by Blake Pierce
But still, everyone was turning up a blank. The Spade Killer, this man who styled himself some sort of sick artist—his name received from the park paths and gardens where he’d abandoned his victims—was still on the loose.
They even had a composite sketch now, thanks to John. But nothing.
No clues, no leads…
John had managed, even, to sneak into the room on the third floor, where the task force had been working. Their damn corkboard was practically blank. John had long suspected one could often tell the progress of an investigation by the number of items pinned to the inevitably available corkboard.
The one upstairs only held the faces of the victims, and a composite sketch.
No other details—no further substantiated clues.
John glanced at the damn phone again. She was ignoring him. Of course she was—he would have been surprised if she’d done it any other way. Adele was a bloodhound, but she wasn’t a pack animal. No, she’d moved too much for that as a child. She was used to solving things on her own.
And now, she’d chosen to cut him out of the loop, along with everyone else. He never would have admitted it out loud, but the rejection hurt. More, perhaps, than he thought it would. He winced against the intruding thoughts. Quickly, he forced the emotions down, making a case for Adele, softening the pain.
It wasn’t like he could blame her. No one else was even close to solving this thing. Not even after the murder of one of their own agents. Adele couldn’t trust anyone—she wouldn’t.
John hissed in frustration and then downed the rest of his glass in one quick gulp. He could feel his fingers trembling from frustration where they gripped the phone. He could feel a strange pulsing, twisting in his stomach… Pain? A bit of that.
But also guilt?
He frowned.
Why guilt?
Then he swallowed, realizing the obvious answer. He’d had the Spade Killer in reach. He’d nearly had the bastard, but had ended up letting the small man get away.
And then what? Then the killer had taken Robert, too.
“Merde!” John cursed, launching his empty glass across the room. It shattered against the door.
He stared at the reflective pieces of glass where they landed on the folders he’d been studying religiously. He’d hoped, perhaps, he could find something—anything—to help Adele. Then maybe she could have some peace. Maybe she’d answer his damn calls.
He felt like a little dog, scorned and whimpering, hoping to somehow please its human. Every cell in John, every prideful bone in his body, wanted to get up, stalk across the room, and forget the stupid folders, forget the phone…
But he couldn’t forget Adele.
Which meant he couldn’t forget any of it.
With a sigh, his eyes blinking blearily, he got slowly, wobbly, to his feet and moved back to the folders on the ground. Maybe he’d find something on another read-through. He’d just have to be more careful this time. Just a little bit more careful.
But he’d already been over the files five times by now. There was nothing. No clue. Nothing new.
Still, he had to try.
Not because he’d find anything.
But because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to look Adele in the eye again if he didn’t at least make the effort.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Adele felt like her heart was trying to escape her chest. Her fingers trembled so badly she jammed them into her pockets as she marched away from the double doors to the real estate office, down the hall. As foul luck would have it, at that moment, a group of businesspeople from the office space across the hall suddenly emerged, stepping out into the corridor.
Again, it felt like everyone was watching her, and there was nothing she could do about it. Adele continued to move hurriedly, trying to outpace her thoughts, to outpace the nerves and anxiety swirling in her. Too many names. Too many potential victims. How could she possibly save them all? How could she stop it all?
She couldn’t even stop Robert from dying.
She broke into a jog, ignoring the odd looks from the business folk in the hallway. She took the stairs three at a time and burst out the front of the office complex. She needed to move. To where, she didn’t know. She just knew she couldn’t stand still. Not now.
She broke into a jog, choosing a random direction and heading up the sidewalk, her eyes downcast. She needed to focus. But what was the point in focusing?
Bleeding… bleeding… always bleeding.
She shivered at the memory. Shivered at the thoughts of Robert, his blood staining the floor beneath his red leather chair. She shivered at the small marble angel, its eyes caked in mud, blind to what had occurred just within the house.
