Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight)

by Blake Pierce

“I don’t mean to trouble you,” murmured Brigitte, attempting a smile, but then seemingly deciding this wouldn’t help matters, so she left it and just watched Adele. “Only, yesterday, when I asked if you’d be willing to help settle some of this, I didn’t realize Uncle might have changed the will.”

  Adele winced, shrugging again. “I really don’t know. I’m very sorry.”

  Brigitte sighed, turning to face a pile of cardboard boxes where some of Robert’s books had been stowed. Adele had overseen this task personally. The books had been Robert’s favorites. Very few things were valued by the man as much, and she was determined to see them packed properly.

  Adele felt her fingers against the leather spine of another tome. Some third volume in a historical treatment of the Roman Empire. She glanced down at the nearly indeterminable golden scrawl on the front of the cover and tried her best to smile.

  She couldn’t manage it, though.

  What was the point of memories without the source of them? It felt like warming in the sparks of an already doused fire.

  “Hmm?” Adele said, looking away from the book toward Brigitte. “Sorry, what was that?”

  Robert’s niece did smile this time—a soft, sad smile. “The lawyer is talking with my father in the other room,” she repeated. “Did you want to join us? Amendment or not, you’re in the original will.”

  Adele breathed slowly, closing her eyes in thought. Robert had left her something?

  Did she deserve it?

  Did it matter?

  She felt a flash of guilt realizing how very little she wanted anything to do with tokens or heirlooms, sentimental or otherwise. Yesterday, the funeral had been difficult enough. She hadn’t allowed herself to cry. She’d refused.

  Tears wouldn’t bring him back. Tears wouldn’t bring him justice.

  She glanced out the window, into the garden beyond, her eyes tracing the single marble statue of the angel. The marble features had been washed with a hose now, clearing the mud from the angel’s eyes. She shivered, remembering that night three weeks ago.

  Remembering how she’d found Robert on the floor.

  He’d died horribly.

  “I… I… sorry,” she said, reflexively. “I just… I’ll be there in a moment if you don’t mind. Just…”

  Brigitte hesitated, one foot turned toward the open kitchen, where Adele could hear voices as the estate details were being settled by lawyers and relatives. “Thank you,” Brigitte said at last, quietly.

  Adele frowned. “For what?”

  “I know how much Uncle cared for you… We, well, when we moved—three hours away and, well, just… I didn’t visit as much as I would have liked.” Brigitte winced, shaking her head. “I know he cared for you.”

  “I moved too,” Adele said softly. “And not just east of Paris.” She thought of her sojourn to California, working for the FBI. It seemed a lifetime ago now. She remembered Robert’s many letters, his invitations to visit. It had taken her years to summon the courage to return.

  Years she’d left behind. Years where she could have spent time with him.

  Years she might have used to find the bastard who’d done it.

  She felt another cold prickle along her back and glanced out the window again.

  He was out there still… somewhere, biding his time. Her mother’s killer had targeted Robert because of her. That much was obvious now. She hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to. What sort of investigator missed something this obvious? Robert had been tortured to death because of her. Because she’d been too slow…

  She closed her eyes, still facing the window. Perhaps the mud splashed in the marble angel’s eyes had been a mercy. See no evil?

  And yet Adele hadn’t been afforded that same courtesy. She’d seen again and again what the man they called the Spade Killer had done. Her mother, now Robert… His other victims had fared just as horribly.

  Worst of all, she knew the killer was still nearby… probably even in Paris. But she didn’t know how to find him. She had no leads. Anyone close to her was in danger—that much was obvious. A task force of a sort had been assembled back at the DGSI—at least, so she’d been told. Of course, she’d been left out of the line-up as well as anyone connected to her. Probably good, anyway. When the task force inevitably failed to turn up anything new, at least she wouldn’t know the source of the inevitable failure. The Spade Killer was a ghost. She’d gone through those files more than anyone, gone over them again and again. Everything they had on the murderer.

