Left to Prey (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eleven)

by Blake Pierce

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A strange thing how dots connected. The painter smiled, enjoying the sunny weather San Francisco offered all comers. The city was treating him quite well. Perhaps one day he’d even consider moving here. Then again, given what he had planned, that might not be the best option.

  He curled the small paper straw around his finger like a ring, watching as it unwound again, before curling it once more.

  He whistled beneath his breath, sitting in the cafe across the street from his target.

  Every masterpiece required patience. The true greats, the ones who had perfected their craft, those were the ones who could be the most patient.

  A couple of cars passed in the other direction, making almost no noise. Electric vehicles. Almost everywhere. Not the sort of thing he’d seen too often in France.

  He waited a moment longer, eyes on the apartment. It had once been her apartment. He smiled at the thought. He couldn’t wait until she found out that he knew. But then again, everything came in its proper time.

  He curled the straw again, watching it unwind. He held up a hand as a waiter came by, carrying a menu. The waiter hesitated and began to say, “Sir, if you’re not going to order, I’m afraid you can’t—”

  The painter looked at him, staring with one dull eye. He didn’t blink, and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to rearrange his features or look intimidating in any way. But he’d long ago learned that people saw something when he met their gaze. He’d looked in the mirror before, as a self-study. He never could quite understand what they were reacting to. He did have odd features, after a fashion. But what great artist didn’t? Van Gogh had cut off his own ear.

  And yet, the effect was universal. The waiter stared at him for a moment, swallowed, and then babbled an apology, before quickly retreating.

  The painter lazily looked away again, eyes on the apartment doors.

  He checked his watch. Soon. It would have to be soon.

  And then the door buzzed. A figure emerged. A man with curly brown hair. A straight nose, pale features, and glasses. He was quite handsome, in a desk job kind of way.

  His case study began to move down the sidewalk, chatting idly on a telephone via a Bluetooth speaker.

  Inattentive. This would be easier than he thought.

  The painter got slowly to his feet, careful not to make any sound. The man with the curly hair crossed to the side of the street with the cafe, moving down the sidewalk, still yammering away.

  He passed within a few feet of the painter. He didn’t even look up. He didn’t see a thing.

  The painter whistled a bit more, allowing the straw to uncurl around his finger and then tossing it on the table. He began to move after the man with the curly hair. He wondered what Adele would think when this was all done. Would she blame herself?

  He certainly hoped not. He didn’t like sharing credit.

  This was his doing. Adele was simply the blessed one. Not every artist had a muse. When he had found his, he could feel the difference in his artwork. Everyone could feel it.

  He smiled, picking up the pace, following after the man and maneuvering down the sidewalk. He kept his distance. Now he was just gathering information. Biding his time. Enjoying himself. He watched the way the man’s arms moved against the thin fabric of his long shirt. He tracked the musculature of his legs. The way his feet pointed out just a bit too far. The man’s hands kept twitching and moving and curling. He had a nervous tic where he reached up and tugged at one ear.

  All of these little things had to be noticed for a true artist. Beauty was in the details.

  Still whistling softly beneath his breath, limping faintly, the painter followed after his new friend, moving along the sidewalk, completely unnoticed, unobserved, and ignored.

  The calm before the storm.

  And this time, it would be a hurricane.

  ***

  Adele could feel her frustration mounting as she watched the paramedics examine their suspect in the back of the ambulance. Evening had turned to night, and the flash of headlights passing them on the highway acted like errant spotlights illuminating the vehicles pulled to the side of the road.

  A portion of the rest stop had been cleared, allowing for the police vehicles and the ambulance to occupy space. Now, as Adele watched the paramedics work, one of the men looked over at her, flashed a thumbs-up and a quick nod. He raised five fingers and tapped his wrist, before turning and rounding the front of his vehicle. A second later, the other paramedic followed. They reached in the front seat, pulling out a clipboard, and began to quickly move through a checklist.

  Five minutes. That’s how long the paramedics had given them to speak with the man before they had to take him to a hospital.

  Adele was beginning to wonder if they were going out of their way to protect innocents or criminals more. Still, five minutes was more than nothing. John was currently speaking with another CNI agent, explaining why he had discharged his weapon on Spanish soil. Adele didn’t know how much red tape would be involved. Already, they had been forced to notify Agent Paige. It wasn’t after eight yet either. Which meant her children weren’t in bed. Things were just getting worse.

  Adele approached the back of the ambulance where the man was cuffed to a cot. He was sitting up, dazedly looking out at the police cars gathered at the corner of the rest stop. His eyes were still bloodshot, and he couldn’t seem to quite hold himself upright, swaying even where he sat.

  “Mr. Lazar,” said Adele, carefully, “this has been a rough night.”

  The man looked at her and for a moment he blinked, as if trying to get her in focus. “Rough,” he repeated, nodding once.

  “Sir, why did you run?”

  The man hesitated, and then, slurring his words as he spoke, he said, “Is this true? You think I killed someone?”

  Adele blinked, glancing toward where the paramedics were still checking their boxes. “Let me ask the questions, please.”

