Left to Murder (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Five) Read online

  “Interpol?” he said. “Are you from France?”

  She thought it a strange question, and instead of answering, said, “Open the gate, please.”

  He held up a finger and said, “Hang on, I have to ask.”

  He turned promptly away from her, picked up a dial phone next to his computer screen, and lifted the dusty black device. He pressed it to his cheek, and, muttering to himself after taking another long sip of coffee, he dialed a number.

  She waited patiently, sweaty, breathing heavily, feeling the itch of dust which stuck to slick skin. Then, after a brief conversation, the gate guard lowered the phone. “First building, first office.”

  ***

  Adele clicked her fingers together, tapping one hand impatiently against her upper thigh. She could feel the sweat slick against her brow, could feel one of the factory workers ogling her tight running outfit from behind. Her blonde hair was tucked in the white headband. She ignored the attention of the employee, staring at the sealed wooden door with the single black laminate plate which read Coordinateur de l’Assemblée Gregor Fontaine.

  Adele rolled her shoulders and shot a look off to the side at the loading dock doors. She spotted another truck piled with brown boxes, pulling away. She thought of the cloud of dust, choking on the dirt. She thought of the many other trucks she had spotted, lining the loading zone behind the factory.

  A lot of trucks, a lot of candy bars. A needle in a haystack. And yet, she could feel she was getting closer.

  At last, the wooden door swung open, and a small, stiff-backed man with an ankle boot hobbled out. He had an aluminum crutch under one arm, and moved toward her.

  For a moment, some of her impatience vanished to be replaced by a modicum of sympathy. “You okay?” she asked, jerking her head toward the boot.

  The manager looked at her, but didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned against his crutch, adjusting the boot and sliding it with a scraping sound against the cold stone factory floor. “How can I help you?” he said. “Gate said DGSI.”

  Adele nodded. “I’m looking into a case.”

  Before she could continue, the manager held up a hand that wasn’t gripping the crutch. He made a wiggling motion with his fingers. “Credentials, please, if you don’t mind.”

  Adele sighed, but fished out her credentials from the plastic compartment against her thigh. She flashed them toward the manager, and he took his sweet time about it, but at last, he finished reading, wagged his head, and she returned them to the pouch.

  He looked her up and down, not in a lecherous way, but certainly an intrusive one. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting. “You’re on the job?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at her outfit.

  “In a way,” she said, briskly. “I’m looking into one of your delivery trucks.”

  He shifted his weight again, groaning as he did. He shot her a resentful look, as if somehow the sprain in his ankle was her fault.

  “We can go sit in your office if you like,” she said.

  He quickly shook his head. He glanced back at the door, which was shut, and then looked at her again. “No, here’s fine. What do you want to know about one of my trucks?”

  “Specifically, trucks that deliver to Paris.”

  “Paris is a big city,” he replied.

  “Yes, but I’m tracking packages that go to a specific shop. I followed the truck that arrived and dropped off a few weeks ago.”

  “It is a large store? Trucks go to a lot of stores in Paris.”

  She nodded. “I know, but no, it’s not a large store. Called Gobert’s.”

  The man didn’t blink; he didn’t react in any way. He had the dead-eyed look of someone clueless.

  Adele frowned. “Look, I just want to know the names of the drivers that deliver to Gobert’s.”

  “A few weeks ago, you say?” he said.

  She hesitated, and tapped her thumb against her chin. “Actually, it’s from ten years ago.”

  Now he was staring at her as if she’d gone insane. “Ten years? Dear, I don’t think you know how this place operates. It isn’t exactly anyone’s dream job. We have high turnover—nearly seventy percent.” He waved a small hand toward the assembly line through a side glass partition between the entry room and the main floor of the factory. A few people were scattered among conveyor belts, testing products or marking clipboards. Another few operated large machines, and then a few more loaded packaged boxes onto a forklift.

  “All right, well, how many employees do you have?” she said, testily. “It would’ve been around ten years ago. Someone involved with delivering the packages.”

  The manager frowned. “Who did you say you were with?”

  Adele fixed him with a look, but didn’t reach for her credentials again, allowing the weight of her glower to tip the scales. And then he blinked and looked away; he muttered to himself, but waved a hand and moved back toward his office.

  Adele tried to follow, but he slammed the door shut before she could step through. She stood with her nose nearly pressed against the door. With a reluctant sigh, sweaty, and tired from her run, she returned back to the center of the waiting room.

  She stared at the wooden door and the plaque with the name on it, counting in her head, for no other reason than to distract herself. She counted the chocolate bars moving across the conveyor belts, and counted the employees within, through the glass partition.

  At last, the door creaked open, and the manager hobbled out again, swinging his bad leg in the boot and pushing off his crutch.

  “A few names,” he said. “Most don’t work here anymore—like I said, high turnover. But two of them still do. One of them is an old fellow. Used to run trucks, but was too weak to lift the boxes. Had to move him over to the conveyor belt—handed in his two-week notice a month ago. He’s not in today.”

  Adele hesitated. “Who’s the other?”