  Nothing new. Nothing new ever came up. They were stuck. The path forward was murky at best, invisible at worst.

  Even at this thought, she took a hesitant step away from Brigitte, more reaction than anything. She thought of how she’d treated John at the funeral yesterday. He’d tried to talk with her twice, and both times she’d given him the cold shoulder. It was for his own good. At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

  She remembered the last text message to her father. Lie low for now. Lock your doors. Get a patrol car to watch your house.

  At least in Germany, her father might be afforded some level of safety. But that was no guarantee where the Spade Killer was concerned. She’d considered asking Renee to do the same, but she’d known John would never comply with such a directive.

  “Adele?” Brigitte’s voice poked through her overcast thoughts. “We’re just sorting the last details out. Mr. Ozil is asking for you.”

  “The lawyer? I’ll… be right there. You go on. Just finishing up.”

  Robert’s niece nodded politely, dipping her head, then she turned, moving behind the red leather chair, past the cold fireplace and into the kitchen.

  Adele slowly lowered the leather-bound book into one of the boxes, setting it neatly on top of its cousin volumes. She looked toward the open kitchen doorway, listening to the soft murmur of voices.

  She didn’t deserve anything Robert had left her. She’d failed him to the point of death.

  She felt a flash of disgust. No… She needed out.

  Trying to move as quietly as possible, Adele headed in the opposite direction of the kitchen doorway, moving toward the hall that led to the front door. As she left, hastening with each haunted step through the familiar mansion hall, her phone began to buzz.

  Adele frowned, glancing down.

  But even as she picked it up, it rang along with the vibration. Wrinkling her nose, she stared at the device.

  Two incoming calls.

  She blinked in surprise.

  Two calls simultaneously, both from numbers she recognized. The first, from Agent Leoni—the Italian she’d grown fond of over the last few months. She pictured the handsome agent’s features in her mind—his perfectly sculpted nose and Superman curl of dark hair against his forehead. She felt tempted to smile, staring at the buzzing number.

  Did she want to talk to him, though?

  Everyone close to you is in danger, whispered a small voice in her mind. Everyone who draws near will die!

  She shivered and instantly hung up on the call from Leoni. No… Not now. That would have to wait. Still, the second phone call was a welcome one. Another number she knew.

  Work.

  With a flooding sense of strange relief, she pushed out the front door, stepping into the small, gated garden and moving past the marble angel with its pristine features. With a rasping voice, Adele answered, “Adele.”

  “Agent Sharp?” said the familiar, growling tone of Executive Foucault, her boss at the DGSI. “Have a second?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, quickly. “A case?” She winced at how eager she must have sounded.

  She continued toward the black gate outside Robert’s mansion and pushed out onto the street.

  “No rush,” Foucault said, his expression indeterminable over the call. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sir, do you have a case for me?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  “Feeling, sir?”

 
“Dammit, Sharp, I know you and Henry were close. Are you up for a—”

  “Yes sir,” she said quickly, her back to the hedge encircling Robert’s home. “Very much so, sir.”

  Executive Foucault paused on the other end and Adele waited on tenterhooks, hoping she’d sounded convincing enough. She couldn’t continue like this. From the funeral to estate management and back to her apartment. It had been weeks since the death. She was an investigator, a bloodhound. It felt like she’d been kenneled against her will. Plus, she needed a distraction. Anything to get her mind off the dark thoughts, the swirling, looping anxiety.

  “Am I going to regret this, Sharp?”

  “No sir. Definitely not. I’m tip-top of my game, sir.”

  “Tip-top? Hmm?”

  Adele coughed delicately. “The funeral was yesterday, sir. I’ve dealt with it.”

  This, she knew, was a lie. But she couldn’t remain like a dinghy in a stormy sea with nothing to do, nowhere to go.

  Foucault sighed on the other end. “All right. I’m taking your word on this one, Sharp. But I’m warning you, if I get a whiff that your head isn’t on straight—”

  “Straight as a pin, sir.”