  The man just rattled his handcuffs against the side of the cart. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, still slurring. “I thought, I thought you were here about something else.”

  “Sir, I spoke to the paramedics before they checked you out. They seem to think you’re on some sort of methamphetamine.”

  “Hang on,” he protested, “hang on, I know, look, I know, it technically breaks my parole. But hear me out. Hear me out. Hear me out,” he repeated the third time as if he were stuck on the phrase.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Look, I just take a little something to help me focus and stay awake.”

  Adele frowned. “We checked your records. When you were imprisoned you had to be put in detox. You had a meth issue then too. Long before you were a trucker.”

  He sighed, shaking his head morosely. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said, muttering beneath his breath.

  Adele nodded. She could feel a flicker of doubt. The violation of his parole might have been enough for him to flee the police. What she had initially taken for a sign of guilt might have been indicating some other portion of a guilty conscience with nothing to do with her murders. Still, even as she felt her energies receding like a deflating balloon, she knew she had to at least be certain. “Sir, I need to know where you were yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t killing anyone. That’s for sure.”

  “Sir. You’re in a lot of trouble. Maybe you can forget the attitude and just tell me what I want to know.”

  The man snorted. But at a look in her eyes, he sobered a bit, still shaking his head and twitching, his words still slurred as he said, “On my route, well, mostly. All right, don’t tell my boss.”

  “Sir, you’re in violation of your parole. Your boss is the least of your worries right now.”

  He uttered a series of choice curse words, shaking his head in frustration. After a moment, though, he calmed enough to say, “Can’t you cut me a little slack? L
ike I said, I was trying my best.”

  “I’ll put in a good word if you answer my questions. Where were you yesterday?”

  “I wasn’t driving,” he said, still slurring. “I should’ve been. It was my route. I admit it.” He slammed her fist against his chest, his handcuff rattling in its full extension. “But,” he said, emphatically, “I did not. Bardem ran it for me. He’s a good guy. I like him.”

  Adele stared. “Bardem?”

  He nodded. “My friend. He once served time too. He gets it.”

  “This Mr. Bardem covered your route for you yesterday?”

  “Yes. I was stuck.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Stuck in the city. I was drunk. And a little high. But keep that between us.” He spoke this part conspiratorially, holding a finger to his lips as if to shush her.

  “You were high, so your friend took your route for you. And you were staying in which city?”

  “Santander. One of my favorite places is there. I stay there all the time. Say, if you’re looking for an alibi, Bardem can tell you. Everyone saw me at the hotel.”

  Adele could feel the sinking sensation had now reached the bottom of her stomach. She felt like she wanted to puke. “So you’re telling me you weren’t anywhere near Santo Domingo de Silos?”

  “No. Like I said, I should’ve been. But I didn’t complete my route. I got my truck again today and started heading to Bilbao.”

  Adele could feel her frustration mounting. The odd scheduling might have accounted for why he had showed up at the rest stop before they had. He had never been near the old abbey. Never been near where Rosa had been killed.

  “This friend of yours, the one who you say ran your truck, I’m going to need his phone number.”

  “Hang on, wait. He didn’t do anything wrong. I vouch for him. He’s a good guy.”

  “I believe you. I just need him to confirm your story. And the name of the hotel, please.”

  “You’re not going to tell my boss, are you?”

  “Sir, for the sake of your friend’s job, I’ll keep this between us. You have my word. But I need you to tell me everything so I can verify your story. I’m not here about your drug problem; that’s between you and the parole board. I’m looking for a killer. And I need you to be honest so I can do my job.”

  The man stared blearily at the ground for a moment, letting out a soft little sigh. He looked like a child who had been reprimanded—so sad, alone, chained in the back of an ambulance. It seemed hard to believe this was the same guy tearing through traffic and sending cars careening off the side of the road. She wondered what those people would’ve thought of Mr. Lazar. For her part, she just felt sad. And also disappointed. She would have to double-check his story. Call the hotel, call Mr. Bardem, but in the end, she had a sinking suspicion the alibi would check out. A man in this state, addicted as he was, would not be in any sort of condition to chase down a healthy young woman and cut her throat.

  By his testimony, he hadn’t even been in the province.

  She cursed beneath her breath, pulling out her phone as, reluctantly, Mr. Lazar rattled off the phone number for his alibi.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He strolled through the street. He didn’t like strolling. He preferred a brisk pace or jog. But the glutton was still with his friends. They were tossing rocks at some of the trees as they passed, laughing as they did. None of them were in a car. Strange. Most folks used vehicles. But they were on the French Way, after all. Certainly the glutton was beyond absolution, wasn’t he?

  The father continued to stroll beneath the night, as the moon watched their progress witnessing the way he stalked in their footsteps. His undergarments itched. He could feel the hot grains of salt and winced in discomfort, but kept his hands at his side, walking straight, stiff-backed.

  “Sinner!” the voice from his youth shouted. “Sinner!” The memory brought to mind the thwack of the rod against his back.

