by Blake Pierce
Leoni was an investigator for a reason. He seemed to read her mind, and chuckled as he moved back over toward his computer. “Help yourself to as much as you want,” he said.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
Adele grabbed another couple of bottles, listening as they clinked where she slid them into her pocket. At last, she closed the fridge door and moved past Leoni in his chair, looking over his shoulder to where he was scrolling through information about the Sistine Chapel.
The writing was dense, and the sentences long. After a couple of paragraphs, Adele found that her head hurt.
Leoni, though, seemed to consume the information without trouble. His eyes were baggy, and yet he attentively stared at the screen, reading and rereading sections. Perhaps even committing them to memory, if prior experience was anything to go by.
“Thanks,” Adele murmured.
“Stay if you like,” Leoni said. “I’ll be up for a bit longer anyway.”
For a moment, Adele felt a flutter of anticipation. She chided herself inwardly, though. Leoni clearly didn’t mean anything sensual. He was just trying to be a good partner. Then again, she’d proven to herself she was bad at reading men. John was the obvious example. Still, she had come for a different type of companionship.
She bid farewell to Leoni and then took her pilfered bottles and moved away, back out the door, shutting it behind her and heading to her room.
Adele downed the first bottle in a matter of seconds, feeling the bitter taste and wincing against the sudden cold against her tongue and lips. She moved into the bathroom of her own room again and sat on the edge of the bathtub, the smooth porcelain pressing against her thighs.
She blinked a couple of times, looking at the fogged mirror and the tracing of a smiley face she had drawn on it earlier.
She could still feel her lips tingling and throat burning as she crossed her arms over her legs, listening to the bottles in her pocket tinkle again. Maybe she was making a mistake by staying here. Maybe she needed to go back to find her mother’s killer. To be with John. He would need all the help he could get. He was an excellent agent, but he wasn’t a bloodhound. He was a hammer, and every perceived problem a nail. Not that it hadn’t worked for him so far, but a hammer could smash things that were best left intact. Adele took out the second bottle, and didn’t realize by the time this one emptied as well. No sooner had the second emptied than the third bottle emerged.
She spun it around, looking at it. For a moment, she considered downing it in one big gulp. She placed it on the edge of the sink across from her. By now, through her sweatpants, she could feel the moisture from the rim of the tub.
“Third time’s the charm,” she murmured, examining the bottle.
Except, in this case, the third time was the same as the first two. Bodies in a morgue. And Adele struggling to keep up.
She was supposed to be good at her job. It was what they paid her for.
Adele felt her head throbbing all of a sudden. A steady pulsing ache. She felt confused and disoriented, and slid into the tub, angling so she was leaning back and resting her head against the porcelain slant. She could feel the moisture pressing around her now. She could feel her T-shirt sticky against her, her sweatpants sodden.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the last vestiges of steam from the third shower she’d taken.
Three showers. Three a.m. Three bottles. Three bodies.
Three chances to catch a killer, and three misses.
The fourth was coming. She could feel it. It was coming. And if she didn’t catch the killer this time, then perhaps she never would.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Adele blinked and found her eyelids scraping against her eyes like rough sandpaper. She winced, listening to the slow squawk of the alarm from her phone set on the bathroom sink. The first glimmers of light strayed through the open doorway of the bathroom.
She was still in the bathtub, her clothing still damp, her head pressed against cold, hard porcelain. For a moment, she considered turning off the alarm and going back to sleep. But that wasn’t who she was. And even now, running from her problems in France, trying to hide from three bodies with three bottles, she wasn’t about to change. Old habits die hard.
She sat up in the bathtub, groaning, slapping her bare feet against the cool floor. She clicked off the alarm, pocketed her phone, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
She glanced at the phone. No missed calls or notifications.
Save one.
Leoni had texted her.
Three words. Always three, it seemed.
I found something.
The text had come an hour ago. Groaning to herself, she got to her feet. No calls meant no more bodies. The killer hadn’t struck again. Maybe the next location was further away than the first three.
She hastily threw on a new change of clothes and sweater, deciding to skip the usual morning shower. She could feel the effects of the third bottle, and the stale, sour feeling in the back of her throat. Groaning to herself, she pushed open the door and moved, half limping, as if she were dragging sleep behind her, toward Leoni’s room.
She began to knock on the door, but as she did, it swung inward, opening on well-greased hinges. She blinked and stepped into the room. Leoni was sitting in a wooden chair, snoring, his face planted against the wooden table. His computer was open in front of him, but the screen had darkened, suggesting it had also gone to sleep.
Leoni was still wearing his suit; it looked like his bed hadn’t even been slept in. Sheer exhaustion seemed to have taken its toll. She cleared her throat, but when this aroused no reaction, she moved over and tapped Leoni on the shoulder.
He jerked up and glanced at her, blinking wildly. It took him a moment to catch his bearings, exhausted and sleep deprived as he was. But she’d known Leoni was quick, and his processor took only a couple of seconds to boot up before he recognized her, then murmured a greeting, flicked his eyes toward the half ajar door, and to his computer.
