Left to Envy (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Six)

by Blake Pierce

  That didn’t have the ring of a criminal mastermind to her.

  Absentmindedly, Adele rolled her fingers, tapping them against the vehicle, feeling the cool metal beneath her fingertips. She watched as the two officers on the steps bid farewell and then moved off to their vehicles.

  The lights glowing from inside the precinct combated the darkness around, trying to keep it at bay, but failing, casting long shadows and deep alcoves across the parking lot behind the cars.

  And yet, Adele appreciated the shadows. The sorts of places one might hide.

  The killer had known shadows. The killer had known the Sistine Chapel, had known the Acropolis, had known Notre Dame. The killer had known how to be undetected, how to move quietly. The killer had been smart.

  And while innately Adele considered all killers to be stupid at their core, they weren’t stupid in the way that would manifest in being caught so easily. Stupid in what they valued. Stupid in how they behaved. Stupid in how they treated others. Yes. But stupid enough to be caught like this? To not even construct an alibi?

  She rolled her eyes, closing them, and grunting at the ceiling of the cop car.

  “Too easy,” she muttered to herself.

  Or maybe she just wanted it to be too easy. Maybe she didn’t want the case to be over. Because if this case was over, it meant she would have to go back to France. And she wasn’t ready to face that particular mess. A copycat killer on the loose, her mother’s killer somewhere, hiding, like a puppet-master playing with strings.

  She forced her mind away from this train of thought. She wasn’t trying to avoid anything. She was simply trying to do her job. But even as she thought it, it wasn’t convincing. Still, she summoned to mind the last riddle. Running it over again and again. Two couplets, the language poetic, but also hinting, coy. It seemed to know something, and wanted to tease her with it. The riddle itself was a mockery.

  Mr. Von Ziegler was a writer, but bombastic and straightforward. Clever wasn’t how she’d describe him, neither was coy.

  She ran the riddle through her mind again, and again.

  Round eyes in round hands,

  my longing for you has grown,

  Squares in circles once,

  My heart is cast in stone

  She thought of Leoni studying the crime scenes, memorizing the information. Where could she possibly start? There were so many options. A list upon list of hundreds of potential places. According to the DGSI’s and Interpol’s combined resources nearly two hundred locations fit the clue worldwide. A hundred in Europe. A needle in a haystack.

  And yet, the clues were there. Hidden, but there.

  When it came down to it, though, she had to trust her gut. Which meant what?

  She frowned softly, wrinkling her brow, thinking. Then realized.

  It meant this wasn’t about tourism. It wasn’t about an industry. This wasn’t about the location. It was about something else.

  Which meant what?

  Which meant that to think like the killer, she had to think like a fanatic. To think like someone obsessed. Not like an avenging angel, not like a disgruntled worker, or a violent protester. This wasn’t a conservationist. And, if she was right, it wasn’t some angry author who wrote a tour book.

  This was something else. Something else entirely. She considered it a moment longer, and then realized the key.

  All the locations had religious roots. Which meant, on the lists she’d been given of potential locations, anything that was a tourist attraction without religious overtones could be forgotten, discarded. No museums, no remnants of wars, no architectural spectacles.

  She went to her phone, pulled out the list, and began scanning. Things like the Eiffel Tower or Statue of Liberty, these could be easily ignored.

  But then again, she didn’t know enough about these places herself. She cycled to her phone, lifted it, calling Leoni.

  For a moment, no response, and then, after a couple of rings, her partner’s voice said, “Agent Sharp?”

  “I need you in the parking lot.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Paperwork can wait. I have an idea. Have a second?”

  “Yes. I’m coming.”

  Simple. Polite. Yes, I’m coming. A strange bird Agent Leoni.

  She waited, tapping her fingers against the metal of the car, watching as Leoni emerged from the precinct doors. A few seconds later, he took the stairs, looked around, spotted her, then began to move toward her.