Adele felt like that statue. Blind, her face pressed to the dirt. Just as helpless, just as motionless.
A soft sob escaped her throat, and she growled, picking up her pace, running faster.
She didn’t look ahead, keeping her gaze only ten feet in front of her. What was the sense in looking too far into the future? It only carried more pain.
Focus, she thought to herself. You have to focus.
Robert was dead. What was the point in focusing? All of his instincts, all of his training hadn’t been able to save him. And more importantly, she hadn’t been able to save him.
She continued to run, now sprinting, racing up the sidewalk outside the small coastal town. She passed by a couple of pedestrians carrying grocery bags, sidestepping just in time and nearly tripping over a fire hydrant. She managed to catch herself, ignoring the annoyed comments from the pedestrians, and slid into a side alley, gasping now, and slamming her back against the brick wall. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, smelling refuse and old moisture. She looked along the alley, toward the back, where a small lean-to of cardboard and old fabric had been set up. The makeshift home seemed empty for now.
“What now?” she murmured out loud.
Robert was dead. She had to face it. She had grieved him, hadn’t she?
Then again, she hadn’t allowed herself to cry at the funeral. Tears were no good. Tears wouldn’t bring him back.
Nothing would.
But what about the victims now? What about those twenty-three potential victims? The killer would keep going, no doubt. Did they deserve to die just because she was going through a mental breakdown?
Was that what Robert would have wanted? What did it matter what a dead man wanted? The dead didn’t want anything.
She found herself hyperventilating now, sliding down the alley wall, feeling the bricks rigid against her spine. She dropped into a crouch, her knees practically pressed against her, her arms dangling loosely over the top of her legs. She closed her eyes, focusing on breathing for a moment.
Her instincts had fled. She didn’t even feel like an investigator anymore. She felt like a child, a child crying in the back of her apartment as the news came about her mother. A child forced to move across country back with her father, living in silence and fear. A child without friends, without help. A child alone. Robert had come along, after she graduated from university and was recruited by the French agency. He had seen something in her, or at least thought he had.
He’d been the father she’d never really had. Her own father was a harsh man, a taskmaster.
But with kindness and affection, Robert had taught her twice as much as the Sergeant ever had. Perhaps not a very fair or honoring comparison. Perhaps she ought to just be grateful she had a father, where so many didn’t.
But Robert had been a father too. He’d been there for her and now he was gone. She hadn’t been there to repay the favor. She hadn’t been able to save him.
She began to shake, her shoulders trembling now. She wanted to cry, but what would that help?
And so she just sat there, cold, shaking, breathing heavily, her eyes sealed shut, refusing to look around, and refusing to acknowledge the alley she’d backed herself into.
Was this what Robert would have wanted?
&nb
sp; She sat there for a few moments, trembling, and then she heard the click of shoes, the sound of a clearing throat. She felt, more than saw, a shadow fall across her, blocking out the heat of the sun.
She didn’t want to open her eyes, she didn’t want to acknowledge whoever was now watching her. She just wanted to be left alone.
“Agent Sharp,” said Paige, her voice soft.
Adele continued to shake. This was the worst-case scenario. The last person she wanted there.
“Adele,” the older woman’s voice probed into the alley.
Adele looked up, slowly opening her eyes. She didn’t want to, but sometimes, there was no choice. She beheld Agent Paige, watching her. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. What else could she say?
“You did good,” Paige said simply.
Adele blinked. Of all the comments she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.
Paige crossed her arms. “I didn’t listen to you. But you’re right. There was a connection between those three houses. I should’ve paid attention. We wouldn’t have wasted time. That’s on me.”
Adele frowned now. It was a strange sort of commendation. Adele could feel some of the weight lifting from her shoulders, as if hefted by Paige, the burden carried in tandem.
“There’s too many names,” Adele said, quietly. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Paige pursed her lips, staring at Adele. Some of the usual edge returned to her tone. “You’re not supposed to do this on your own,” she said, sternly. “It’s the reason they pair us, Adele. Do you know who knew that? Better than anyone?”