  He had been trained from a young age. Destined for greatness. He didn’t like what he had to do. But God had brought him to the glutton. And so he would have to see it through.

  He watched as the three men pulled alongside the small house with a plaque out front that read Pilgrim’s Hostel.

  He waited as the young men walked up the steps, laughing to each other and then knocking on the front door. A second passed and it opened, sending white light out into the darkness, as the men were ushered into the two-story home turned hostel.

  He waited, standing by the fence for a moment. Once the quiet had returned, confident he wouldn’t have to interact with too many people and face temptation, he moved into the garden, up the pathway, up the steps. He paused in front of the door, pulled out his cotton handkerchief, placing it against the doorframe, and then knocked against the cotton. He stepped back, waiting, returning his handkerchief to his pocket. The door swung open.

  An older woman with laugh lines and an easy smile was standing in the door, gesturing for him to enter.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, cheerfully. “You’re welcome. We still have rooms. How long is your stay going to be?”

  He stared at her. A very wide smile that. Was she trying to tempt him? He could sense it. He could feel it on her. Promiscuity was loathed by the Lord. And there she was, staring at him, offering her body as if it wasn’t worth anything. Disgusting.

  But he had to focus. He could only follow one command at a time.

  “One room,” he said, frowning.

  “Well, we do have a couple, or a room with one of those boys you saw coming.”

  “Which one?”

  She wrinkled her nose, stepping back behind a small desk that approximated a hotel room’s lobby. It was much smaller and seemed handcrafted in the entry room of the house. “Which one? I don’t know. But it’s cheaper.”

  “Frugality is next to wisdom,” he said.

  She gave him a long look, her smile diminishing a bit. Good. She’d seen the error of her ways. She had repented. But the glutton wasn’t nearly so contrite.

  “I’ll take the shared room,” he said. “Communal living is of the Lord.”

  Now she was frowning. This bordered on disrespect. But he had to focus on one command at a time.

  “Keys, please,” he said. He pulled out his wallet, withdrawing a couple of bills.

  “All right, and what name should I write down for the room?”

  “Ricardo Mora,” he said, paused, but then said, “I—no… No, that’s a lie. I’m sorry. I apologize. That’s not my real name. But I am not going to lie to you again. I’m not going to give you my name.”

  She now just stared at him. After a moment, she shrugged, muttering beneath her breath something that sounded like, “All sorts of crazies tonight…”

  But his money was good enough for her, and she took it, pointing toward the stairwell. “Your roommate is going to be up soon. His friends wanted to use the facilities first. The bathroom is downstairs. Please don’t use the one upstairs—that’s private. In addition, if you would like a breakfast tomorrow morning, that’s extra. We do not serve lunch or dinner. Have a great stay. Thank you.”

  He nodded to show he had heard, but didn’t reply. No sense in engaging with a newly repentant sinner. He might entice her back into her old lascivious ways.

  He turned toward the stairs, glancing over his shoulder, through the open door, down the street toward where he had locked his bike.

  One step at a time. One command at a time. He took the stairs, moving up toward the second floor and the indicated room.

  ***

  Matthew entered his new room, feeling a slight buzz from the three beers he had downed back at that sandwich shop. He normally didn’t like cheap beer, but the waitress was cute. He liked talking with her. Now, he had gotten the short end of the stick. His friends would be sharing a room and he had to bunk up with some stranger.

  He grumbled to himself a bit as he pushed open the door completely and stepped into t
he bedroom on the second floor.

  His roommate was already there. The man sat on a bunk, facing the window, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in prayer

  Matthew hesitated for a moment, sighing to himself, but then stepped into the room, hefting his backpack and dropping it on the second bed on the other side of the room.

  “Please close the door,” said the older man.

  Matthew sighed, returning to the door and closing it with a quiet click.

  “Hi, I’m Matthew,” he said, waving his hand vaguely.

  The older man looked over and smiled. “Hello, Matthew. You have a good name.”

  “Er, okay then. Thanks. What’s yours?”

  Instead of answering, the man said, “Why are you here, Matthew?”

  “You mean like in the room? Probably to get some sleep.”

  “No, I mean traveling here, staying in a hostel.”

  “Oh. Well. It’s kind of funny actually,” he said, hesitantly, scratching at his chin. Matthew felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. His two other friends had agreed to come here with him, though they wouldn’t be walking the pilgrimage alongside him. Neither of them came from religious families. None of them had his traditions. Not that he considered himself particularly religious at all. But if he ever told his dad no, that would be the end of free rent.

  “I’m walking the St. James Way,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a little bit like a family tradition.”

  The man on the bed perked up, nodding. He shifted and a few grains of what looked like sand fell on the ground beneath his leg.

  Matthew wrinkled his nose. Had the man just come from a beach somewhere?

  “Your family believes in the way?”

  “Honestly,” Matthew said, airily, waving a hand and letting out a long burp, “I just do it for the free rent at my dad’s place. If I don’t do it, he’d probably kick me out.”

  The man on the bed just nodded politely, his hands folded in his lap.