  As he approached the side of the door, she gestured around toward the driver’s seat. He didn’t hesitate or protest, merely rounded the car, sliding into the front seat next to her. He looked at her, waiting, polite and quizzical.

  “Know that list we got, from the new riddle? The one from Interpol?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been studying it, yeah? You know a lot about that stuff.”

  “I try.”

  “I need you to tell me which ones are the most religious. Not a specific religion. And keep it to Europe, but which ones are the most religious? Preferably very old.”

  He frowned at her. “I’m not sure exactly how to quantify—”

  “Ignore the tourist angle. Ignore anything that doesn’t have religious overtones. Which ones are holy sites? Even if the tenants of the religion are long dead.”

  Leoni shrugged, but then began flipping through his phone, his eyebrows lowered. He frowned, muttering to himself as he did, and saying things like, “Maybe. No. Not that one. No. Definitely this one. Could be this one. How about this one. No. No.”

  He continued to cycle through, and after a few minutes he stopped and looked at her.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty,” he replied.

  She winced. “Twenty?”

  “Well, ten for sure and ten maybes.”

  “All right, for the sake of argument, let’s forget the maybes. So there’s ten that could be overtly religious that apply to the riddle.”

  He nodded. “At least according to the experts.”

  She studied his face. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, the word he uses here, hearts cast in stone, they took to just mean stone. But he’s specific here, when you look, that it is not stone hewn by tools. It’s a heart cast in stone. Something organic, yes? A heart is like a tree is like a bird. An organ. Natural. Not chiseled or stained or painted… I don’t think he’s talking about just any old stone.”

  Adele could feel her pulse quickening. “What do you think he means?”

  “I think he means weathered stone. Stone that is exposed to the elements. But not an external feature, rather a core element. Remember in the other riddles, the one about the virgin? The core part of it was included in the middle couplet.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  He scrolled down her phone and then tapped on a single word on the list. “The others are made of stone, glass, metal, support beams. Not this, though. I think it’s this one. This is where Mr. Von Ziegler was going to strike.”

  She leaned in, looking over the top of his finger.

  Stonehenge.

  She stared at the word and felt a flutter in her stomach. “That’s a religious site?” she asked.

  Leoni looked at her, seemingly surprised, but quickly covered and said, “Yes, actually. It was a sacrificial spot for druids, centuries ago.”

  “You’re sure?” she said, her back prickling.

  “No, not sure. No one is. But that’s one of the running theories. A popular theory.”

  “And on your list narrowed down; the ten that could apply—this one’s the one with exposed stone… Round eyes in round hands… Squares made circle…” Adele raised her eyebrows. “Stonehenge is in a circle, yes? The monoliths are rounded but also placed in a round circle.”

  “Exactly.”

  Adele nodded, her head bobbing. “That’s it then.”

  “Maybe. But Mr. Von Ziegler isn’t saying. I could spring it on him. Maybe try to get
his reaction.”

  Adele shook her head though. “This isn’t about Mr. Von Ziegler. I don’t think we have the killer.”

  Leoni blinked.

  She pressed on, taking his silence as permission. “I think we caught the wrong guy. It’s just too easy. He’s not as clever as this murderer. He’s a bombastic drunk.”

  “If this isn’t the guy, who is?”

  Adele tapped the line reading Stonehenge. “I think we’ll find him there. Maybe even tonight. I think he’s going to kill again, soon.”

  Leoni stared at her, and this time she didn’t speak, allowing her words to do their work. Silence hung between them for a moment, and then Leoni heaved a soft breath. “That’s impossible; everyone thinks we have him. I just spoke to your correspondent from Interpol—”

  “Ms. Jayne?”

  Leoni bobbed his head. “She congratulated me on a job well done.”

  Adele wrinkled her brow. “I didn’t know she was going to call you.”

  “AISE thinks we’ve succeeded here too. They’re going to be flying us home tomorrow morning.”

