing for a running start. Vaguely, she was reminded of a case when she’d broken into an alley behind an auto shop with John. They’d climbed a fence then too.

  She smiled for a moment, still angled toward the gate.

  John Renee was a strange one. An odd combination of infuriating and intoxicating…

  She paused now, one foot off the curb, prepared for a running start. For a moment, she considered John. Considered her father. Considered it all.

  Her mother’s killer had driven a rift between her and Renee. Had highlighted the cracks in the relationship she shared with her father. She’d made it all so personal. Focused far too much on the killer as a monster, as someone worthy of retribution. And yet he was a person. Just like the other murderers, just like the valet.

  She shook her head, one foot still off the curb, braced on the street where she faced the gate. Her eyes slipped toward the crumpled strap of her abandoned laptop bag and the carry-on. No one in this neighborhood would take them. No one would likely even be awake.

  She lowered her head for a moment, feeling her lips tingle as memories surfaced, playing across her mind’s eye and bringing with them a thought of John. She’d kissed him back. But did she regret it?

  She didn’t know what she thought. John was a man in motion—a form of action in and of himself. And yet was that the life she wanted? Forever? Did she want to live in a way that required the level of danger John seemed to crave?

  Did she even want to continue this job forever? Adele sighed. She didn’t like where her mind wandered so late at night.

  Regardless, she’d made it too personal. Too personal with John, too personal with her father—not the relationships themselves, but the impact they had on the case. The impact, more importantly, the case had on the relationships. Her mother was dead. Ten years had passed. The killer was out there, likely retreating, hiding in the shadows, disappearing from the radar of any law enforcement agency.

  A ghost in the wind.

  She’d been left with dust at her fingertips. She couldn’t allow it to remain so personal. It would consume her alive.

  With a reluctant, but strengthening nod, Adele focused on the gate once more. Glanced through the cracked window into the study, where light was still shining, and then, when Robert didn’t buzz the gate, she broke into a sprint, taking the three wild strides to cover the distance between the curb and the steel bars.

  She flung herself at the gate and in three quick motions, kicked off the stone wall covered in ivy, snared the top of the metal barrier, and pulled herself up and over, vaulting the barricade and landing with a dull thump on the other side, facing Robert’s garden.

  Adele brushed the dust off her hands and smiled to herself, moving rapidly toward the front of the mansion. She passed the fallen angel in the mud and paused for a moment, reaching down and plucking up the marble creation, setting it back up as it had been. She frowned at the mud and dirt streaking the sculpted features and, dropping low, she rubbed her sleeve in the grooves of the statue’s face, removing the grime and mud as best she could. Some of it fell away, but mostly it just streaked the statue.

  She sighed and shrugged to herself. It was the best she could do; she’d just have to mention it to Robert so he could clean the statue properly.

  She moved across the flagstones, through the garden and toward a row of hedges beneath the open window facing the study. She couldn’t spot the fire in the fireplace, but did note the overhead chandelier buzzing with electricity and illuminating the room beyond. Adele frowned, leaning toward the open window.

  “Robert!” she called.

  No answer.

  “Robert!” She raised her voice, now feeling a prickle of fear claw its way up her spine. She checked her phone again. No texts, no calls.

  The fear came like a flash flood, bringing with it all manner of horrible imaginings regarding her old mentor and friend. Had his sickness finally overtaken him? What if he was in the bath somewhere, gasping for breath, desperate for help?

  Adele cursed and bounded up the steps to the front door. She reached out, slamming a hand against the brass knocker and jamming a finger into the buzzer. The two sounds broke rhythmically in the night. One moment, a faint humming buzz from within, the next a deep, bellowing knock from the door itself.

  Again, no response, no answer—the door remained sealed.

  “Damn it, Robert!” Adele said, her fear rising in her gut.

  For a moment, she considered calling the emergency services. But then inwardly kicked herself. “That’s you, dummy,” she muttered to herself.

  She tried the knocker one last time, but when it did nothing, she reached down and pulled on the door handle. Locked.

  “Damn it,” she repeated, this time breaking into a jog, taking the stairs two at a time and rapidly approaching the hedge beneath the open window. Robert would understand, certainly. She’d once crept into the house, nearly five years ago, by climbing through a second-story window. He’d understood then—even laughed about it with her—and he’d understand now. Robert always did.