“You said you found something,” she said.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. What did you find?”
Leoni tapped his computer. He didn’t say anything, rubbing at his eyes, glancing toward the drapes pulled across his window. Then, when the screen lit up, he twisted it, turning it toward her.
Adele lowered, frowning at the screen. “What am I looking at?”
“Website,” Leoni said.
“Not the conservationist again? I got his evidence from the night before. Didn’t know someone could be that flexible at his age.”
“No, not the conservationist. I found the site by cross-referencing the different murder locations. Stumbled on it by sheer accident.”
“What is it?” Adele asked.
The top of the webpage was an old picture of ruins, with the heading reading, “Bestselling guidebook Days Away, available now!”
Adele blinked but shook her head. “What?”
“It’s a popular tourist guidebook,” said Leoni. “The website belongs to the author. An Adrian Von Ziegler. He’s a fanatic.”
Adele blinked. “What sort of fanatic?”
“Read for yourself,” Leoni said. “Sistine Chapel, Notre Dame, the Acropolis,” he said, “they’re all there. All of them have been researched, visited, and photographed by Mr. Von Ziegler for his book. The researcher had intimate knowledge of the buildings, pictures of our crime scenes, and, more damning, look at the most recent post. An update.”
Adele leaned in, reading the update. She scanned the paragraphs, taking in the text, and then stared.
One section read, “…the most recent killing, at the Parthenon, is a sign. Not a sign from the divines, but a sign from humanity itself. We’re beginning to eat our own. Desecration leads to desecration. The same sorts that would use money-lending tables, overturned once upon a time, are now being struck again. Tourists, flash photography, hot dog condiments dripping on t
he ground of ancient landmarks beg for a response from the noble few. The victims are deserving. The judgment isn’t pleasant, but once the purging is complete, perhaps people will finally respect these monuments as they ought.”
Adele whistled softly as she continued to read the post. “This is a guidebook?”
“It’s the author’s website. He published a guidebook for tourists. But it’s a different slant—full of a sort of awe and reverence for these locations.”
“Holier than thou tourists,” Adele said. “Great. Is there anything else about the other murders?”
Leoni tapped over to another page, nodding as he did. “More of the same. Complimenting the killer, or at least coming close. Not quite saying they deserved their deaths, but not standing up for the victims either. Hinting and implying they got what was coming to them. Hinting and implying that whoever the killer is, they’re fulfilling some twisted justice.”
Adele whistled, shaking her head.
“Maybe the tourist angle is right,” said Leoni. He looked up at her now, and she could see his bloodshot eyes from his lack of sleep.
“You look horrible,” she said.
“And you look lovely as always.”
“You should really get some rest.”
“Can’t,” Leoni said, closing the screen and clicking the laptop shut.
“Can’t?”
“Our flight is already booked. Tracked the owner of the website. Mr. Von Ziegler himself.”
“Yeah, where’s he out of?”
“Austria. Our flight leaves within the hour. Ready to go?”
“Hang on, Austria?”
“Yes. Ready?”
Adele sighed. And she had thought she was unstoppable when she caught a scent. Also, Leoni was no use to her half asleep. “I’m fine,” she said. “How about you?”
He waved away the worry. “Me too. Did you enjoy those drinks last night?”
Adele gave a chagrined sigh. “I may have overdone it a little.”
Leoni patted her on the hand, and then she noticed his bag was already on the bed, packed. “I’m good to go,” he said. “I’ll be waiting at the curb. Do you need help with anything?”
Adele shook her head and said, “Maybe you’re right about the tourist angle.” She gestured toward the computer. “Certainly damning comments from someone who has interior photographs of the locations. Doesn’t seem at all broken up about the deaths of the tourists.”
“But? You’re speaking like there’s a but.”
“I still don’t think tourism is the right angle.”
“You don’t want to at least check it out?”
Adele paused for a moment, considering the flight, feeling like she was being tugged around like a puppy with a collar. Then again, no bodies had dropped in the night. No further deaths. Which meant the killer would inevitably strike now. He was on a rampage, and he wouldn’t stop. Especially given the new riddle.
If they were wrong this time, there would be no third chances. And this game was counted in corpses.
Adele felt a bit of her usual fire return, and she gritted her teeth, turning and marching back toward the slightly open door. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot. I get the window seat on the plane.”
“Done!” he called after her.
Adele hurried over to her room, tapping her hands against her thigh, and wondering if perhaps she should keep Ms. Jayne apprised. The Interpol correspondent had been clear about tracking the tourist angle even though Adele had felt this was a mistake.
Were her instincts off? She felt something else was going on here. But maybe her gut wasn’t serving her as well as it used to. Maybe the cowardice of running from Paris, hiding in Germany, fleeing her obligations was finally catching up with her.
She hated the thought, but maybe she’d abandoned her position.
Adele packed what items she had brought with these troubling thoughts leeching into her mind.
