Left To Hide

by Pierce, Blake

  Still, she looked at the crime scene. The body hadn’t been moved. The road, of course, was blocked by police cars, and the remains were covered in a thin, plastic material for preservation, and, Adele assumed, some modicum of decency.

  She glanced at the white paneled van. They were beyond the caution tape, but still far too close. How had they caught wind of the murder so quickly? Had they been tipped off? Maybe they had arrived before the police. In which case, why were they allowed to film?

  She supposed right now those in charge of the resorts would be doing damage control. Alienating the media, at this point, would likely cost them. The cat was out of the bag. The murders were public knowledge. Suppressing it would only look bad. Still, Adele knew in moments like these, they would need a scapegoat. She had an inkling of suspicion, which came in the form of a tingle across the back of her spine, that she know who would end up beneath the sacrificial knife.

  Still, she kept her head down and her shoulders hunched as she moved across the snowy ground, looking one way and the other, her gaze sweeping like a searchlight. She tried not to focus too much on the many dismembered pieces of what had once been an old man, covered by tarp. She tried not to look at the spray of blood, at least not at first. She didn’t want to miss the forest for the trees. She was looking for something else. Footprints. Something out of place.

  But nothing… nothing of note—nothing new. Nothing unexpected. She could feel her frustration mounting. John was also off, glaring at the body—standing ominously still. The darkness in his eyes communicated a level of anger and guilt she couldn’t place.

  She paused for a moment, looking out across the slightly wooded area. Beyond the sparse scattering of trees, she noted a wooden platform with a railing. It overlooked a larger, denser portion of the forest, and also had a glimpse of the ski resort beyond. She smiled in the direction of the slopes, the expression coming unbidden to her lips. And just as quickly she frowned. Another source of emotion, not quite familiar, coursed through her. She shook her head, trying to distance herself from any thoughts that didn’t have to do with the case. Her father, her memories, would have to wait.

  “Bad business,” John said quietly in French.

  Adele glanced over at him. She nodded sympathetically. “He didn’t have a chance.”

  “See anything?” John asked—there was a weight behind those words. An expectancy.

  “Give me a second,” said Adele.

  She moved through the crime scene, trying not to brush into anyone else, or disturb their patterns either. She focused, careful, doing her best to study the ground, to study the trees. To look for anything.

  She saw snow, blood, body parts. The killer had used his axe again. Or some similar weapon. She paused. Just below the caution tape on the very edge, she spotted a glint.

  Adele hurried over and dropped to a knee, brushing aside some snow. It look like a footprint had pushed the item into the ice. She pulled forth a crushed pair of binoculars. One of the glass frames had been shattered. Part of it was bent, and the cord, which would have wrapped around someone’s neck, was ripped.

  She examined it for a second, looking it over, and then placed it gently on top of the snow where she’d found it. She gestured at John and pointed. With a long, loping gate, he took three strides across this crime scene toward her. “What’s that?” he said.

  “Binoculars,” she said. “Might’ve been the killer’s.”

  John looked and shrugged. “Maybe. Could’ve been the victim’s? Could’ve been someone else’s entirely.”

  “Maybe. But if it was the killer’s, it could tell us he’s been watching them from a distance.”

  She and John both shared a long look, seemingly settling on the futility of those words at the same time. The realization at how far they were from solving this weighed on Adele like a heap of bricks. With a sigh, she stood up, gesturing at the evidence team who worked for the Germans, and pointed toward the binoculars so they would bag it.

  As one of the lab techs hurried over, plastic bag unraveling, gloves already affixed, she moved past them, approaching Beatrice Marshall.

  The young German agent smiled at John as he approached. He smirked back, like a lion with sight of a gazelle. Marshall, though, didn’t look away. She rubbed a hand through her short-cropped hair and said, in German. “Your friend is here again—pleasure to see him.”

  “Likewise,” she said, quickly. Then, before John could interject, she said, “What do we know about the victim?”

  Marshall pulled out the same notebook she’d been using when they’d interrogated the ski instructor the day before.

  She cleared her throat and thumbed through the notebook until she found the relevant page. The two people in suits were now in conversation behind Marshall, occasionally shooting glances toward her and Adele. Their frowns deepened as they spotted John with his two hoodies and sweatpants.

  “Well,” said Marshall, mustering up some energy and pressing on, “We know his name was Damon Griezmann.”

  “Griezmann?” said Adele.

  “What’s she saying?” John asked in French.

  Adele shushed him quietly, patting him on the arm like a mother trying to console an unruly child in the supermarket. “Do you know anything else about him?”

  Marshall nodded. “Ja. He was here with his girlfriend. Quite a bit younger than he was,” she said. Her eyes slid to John for a moment, then back to Adele.

  Adele nodded. “Was she killed too?”

  “Actually,” Marshall said, “it was just one body this time.”

  Adele glanced back to the remains. She fought the sudden urge to puke and her eyes darted toward the media team, who were filming the crime scene from a distance. She noticed two of the uniformed officers blocking the corpse from view. At least they had some sense of decorum.