  She flung herself over the windowsill, but then went still. One leg dangled inside the room, the other still wedged against the brick wall, pushed against the prickling branches and jutting branches of the bush itself.

  “Hello,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the window.

  Someone had drawn a heart on the window. Was that lipstick? She leaned in, staring at the small heart, seemingly sketched haphazardly against the glass.

  No. Not lipstick.

  Her stomach flipped and she went so cold she thought she might fall from her perch. Her eyes fixed unblinking on the small sketch of the red heart in the bottom frame of the open window.

  Blood. Someone had drawn a heart in blood.

  Her own heart pounded fiercely in her chest, and she lifted her eyes slowly, turning toward the illuminated study.

  “Robert…” she murmured, softly, feeling a prickle along her arms and up her spine.

  Her eyes fell on the red leather chair furthest from the window. The same chair she normally used when at Robert’s home. She stared at it, blinking.

  “Robert,” she murmured, softly…

  Her old mentor was sitting in the chair, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Adele swallowed. “Robert?” she said a bit more loudly. Slowly, trembling, she brought her second leg through the window, nearly slipping on a pile of toppled books. Greek classics, by the looks of them—Robert’s favorite.

  She stared at where her old mentor reclined in the leather chair.

  Except it was the wrong chair. He wouldn’t have chosen the one nearest the kitchen. A man of habit, was her old mentor.

  She murmured his name again, eyes fixed on his form, stepping forward. No movement. No breath. His chest wasn’t rising or falling. She felt a flicker of sheer horror rising in her. Absolute despair flooded her stomach.

  “Ro—Ro—” This time, the word didn’t manage to leave her lips. It died somewhere in her throat as she drew near and went still.

  His chair was encircled with a small puddle of water… Well, not small, she realized as she drew within touch. Not a puddle of water either…

  More blood, circling Robert’s chair like a crimson halo against the floorboards.

  Blood from where?

  She reached out with trembling fingers, feeling the horror of the moment slowly wash across her back, tingling along her spine and coming to her scalp in vibrant pulses. She gasped in shattered breaths, her fingers groping the fabric of his bathrobe. “I… I…” she murmured unable to say anything in its fullness.

  She slowly opene
d Robert’s robe and realized now his mouth was twisted, frozen in an agonized scream, his eyes facing up at the ceiling, dead, lifeless.

  The flap of his rope opened, falling aside and revealing her old mentor’s bare chest gouged with cuts and laced with swirling patterns of ruined flesh. Adele screamed then, shouting in equal parts shock and blistering agony.

  She stumbled back, slipping on her old mentor’s blood and falling on her hands. She scrambled back as if to distance herself from the spectacle alone, but her eyes refused to budge. They remained glued to Robert’s tortured, disfigured form. She spotted one of his hands now, resting on the table next to him. Missing three of its fingers. She spotted where his lips, his cheeks, everything about her old mentor, had been torn about, ripped to shreds, cut and carved in swirling patterns of bloody flesh.

  “Dear Christ,” she muttered. “Christ, Christ—damn it!” she screamed.

  Adele leaned back, gasping, her chest heaving, her back against the brick fireplace as she stared at the ruined corpse of her old mentor. The small heart etched in Robert’s blood was visible just out of the corner of her eye. Gasping, growling now, feeling a feral ferocity rise in her chest, Adele staggered to her feet, leaving bloody footprints beneath her where she’d stepped.

  “No…” she murmured, breathing heavily. “No. No. No.” But the words themselves seemed futile. She stepped forward now, staggering toward the corpse of her old mentor. The anger was fleeting though. It had promised support, strength, but then fled as she drew near, leaving her only with an emptiness in her gut.

  She gasped, choking out a sob, and found hot tears suddenly flooding down her cheeks.

  A crime scene… Don’t touch him, dummy. The voice in her head wasn’t loud enough, though. The shock alone seemed to be pulsing with prickles through her skull.

  “Christ,” she muttered. “No. No…” No other words seemed to come, nothing concrete fell from her lips. She stumbled toward Robert, reaching out and gripping at his chest with one hand, her fingers coming away soaked in the blood that stained his bathrobe. She collapsed at his knees.