  The manager sighed, then checked down at the phone he had open in his hand. He glanced at the note on it, then looked up at her. “As luck would have it, he’s actually in. A younger guy. Name of Andrew Maldonado.”

  “And where is Mr. Maldonado?”

  The manager waved at the glass partition, pointing toward a dark-haired fellow leaning over a conveyor belt. He wore protective eyeglasses and carried a clipboard tucked under one arm where he stood next to one of the larger machines.

  “He gets off shift in about three hours. If you don’t mind waiting, you’re not allowed on the floor, as it could be dangerous for—”

  Completely ignoring him, Adele stepped past the injured manager and pushed toward the glass partition. There was a security key card reader in front of her, and she gestured, snapping her fingers at the manager. “Open—open this.”

  The manager was staring at her, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but unless you have a warrant, you’re not allowed on the floor during operating hours, unless you’re licensed by—”

  “I don’t care about your safety licensing. Open the door or I’ll shoot it.”

  The words surprised her even as she said them, but the manager’s eyes bugged. He gave her a nervous look and then, glancing up and down to see if she even had a weapon, he hobbled over. He slid a key card in the slot and opened the door.

  “At least wear safety glasses,” he said, wincing. “You can never be too careful in a place like—”

  But whatever he’d been about to say, she ignored, moving through the door and stepping hurriedly toward the indicated fellow by the conveyor belts. She called out as she approached, “Andrew Maldonado!”

  The man didn’t seem to hear her over the whir and grind of the machines. Adele huffed in frustration, stepping purposefully across the factory floor, her eyes fixed on her target.

  The only person in this entire company, besides a geriatric, who had driven trucks ten years ago. The only person still connected to the Carambars, to Gobert’s, to her mother.

  Anything else was a dead end. She couldn’t let this one get away. She stomped towar
d Andrew, who still hadn’t heard her, and gripped his shoulder, spinning him. She found herself looking into an extremely pale face above a patchy beard. Mr. Maldonado had stretchy skin beneath his eyes as if perhaps he had lost a significant amount of weight very quickly.

  Andrew looked at her and lowered his clipboard, surprised. He took in her appearance and then glanced through the glass partition at his manager. “He can’t help you now,” she snapped. “I need you to tell me what you were doing ten years ago when you were delivering Carambars to Gobert’s.”

  The man just looked at her, adjusted his safety glasses, and then, stuttering, “Wh-what?”

  She repeated the question, but more forcefully.

  “Ten years ago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She pointed a finger at him, practically jamming it up his nostril. “Why did you stop driving trucks? Why are you here?”

  He hesitated and then muttered, “I don’t like driving. Makes me uneasy. Who are you?”

  “I work with Interpol,” she snapped. “What were you doing ten years ago? Did you know Elise Romei? Did you know the shop Gobert’s? Did you tamper with the chocolate bars?”

  He looked over her shoulder again, staring stunned toward the manager, who was shrugging helplessly in the doorway. Adele again tried to ignore him, placing herself between Andrew and his manager.

  “Who are you?” he repeated. “You’re with EMA, aren’t you? Is this a trial run?”

  Adele was beginning to lose her already malnourished patience. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she was behaving erratically. But it didn’t matter. Why was he acting so stupid? “Answer my question!” she demanded.

  He just continued to look at her with that helpless expression. For a moment, she was reminded of Angus, her old boyfriend. This only irritated her more.

  She jammed a finger into his chest, and he took a couple of skipping steps back. One of his hands shot out, trying to brace himself against the conveyor belt. But it was still moving, and he fell, stumbling, jolted forward by the motion. A couple of the chocolate bars were knocked free, and scattered onto the ground.

  “Careful!” the manager called. “That’s not protocol!”

  “Why are you lying to me?” Adele shouted at Andrew. Images flashed in her mind; bleeding, bleeding… fingers missing, a mutilated body of a once beautiful woman, dumped on the side of the road. Switching notes… Funny?

  “Stop playing dumb!” she shouted. “I know you were there! Why did you do it? If you don’t answer me, I’m going to make your life a living hell!”

  The bearded fellow looked at her, his eyes wide, like a doe caught in headlights. He was shaking his head, his voice trembling. Now, he held his gloved hand and waved the clipboard as if fanning himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what I did. I can’t remember ten years ago. I delivered to a lot of shops.”

  Adele could feel her rage simmering. But for a moment, she paused, then glanced around. She could feel eyes on her, staring. She looked one way, then the other, and swallow back a rising sense of fury in her chest. Many of the other assembly workers and conveyor belt operators were staring at her. The manager in the doorway had taken a couple of hobbling steps in, pointing at her, saying, “I’m calling your superiors!”

  She sighed, deflating like a leaking balloon. She could feel the anger seeping from her; her frustration diminishing. “You don’t remember anything?” she said, in a quieter, defeated tone.

  He just looked at her and continued to shake his head, still seemingly stunned.