  “Right. Well, in that case, yes, Agent Sharp. I have a case. And it’s a strange one.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adele leaned back in her work sedan, eyes closed, feet on the dashboard where she’d parked around the corner from Robert’s estate. Her full attention now was directed toward the buzzing sound coming from her cell phone’s speaker.

  “Both of them wealthy, sir?”

  “Yes, and both in their fifties.”

  “Strangled, you say?”

  “That’s what it looks like. We’re waiting for the full report, but it seems straightforward enough.”

  Adele lowered her feet from the dash, her eyes still closed, as she considered this. “Two wealthy women, both in their fifties, killed within three days of each other. By strangulation. Is that about it?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “And we’re sure they’re connected?”

  “Again, we’re not sure, but that’s what it looks like. If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t be calling you. Besides, we’re a bit short staffed over here at the moment.”

  “Oh, why?”

  An awkward pause. And she realized with a sickening jolt. “Oh,” she said, dully. “The task force, right? How are things on that front?”

  Foucault sniffed. “I’ll keep you informed of any developments.”

  Adele didn’t say it, but she knew this was boss code for we’ve got shit all. For a moment, she felt another sickening thought. Was this just a ploy to get her out of the way, to prevent her from interfering with the investigation? She closed her eyes at the thought, shaking her head.

  “Well, Sharp, are you in?”

  She swallowed back the rising tide of nerves, focusing on the simple need for a distraction more than anything right now. “Of course. Just, sir, the UK—I haven’t worked a case there in a while.”

  “But you have in Italy. I’m sure your Interpol connections will pay off. I’m simply the liaison here, Agent Sharp. The initial murder, the one in the UK, seems like the killer’s first. But now, the same MO in Italy three days later suggests he’s picking up the pace.”

  “And we’re sure it’s the same MO?”

  “Yes. The ligature marks from the strangulation are… well, here, this is what the coroner in London said, and I quote: ‘peculiar and bizarre.’”

  “How so?”

  “Coroners in both places say it looks like some sort of beaded material was used. Not exactly a strangulation weapon of choice. Suggesting—”

  “The same killer.”

  “Exactly. Well, final chance, Sharp. Are you in? If these kills are connected, we have a problem. The killer avoided two security systems, managed to travel internationally, and had the fitness and strength to kill two women with his hands. We need you focused if you’re in.”

  Adele opened her eyes, staring out the windshield at the gray skies above Paris, frowning over the cars parked in front of her along the sidewalk. The city felt darker now. The clouds above grayer, the sunlight dimmer. She nodded, not that he could see, and said, “Yes sir. I’m in. Very much so. Just…”

  “Just what?” He sounded suspicious now.

  Quickly she said, “Just if possible, could I have another partner for this one?”

  “You don’t wish to work with Agent Renee?”

  “Not this time, sir.”

  “Did something happen—”

  “No. Nothing. Just, well, sir, it’s two wealthy women.”

  “So? Adele, I told you if you didn’t think you could handle—”

  “I can!” she protested quickly, feeling her stomach twist. She couldn’t afford to lose this case, not now. If Foucault took it from her because he suspected her of being too emotionally distraught, she wasn’t sure how she’d survive another three weeks of cabin fever and listlessness. She needed this case, but she also couldn’t work with John. Anyone close to her… Everyone was in danger. She needed a partner who could take care of themselves, and who even the most neutral onlooker wouldn’t suspect of harboring any sort of fondness for Adele. Besides… the person she had in mind also could bring a unique insight into this particular case.

  “It’s nothing like that, sir,” she pressed. “I figured I could benefit from someone in the victim’s age group. Someone who might be able to think like them.”

  Foucault didn’t say anything at first and Adele looked at the phone, making sure she hadn’t lost the connection.

  “Sir?” she ventured.