“Who?”
“Robert. I partnered with him once before, did you know that? This was earlier, before your time, when the agency was just a fledgling thing. They attracted a lot of recruits with Robert. He’d been a homicide detective with an incredible closure rate. A bit of celebrity in Paris.”
Adele sighed, nodding slowly. She had known this. She had known Robert was better at his job than she was.
“I can see how he’s rubbed off on you,” Paige continued. “I wasn’t sure at first. But there’s no denying that you’re good at your job, Adele. And you’re still young. Very young. You’re what, thirty?”
“Thirty-four,” she replied softly. For a second, the moment seemed to suspend. Was Paige complimenting her? Adele hadn’t realized the woman knew how. And to compare her to Robert? Adele swallowed, feeling a sudden lump in her throat. Part of her wished it was true. Another part could scarcely believe it. Had Robert really rubbed off on her? She missed him so much.
Agent Paige watched Adele and murmured, “Thirty-four, is that it? You’re still a baby, Adele. I can’t imagine what sort of cases you will be solving when you get to my age.” She shook her head, glancing off down the alley toward the makeshift house of cardboard and cloth, and wrinkling her nose in disgust.
She sniffed delicately and then glanced out across the street. Some of the sunlight swept in again, over the bridge of her nose, warming Adele’s face.
“You’re not supposed to do this alone. So don’t try. I should’ve been here earlier, and I have myself to blame for that.” It wasn’t quite an apology, but it was damn close.
“I don’t know what to do next,” Adele said, with a sigh.
“This might help,” Paige replied.
Her right hand had been against her thigh, but she lifted it now, and Adele realized she was holding a manila folder. She extended it toward Adele. “Looks like our photographic firm owner also has the sense to keep at least some printed records. His secretary got these for me.”
With still trembling fingers, Adele took the folder and lowered it slowly to her lap, where she still sat in the alley. Paige leaned her shoulder against the alley wall, but then wrinkled her nose just as quickly and straightened again, dusting off her shirtsleeve.
Adele looked at the older woman. “You’re not going to call Foucault?”
Paige watched Adele, tongue pressed inside her cheek. Then she simply shrugged. “Not yet. I’ve had worse partners…” Was that a note of sympathy? Perhaps even pity? Adele shivered. Paige continued, though, “Just tell me what you make of that.”
Adele returned her attention to the file in hand. “What is it?” Even as she asked, Adele opened the folder, scanning the contents.
“Transaction history,” Agent Paige said. “From all the sales in a ten-year period. Becker circled and highlighted the ones sold by the church.”
Adele whistled, glancing along the three-page file. Tight, cramped cursive writing stacked in neat rows. Every few lines of text, one of the transactions was circled with a yellow highlighter.
“It was really quite impressive,” Paige said, nodding in admiration. “Becker knew them from memory. But look, each of those was sold by the church, within the timeframe we’re looking at. Each of them sold to private owners. But it also keeps track of everyone who bid on the properties. See there, in the column on the furthest right. Those were failed offers. All of them pending, and then turned down.”
Adele tracked the folder and turned the page, scanning the document.
Perhaps Paige was right. Perhaps trying to do this alone had been her mistake. Perhaps thinking she could had been the error. Paige had procured the necessary piece of evidence when Adele had fallen to despair. Perhaps she shouldn’t have counted Agent Paige out so quickly. Still, what would this do?
It was still more than twenty-three names. Still more than she could handle.
She tried to quiet herself, just scanning the folder, reading the transaction history. She looked from the purchase names to the pending sale information. She scanned through the list a second time, flipping through the three pages and squinting against the cramped, cursive handwriting.
Part of her wished Mr. Becker had heard of a computer or a spreadsheet, but another part of her was too focused to complain. Her eyes darted from each highlighted and circled transaction to the next.