  “All right,” said Adele, “what do you think that means? Did the killer deviate from his MO?”

  Marshall shrugged. “I can’t be sure. But Mr. Griezmann and his girlfriend arrived at the resort a couple days ago.”

  Adele’s brow wrinkled. “When it opened? I thought only a select few were allowed in the day of the ribbon cutting.”

  “True. But I spoke to one of the managers. It sounds like some of the ground-level donors were given access a day early. Mr. Griezmann helped fund the project.”

  Adele whistled softly. “So, another wealthy patron? That part of the MO stayed the same.”

  Marshall shrugged one shoulder. “Some sort of day trader. An investor too, which, given his connection to the resort, makes some sense.”

  Adele nodded, studying the younger agent. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing relevant. If you’d like, you can speak with Ms. Sophie.”

  “His girlfriend?”

  “She’s over there.”

  Adele turned, and, on the opposite side of the road, she spotted a black-windowed SUV. Two officers were standing by open doors which shielded the crime scene from view. In the shadow of the doors, Adele glimpsed a young woman with a gray blanket thrown over her shoulders, her hair disheveled. She refused look toward the crime scene, and seemed to be crying.

  Adele frowned. “Why did they bring her here?”

  “We didn’t,” Marshall said, somewhat tight-lipped. “She came on her own. We tried to keep her back, but she was starting to make a scene. Besides, someone needs to interview her anyway.”

  Adele sighed, passing a hand over her eyes.

  “What’s she saying?” John asked in French. “Adele, is she talking about me?”

  Adele snorted. “Yes, John. All we’re doing is talking about you. Because, of course, nothing else would matter to us at this moment.” Then she stomped away, moving under the crime scene tape toward the squad car where Ms. Sophie waited, her shoulders still trembling beneath the gray blanket.

  Adele raised a hand toward the officers with her. They glanced in her direction, but seemed to look past Adele, likely acknowledging Agent Mar
shall, and then—at a gesture from the BKA investigator—they stepped a bit back, bidding a quiet farewell to the grieving girlfriend and moving around the car to give privacy. The doors were still open to the SUV, providing a shield from the media, and from the crime scene.

  Adele approached the young woman. As she did, she realized the vehicle was parked on a precarious section of the precipice. Just next to it, there was a platform of wood and the rail she’d spotted before. The ski slopes beyond were even closer now. The platform seemed to be some sort of lookout. This, she suspected, explained the binoculars.

  Adele had never been a huge fan of heights, so she stayed a couple of paces beyond the SUV, grateful for the sheer weight of the vehicle between her and the tumble beyond.

  Still, she had a job to do.

  “Ms. Sophie?” Adele asked.

  The woman was still trembling, a hot steaming cup of something in her hands, the gray blanket over her shoulders. She looked like someone who had nearly drowned. Or, perhaps more likely, as if she’d been interrupted mid-shower. Her disheveled hair, Adele noticed, was wet in places. Soap bubbles crusted on the side of her forehead, as if she’d forgotten to rinse her hair.

  Adele tried to remain polite, professional, refusing to stare or bring any discomfort to the woman.

  “Who are you?” Ms. Sophie said.

  “My name is Agent Sharp,” Adele replied, gently. “I’m working this case with Interpol. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  The woman’s face scrunched up. Adele decided she had to be extremely pretty beneath the soap and disheveled hair. She couldn’t have been much older than thirty. And the victim, in his sixties, had likely enticed her with more than just his personality.

  Still, that wouldn’t undermine her grief.

  “Are you all right?” Adele said, hesitating.

  The woman began to cry. Her nose wrinkled, and tears slipped from her cheeks. She quickly reached up, brushing them away with the edge of the gray blanket. She coughed and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just so much.”

  Adele nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I understand.”

  John was standing behind her, and Adele could feel his presence like some sort of eclipse looming over her. He was quiet, though. She was grateful for this.

  “Your boyfriend,” she said, “Mr. Griezmann, he was with you this morning?”

  “Fiancé.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She coughed, her nose wrinkling again, as if a new round of sobs would emerge, but she managed to suppress it, and said, “My fiancé, not boyfriend. He proposed to me last week.” Her voice was strained, stretched, a slight warble to the very edges, but she managed to keep it together.

  “I’m very, very sorry,” Adele said. “If there’s something I could do to help, I would. And I think, though it won’t bring him back, I’d like to catch who was responsible. Is there anything you can tell me about this morning that might help? When did you last see him?”

  She hiccupped and took a sip from the steaming beverage in her hand, allowing the mist from the cup to waft over her face and drift past her shoulders, rising into the sky. “I,” she said, trembling, “I don’t know. Nothing comes to mind. It was the same every day this vacation. He liked to watch birds,” she said. “He would take binoculars with him.”

  Adele felt a slight twist in her stomach, but kept her expression impassive, polite, listening.

  “He didn’t let me come with him on those excursions. Said he liked the privacy. Which is fine, because I’m not a morning person anyway. Sometimes, he would make breakfast, leave it out for me. Other times, he would refrigerate it, but leave a note so that I knew he had prepared it.”