  “You want another partner in the victim’s age group…”

  “Yes sir.” Adele coughed and blinked. “How about Agent Sophie Paige, sir?” She winced, waiting. Sophie Paige loathed Adele, ever since an incident when Adele had last worked at the DGSI, years ago. She’d reported missing evidence, which Paige had taken to protect her then-husband. Adele hadn’t known who’d taken the evidence at the time. In the end, all parties had been cleared of wrongdoing, and Foucault had gone to bat for Agent Paige.

  It was still something of a mystery why the Executive was so protective of Agent Paige. Some whispered infidelity, others thought blackmail. Adele wasn’t so sure, though.

  Either way, Paige hated Adele’s guts. Even the Spade Killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to think Sophie Paige was a friend or a worthwhile target. In a strange twist, Sophie’s hatred of Adele would keep her safe. It had to. Adele couldn’t think of any other options.

  “You’re sure?” said Foucault. And even the Executive, who knew the extent of the division between the older and younger agent, couldn’t keep the note of surprise from his tone.

  “Yes sir, very sure. Agent Paige will be perfect on this case.”

  “All right, Adele. I’m giving you a bit of leeway on this one. Remember, though, even a whiff of baggage, and I’m pulling you.”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean it. I know you lost someone, Sharp. But our job can’t afford distractions. Already, two women have been killed in their homes. Mothers, both of them. The killer is escalating. Two dead in three days.”

  Adele bit her lower lip. “I understand, sir. If another body drops, it’s on me.”

  “Let’s just make sure that doesn’t happen. You’d best get going now. I’ll have Agent Paige meet you at the airport with the tickets and itinerary. Good luck, Agent Sharp. Catch this bastard before he kills again.”

  ***

  Adele wasn’t quite sure where to look. For one, on her open laptop which rested against the lowered tray, she had the gruesome crime scene photos. On the other, she could feel the ghoulish glances Sophie Paige kept shooting in her direction where she sat next to Adele in the aisle seat.

  Sophie Paige was middle-aged with silver hair and severe features like a nun from the fifties, or a stern substitute teacher. She was also one of the more experie
nced DGSI agents in the branch.

  Their elbows had brushed once, in the first few minutes of the flight, during take-off, and Adele had practically banged her head against the window, trying to distance herself.

  Now, Agent Paige and Adele had settled into a sort of game of cat and mouse with their elbows and the shared armrest. Each of them doing their best to avoid any sort of physical contact with the other, despite the crowded nature of the airplane’s seating.

  The twin nozzles of air above were in opposite postures. Adele had turned hers on, which had promptly seen Agent Paige turn hers completely off. Adele’s reading light was on, which meant Paige’s was off. Adele’s laptop was open, her tray table down, which meant Paige was now scrolling through her phone, leaning back and shooting reproachful glances toward the younger woman.

  “Well?” Paige said, gruffly, breaking a silence that had lasted an impressive five minutes this time. “Anything?”

  Adele blinked a few times, wincing, feeling how dry her eyes were from the steady nozzle spray of air conditioning. Then again, she refused to turn it off and give Paige the satisfaction. So, determinedly tilting her head down to avoid the brunt of the air nozzle, she refocused on the crime scene photos once more.

  “Beads?” Adele murmured, zooming in on the ligature marks of the first victim’s neck. She winced at the red and purplish bruising around the throat.

  “Why would a killer use beads?” Paige asked, her tone icy.

  “Don’t know. Any guesses?”

  “No.”

  “Do you see anything?”

  Paige sighed, but then scrolled through her phone again. She tapped the device with a straight, manicured finger sans polish. “Might be pearls,” she said. “Both of them are wealthy. Seems like the sort of thing people in their income brackets might use.”

  “Pearls? I didn’t think of that. Do you think they’re being targeted for theft?”

  “I don’t know, Agent Sharp. It’s a theory.”

  Adele pursed her lips, feeling a strange sense of ease at the clear disdain emanating from Paige. Clearly, old grudges still carried weight where the senior DGSI operative was concerned.