“What’s this right here?” she murmured softly. She tapped her finger against one of the pending sales that had fallen through.
Agent Paige nodded slowly. “Exactly,” she said. “I asked him about that too.”
Adele blinked, wondering just how long she’d sat in the alley.
“Lavigne Preservation,” Adele murmured. “What is Lavigne Preservation?”
Paige murmured, “Flip the page, look at the next set of transactions.”
Adele did. Under nearly every one of the transaction records, she spotted the same name. Lavigne Preservation. “A company?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. She flipped the page to the last one, and again, on nearly five of the church sales, in the pending column, with failed bids and lowball offers, she spotted Lavigne Preservation.
“Becker said it was a historian,” replied Paige. “Said that fellow offered bids on nearly all of the church properties, making claims that they needed to preserve the historic sites rather than develop them.”
Adele looked up staring at Agent Paige. “So you saw the connection too?”
Paige glared now. “You’re good, but you’re not the only one who knows how to do their job.” She shook her head in disgust. “Some of you young ones, you really need to show a bit more respect, you know that?”
Adele held up a hand in apology and glanced back at the papers. “So he’s a preservationist? A historian you say?”
“According to Becker he still lives in the area. Also according to Becker, he made some big stink about ten years ago when the final sales were completed. Protested outside a government building with some kooks and crazies, all of them frustrated that the land was sold for development or residential, as opposed to preserved for its historic significance.”
Adele felt a flicker in her chest. Maybe she’d been thinking about this wrong. Maybe trying to track down the victims was a mistake. Maybe Paige was right. Maybe they’d found the killer instead.
“So some rabid preservationist went out of his way to lowball offers on all of these pro
perties.”
“Of course, Becker said he turned him down. Which, in Becker’s own words,” Paige said, pulling out her phone, pausing for a moment, then clicking the device, and a recorded voice suddenly spoke out:
“…he went quite mad,” the recording said, Becker’s voice echoing through the speakers. “Quite mad indeed. Furious I wouldn’t sell to him. He kept saying I owed it to history. Owed it to faith. Said I owed it to God… Is that enough now? I really have to be going…”
Agent Paige clicked off her phone.
Adele looked up, wide-eyed. “You recorded him?”
“He doesn’t use technology himself, but he’s not allergic to it.” Agent Paige shrugged, placing her phone back in her pocket.
Adele’s mind continued to churn. This was an important development. If this historian had gone so far to think he was entitled to the land, but unable to buy any of it, maybe he might go even further. Slowly, Adele slid back up the dusty alley wall, her mind racing.
She swallowed slowly, muttering, “We have a criminal record on the guy?”
“I haven’t called it in yet,” Paige said. “I just got out of talking with Becker.”
Adele nodded quickly, dusting off her pants and closing her eyes for a moment to think.
“A historian. Not enough money to make a dent on the properties. But enough zeal and frustration to organize protests outside government buildings. Invoking God and morality as entitlement to those properties. Do you think it fits the MO?”
“Look at Mrs. Churchville’s property, Signora Calvetti’s, and Mrs. Schmidt’s,” Agent Paige said, softly.
Adele quickly flicked back through, moving from each of the addresses they’d already visited of the summer homes. She read the pending sale column on each and looked up, eyes wide. “He made offers on all those houses,” she said quickly.
“Exactly.”
“We need to find out what we can about Lavigne Enterprises. Find out about this historian. Especially check to see if he has any criminal complaints.”
Agent Paige studied Adele for a moment, standing out in the sunlight, looking at where Adele stood in the alley. For a moment, she just watched the younger woman, and then her eyes seemed to flash with something akin to a smile, though it didn’t reach her lips. She nodded once as if in satisfaction, and then turned, her shoes clicking as she began to move back up the sidewalk. “I already called a cab,” she said, over her shoulder. “You can call the police. Get the information yourself.”