  But Adele was shaking her head vehemently now, her hands back in the car, clasped in her lap. “We can’t do that,” she said, hurriedly. “We don’t have the killer. Please, Leoni, I know you don’t know me well. I need you to trust me, though. This is the right guy, whoever the killer is, they’re still out there. And they’re going to be at Stonehenge.”

  Leoni winced. “A guess,” he said. “My guess. And I’m not confident. Why are you?”

  “I’m confident this is supposed to be a religious spot. I’m confident that you know enough that this is our best shot. A sacrificial spot for druids,” she said. “Organic stone… Like a heart. It makes some sense. I know it isn’t perfect… I get it. But it’s the best shot we have. Our job is best done in matters of degree.”

  “Maybe if you reverse engineer the riddle, but only—”

  “The riddle. Exactly. And that’s what we’ve done every time. Looking back, it’s been obvious. Well, imagine we’re standing in Stonehenge right now, we reread the riddle. Looking back, it would be obvious, wouldn’t it?”

  Leoni reached up, scratching his head. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know. I guess probably.”

  “I can work with probably. All right, well, give me a second. Can you trust me on this?”

  Leoni hesitated, but to his credit, the hesitation didn’t last long. At last, he just dipped his head and said, “I can do that.”

  Adele raised her phone again and quickly cycled to Ms. Jayne’s number. She called for the second time that day, and waited, the phone ringing.

  It was night, and she hoped the Interpol correspondent would answer. Thankfully, after another few rings, the phone vibrated, shaking her hand, and Ms. Jayne’s voice came out on the speaker. “Agent Sharp?”

  Adele cleared her throat. “Ms. Jayne? Hello, do you have a moment?”

  “Yes. Is this about the case?”

  “About the one in Austria.”

  “The suspect didn’t get away, did he?” she said, hurriedly.

  “No,” Adele said, quickly. She looked up at Leoni and shared a nervous look. “Nothing like that. But look, Ms. Jayne, I just wanted to say, I don’t think we have the right guy. I’ve been talking to Agent Leoni, and we think that if we narrow down the list, the most likely next spot—”

  “Agent Sharp, let me stop you there. I spoke with Christopher earlier. Smart man. Both of you did a good job here. How about you take the accolades and don’t ruin it.”

  Adele winced. Clearly, Ms. Jayne didn’t want to hear any more. But she had to. “I know how important it is to solve this one. I know there’s a lot of money behind the tourist industries. I know there’s a lot of people who are glad that we caught the guy. But I don’t think we did. We don’t have enough evidence to know for sure. And a lack of alibis isn’t the same as being guilty.”

  “Do you have other evidence of another suspect?”

  “No, not like that, but—”

  “You have no new evidence. So why exactly are you calling me?”

  “Look, we need a flight to Stonehenge. Can we have that arranged?”

  There was a soft sigh on the other end of the phone that sounded like someone exhaling through their nose. Ms. Jayne had always been reasonable, clever, and she knew how to employ Adele’s skills where needed. But she was also in charge of a lot of other agents. Juggling plates. And this time, she said, “I’m afraid not, Agent Sharp. We already have you booked on a plane ride back to Paris. Executive Foucault wishes to speak with you. Besides, how would it look if I sent off an Italian agent with you, signaling to his government and everyone else that we don’t have any confidence in the suspect we’re detaining? That’ll get out. Lawyers will hear about it. It’ll be the first thing the defense uses. That we didn’t even believe we had the right suspect. Now isn’t the time for a show of weakness. I’m sorry. I expect you on the first flight back to Paris.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, Adele. That’s final. Is there anything else?”

  Adele stammered, then sighed. “I guess not. But I think you’re wrong.”

  “I appreciate all input. If you have anything more to say to me, please call back tomorrow morning. Have a good night. And good job.”

  Ms. Jayne hung up.

  Adele sighed, sitting in the car, her fingers tapping again against the cool metal of the exterior through the window. Leoni was looking at her sympathetically. “I guess they think it’s closed.”