  She sobbed again and passed a hand fluttering beneath her chin as if fanning herself. “He was a very kind man. A generous man.”

  Adele noticed the woman’s earrings, both of them clearly diamonds. A thin circlet of a necklace, also studded with valuable gemstones, circled the woman’s throat. She tried to suppress her more cynical thoughts. It was a bit of a cliché. A wealthy man dating someone half his age who was twice as good-looking. It was hard not to assume the motives of both parties involved. And yet, as an investigator, it was important for Adele to keep an open mind.

  “So he likes to go bird watching—at what time was this?”

  “Early,” she said. “Very early. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Before ten?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Nine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Adele held up a hand. “No worries. I don’t mean to press. Is there anything else you can tell me? That platform overlooks the ski slopes; is it possible he was using the binoculars to watch visitors ski? Was he a fan of the sport?”

  “Actually, funnily enough, yes, he was. But not anymore.”

  Adele wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he used to ski a lot. But about a year and a half ago, he broke his ankle. It was horrible. A very bad injury. They operated on it. But he’s been in pain ever since.”

  Adele felt a strange chill at these words. It started as goose pimples across the back of her neck, but then seemed to flush down her arms and along toward her fingertips. A strange, ominous sensation, but she couldn’t quite place its source. “All right,” she said. “Can you tell me what the injury was? He wasn’t attacked or anything, was he?”

  “No. Just some stupid skiing collision. I think he put the skis on wrong or something. I don’t know exactly. All I know is he couldn’t ski after that. And he’s been living with a lot of pain. A lot. Sometimes he takes pills to help with the pain, but he doesn’t like medication.”

  Adele nodded. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, her voice trembling, “I guess he isn’t in pain anymore.” And then she broke off into another burst of sobs.

  The woman glanced toward the edge of the SUV door as if her eyes were seeking the crime scene for some sort of solace. Adele knew it wouldn’t be wise for her to see the contents of the scene, and so she stepped a bit in front of the door, cutting off the view.

  “So he went out bird watching on his own, leaving you in your chalet?”

  The woman nodded.

  “And this was a pretty regular routine for him?”

  “He’s been doing it every day this week,” she said.

  “All right, well; thank you for your time.”

  John was still standing next Adele, his arms crossed. Adele looked over at him, noticing the confused expression on his face. Though he could speak and understand English pretty well, the French agent had never picked up German. She would have to summarize for him on the way back to their vehicle. Still, they were indeed at square one. Again. The killer was out there, biding his time before striking again, but they were nowhere nearer to catching him.

  Adele tried to hide her frustration, if anything, for Ms. Sophie’s benefit. There was no sense in the grieving woman seeing Adele perturbed.

  Still, as she turned away, she noted a glint in the trees, and then spotted the cameramen quickly approaching, having taken a mountain path. She glanced toward the white-paneled van on the other side of the crime scene, realizing the crew had followed her around. The female news anchor was with them, too, with her very neat hair and blinding smile. The smile was in full display as they approached the parked police car near the precipice.

  Adele would have retreated if not for the sheer drop-off behind them, and instead, gritting her teeth, faced the media crew. “You can’t be here,” she said, sternly.

  The woman gestured at her cameraman; his video camera blinked with a red light, completely ignoring Adele. “Were you the wife of the murdered man?” she called out, pointing toward Ms. Sophie.

  Adele stepped forward. “You can’t be here,” she said again, forcefully.

  For the first time, the woman with the smile acknowledged Adele. She sniffed. “I have permission to be here. Private reso
rt. They want the story told as honestly as possible. I’m not disturbing the crime scene.” That was said in a rehearsed, rapid way, as if her words were a weapon unsheathed; she then turned again toward the woman. “What’s your name? Why was your husband killed?”

  “Leave her alone,” Adele said. “You’re obstructing an investigation.”

  The cameraman behind the woman licked his lips nervously, and seemed to want to edge back. But the woman stared fearlessly at Adele. “I see you don’t know who I am. But you, I know,” she said.

  She gestured at the camera, which now leveled on Adele, the red light blinking, glaring out at her. Adele felt a pickle up her spine again, and she felt an urge to turn and flee. But she suppressed it, glaring into the cameras and at the woman.

  “You’re the investigator who’s been looking into the murders in the Alps, is that right?” the woman said.

  Adele growled again. “You need to leave. This is an open investigation, and the crime scene boundary extends beyond this.”

  “The crime scene boundary is over there,” the woman said, nodding toward the caution tape. “No one else has had a problem with us being here.”

  Adele still wasn’t sure why this was, but if she had to guess, she would have supposed some political agenda. The resort owners, the wealthy donors, the many agencies likely knew the media would only make things worse if they were suppressed. But still, allowing them to harass victims, to film a dead body, to trample around a crime scene was as unprofessional as it got. Still, Adele suspected—as before—the higher-ups weren’t so interested in solving the crime as much as they were concerned with image management. They needed the media on their side, so they could get support for the resort. Adele hated everything about it.