Whatever the case, this Austrian author had means and motive, and it was up to her to find out if he also had opportunity.
Killers were all the same after all. Just different degrees of selfish narcissists. Different degrees of cold-hearted and often broken malevolence.
She felt her phone buzz and glanced down. Another message. This one from John Renee. She felt her pulse skip. For a moment, she stared at the text. But then, fingers trembling, she clicked the screen dark without reading the message, and stowed her phone in her pocket. The message would have to wait. The killer in Paris was John’s job. Adele had her own killer to catch. And by the looks of things, he was hiding in Austria. Just a short plane flight away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The airplane was nearly empty this time, and Adele could hear her own thoughts whirring in her mind. Did it make sense the killer would be in Austria now? The website had damming evidence. As she sat in first-class, her elbow jutting toward where Leoni was scanning his laptop screen again, she also flicked through her phone to the stored webpage. The author of the guidebook, Days Away, clearly had no love lost for the murder victims.
The air-conditioning was turned off above her. The small service light was also dim. She breathed a soft sigh in the nearly empty plane, grateful for the momentary respite to catch her breath. The flight to Austria wouldn’t take long, but Adele knew she needed to focus. The rantings of a crazed author against tourists was one thing, but the riddle seemed another piece of writing altogether. It wasn’t that authors couldn’t also pen riddles.
But there was something measured to the riddle. Something playful, even taunting. Something shouting Catch me if you can!
Could she?
Adele closed her eyes, feeling the sandpaper sensation again from earlier, wishing she’d drunk a little less the night before. As she did, leaning back, trying to get comfortable, she realized she was asking the wrong question. It wasn’t a matter of could. Her ability wasn’t in question.
But sometimes, even the most able ships passed in the night. It didn’t matter the guns, the sails, the reinforced hull—if a ship missed its target in the mist, then no manner of upgrades or preparation or even skill would matter.
In order to catch a murderer, Adele had to find him first. She was getting closer… she could feel it. But would their paths cross? Would Mr. Von Ziegler even be home? Or was he out now, while the agents hunting him returned to his home instead of solving his riddle? What if Mr. Von Ziegler was already stalking his next victim?
Adele kept her eyes closed, shivering at the thought. She needed to sleep, but, more importantly, she needed to solve this. She brought back to mind the words in the newest riddle, mulling them over and allowing them to cycle, one after the other, leaving no stone unturned.
…My heart is cast in stone.
Stone. The most important word at the end of the sentence. Stone. She had it… she knew she was close… It was a word on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite find it. It remained out of reach, even as she rested on the plane, her body limp in the seat, but her mind abuzz.
***
It seemed fitting to Adele that an unstable travel expert in Austria lived in a tree house.
“You’re joking,” Leoni said, his neck craned back as he peered up at the structure built across two thick oaks.
Adele shook her head. “This is the address.”
She glanced along the trail they’d come down in the local police cruiser that had been sent to pick them up from the Vienna International Airport. In the distance, against a backdrop of low mountains, the air was pristine and clear. Adele could feel it cool as she inhaled the fresh breeze.
The muddy trail behind them, where the Austrian officer awaited their return in the car, was mostly obscured by overgrowth, with patches of grass threatening to strangle it. No other vehicles as far as Adele could see. But the house—what looked to be a trailer home hoisted in the branches—had no visible approach.
She craned her neck back, feeling the eyes of the Austrian policeman peering out a
t her from his vehicle. One country to the next, moving around Europe like a child playing hopscotch. Adele was beginning to resent the killer on the move.
But over the flight, between salted peanuts, she’d managed to read more of the travel guidebook author’s posts. More railing against tourists, more thinly veiled support for the killer. If anyone had a bone to pick in the way Ms. Jayne and the other agencies suspected, it was this man.
“Mr. Von Ziegler!” she called, raising her voice. “Interpol—are you home!”
The guidebook was written in English, as were the ranting web posts—at least she wouldn’t need a translator this time. The elevated house between the trees, though, remained quiet. No movement, no lights. She glanced around, looking for a home at a more accessible level. But this was it—the only visible domicile.
Adele stared up at the treehouse, studying any way she might ascend. After a few minutes of examining the structure, her eyes slipped along the metal siding and glass windows, and she spotted a rope ladder curled up and coiled at the top of the suspended wooden platform which held the trailer.
She nudged Leoni and pointed.
“Ladder is raised. Means he’s up there,” Leoni said, softly.
Adele tapped her nose. She could feel the eyes of the Austrian officer behind them, still fixated on the agents. They had arranged for a cleared interrogation room back at the local precinct, but first, they needed to catch their suspect.
“Mr. Von Ziegler,” she called, her voice rising toward the trees. “We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up!”
Still no answer was forthcoming from the silent home.
Adele bit her lip, but then gestured toward Leoni and pointed toward the rope ladder. The two of them stepped forward, now moving into the shadow of the elevated home, searching around the ground for something, anything they might use to snare the rope ladder.