  She stared back, glaring now. Her blood pulsed and her cheeks prickled with frustration. “It isn’t. Someone is going to die tonight. Tomorrow morning will be too late.” She paused, thinking desperately, then said, “How long will it take to drive there?”

  “Stonehenge? Too long.” Leoni glanced out the window, but then looked back. He seemed to be weighing Adele, gauging her with an appraising look. At last, he sighed, softly, and said, “We don’t have to drive.”

  He spoke quietly, his voice nearly a whisper, but it was like a lifeline, thrown to a drowning victim, catching her attention all the same against a sea of chaos. “Excuse me?”

  Leoni breathed once, then spoke louder. “I have a friend; he lives about an hour from here. An old associate of mine. Remember how I told you my mother used to be an agent?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, her third ex-husband runs charter flights out of Austria.”

  Adele stared, dumbfounded. “You are actually James Bond,” she said.

  He looked at her confused, but then pressed on. “He always used to like me. I think if we ask, he’ll give us a flight. But that’s the best I can do. Just this once. If we don’t find anyone there, I’m going to have to consider the case closed as well.”

  Adele nodded feeling her chest skip a beat. “We’ll find the killer. Trust me.” Even as she said it, she thought, Do I even trust myself? She shook off the niggling doubt. “We need that flight right away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Agent John Renee glanced at the crossed-off names on his list, the small note paper illuminated by the light growing from the center of the sidewalk. The door to the Cadillac was ajar, and one of John’s long legs dangled past into the street. His eyes narrowed vaguely as he studied the list of ten names. Six of them crossed off. Only four left.

  He sighed. No red flags, solid alibis for the first six. Was he running out of road?

  For a moment, John missed Adele. She was the sort to run down grueling leads, one at a time. Once, she’d walked an entire street, looking for a security camera, then spent hours combing through the footage. Nothing tired that woman out.

  John, though, missed his distillery. He missed the quiet, careful life of a man who only cared the minimum amount. But that wasn’t an option this time.

  He shifted, rising from inside the vehicle and stepping onto the curb. The Parisian air was warm and still. John rubbed at his jaw. No minimum effort this t
ime, not where Adele was concerned. Her mother had been killed by this bastard. Copycat, or otherwise, whoever had sent those notes to Elise Romei had eventually ripped her to ribbons.

  Nearly a decade ago, Adele had failed to track the killer. And now, she was off in Italy, then Greece. Unwilling to return, to face the case. And John didn’t blame her. But it meant it was up to him to solve this for her. If he let her down, there’d be no chance of reconnecting, no chance of… anything.

  Besides, she deserved this. If anyone deserved a win, it was Adele.

  John glanced at his marked piece of notepad paper, studying the next name on the list. Andrew Maldonado. The guy was too jumpy, too nervous not to know something. No—he’d been holding out. If anyone on the list was suspect, it was Mr. Maldonado.

  John folded the piece of paper across the four indented square sections, and then tucked the list into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, checking the email he’d requested. Records for Mr. Maldonado. And an address.

  He confirmed the location, then glanced up at the small, two-story home in the center of Vitry-sur-Seine. The lights were off, and the curtains drawn. John stepped along the curb, to the small pathway leading up to the blue metal door. He noted a piece of tape over the doorbell.

  John didn’t approach the door, though. He wasn’t here to announce his presence. No. Playing by the rules? That was Adele’s way. John had other tactics. And they’d served him well, long before he’d met Agent Sharp.

  He circled around the house now, half-crouched, shooting glances toward the streets. His head dipped below the windows as he lowered his large frame and then, every few moments, looked up, peeking through the first window.

  But the glass set in the aluminum siding was dark; still no lights and again shuttered by a curtain. He heard a quiet screech and stiffened, glancing sharply over his shoulder. A car trundled past, and he could hear music blaring from the open windows. The vehicle didn’t stop, though, and the headlights flashed, disappearing around the T-intersection at the end of the street.