  She passed a weary hand over her sweaty face. Perhaps running for two hours on an empty stomach hadn’t been the smartest thing leading up to an interrogation. She could feel a headache that came from hunger and exhaustion. She still had an hour to run back to where her car waited, halfway between the factory and the city.

  She muttered a quiet apology and dusted off Andrew’s shoulder, and then turned, striding quickly back out of the factory, past the manager, through the glass partition, and down the loading dock where she had entered.

  She began to jog before she even reached the gate. Another hour of jogging. It wouldn’t clear her mind, though. Her mind was swimming, swirling, protesting. Her mind was on fire, and anger pulsed through her. An anger directed at nothing. At no one. A nameless, faceless void, taunting her from the shadows.

  Adele’s hands curled into fists, and she broke into a sprint, hastening toward the gate. As she approached, she was grateful to see the guard had hit the button. The metal slid open as it had for the trucks. And though the same amount of dust wasn’t kicked up behind her, she felt she was faster than the vehicles had been. She exited the factory and moved back up the long road, one step, two steps, faster, faster.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Adele felt a flicker of annoyance as she pushed open this new gate. A much nicer, more ornate gate than the factory’s. The annoyance was directed toward the events from the morning, not toward what lay beyond. In front of her, one of the few oases in Paris awaited her. One of the few places she could relax. She approached Robert’s mansion, closing the gate behind her and hearing the electronic click, as the security lock reset from the code she’d entered. Robert always supplied her with the code, texting it to her. The most recent one had changed a week before.

  Robert was very safety conscious, and normally, he changed it every few days. So it was a bit of a surprise a week had passed without another alteration.

  Adele took the steps up to the mansion, rolling her shoulders as she did. At least now she wore more comfortable clothing. She had changed in her car, and though she could still smell sweat, and her hair was still grainy from the dust against her forehead, she felt a bit better to be out of her running clothes. She still hadn’t eaten anything, and hoped Robert would have the chocolate cereal he often kept for her.

  She reached the front door, staring up at the black, reinforced glass; the doors were tall, stretching high above her. She steadied herself, standing on the marble steps, and then tapped her fingers against the deep wood, listening to the dull thunk.

  The door swung open instantly, as if he’d been waiting for her just inside.

  “My dear,” Robert said in delight. “Come in, darling.” He gestured at her, gallantly sweeping her toward the long hall and then giving her a slight bow.

  She smiled as she looked at her old mentor, feeling a faint flicker of gratitude. “How are you doing?” she said, quietly.

  When he looked up from his bow, some of her smile faded. His cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes were sunken. Not too much, but enough she noticed. His hair was immaculate, as always, and his mustache was curled and oiled. But his skin was a bit paler than she remembered, and he looked even thinner. She could see the very edge of his collar bone pressing against the skin beneath the loose collar of his poorly fitting shirt.

  “Robert, are you okay?”

  He kept smiling at her, but even the smile now seemed rather fixed. A second later, he began to cough, pressing a hand up against his mouth, and then gesturing with another for her to join him in the study.

  “Robert, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine, my dear—you’re the one who called. Come to the study. I started a fire and set aside a bowl of cereal. Why you eat that sugary nonsense, I’ll never know. But it’s yours.”

  Adele felt a flicker of gratitude, but it was replaced just as quickly by worry. She moved after her old mentor, following Robert’s form down the hall and into the study. He clicked a button on the wall, and the front door closed behind them.

  Adele heard the door click, and glimpsed a sliver of light cutting out as they were sealed in the mansion together.

  Two leather chairs faced the fire, and Robert settled in the chair on the left, a pile of books on the little table next to his hand.

  “Robert, what’s wrong?”

  He began to answer, but broke into another fit of coughing. He held up a finger, as if to say, one moment.
>
  Adele frowned, sitting in her own chair. She waited as Robert gathered himself. As she did, she could feel a flash of a hunger headache, and her stomach rumbled. Despite herself, and feeling a bit guilty, she reached for the chocolate cereal that he’d left for her on the table. A glass of milk sat next to it. She poured the milk into the bowl and gratefully began munching away.

  After a few bites, and after Robert seemed to have recovered, she said, “You don’t look well.”

  He snorted. “Adele, I’m fine. What did you want to talk about? You seemed upset on the phone.”

  She paused a moment and thought of how she had behaved back at the factory. She thought about the frustration she’d felt, and the anger directed toward the helpless employee. She thought about her mother, about Gobert’s shop. She thought about the Carambars.

  She passed a hand wearily across her countenance, trying to steady her own nerves. “If I’m honest, it wasn’t pretty,” she said, softly.

  “I’m sorry, dear. Is it a case?”

  She looked at him, and again spotted just how gaunt his face seemed. His cheekbones were too sharp, his eyes too dark. “Robert… you don’t look well. Stop telling me—”

  Before she could finish, her phone began to ring, the vibrating emanating from her sweater pocket. Frowning, she fished her phone out.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s work.” She clicked the phone, held it up to her ear. “Can it wait?” she asked.

  “Afraid not,” said the voice on the other end. She immediately recognized it as the voice of Executive Foucault’s assistant. “He wants you in. You’re needed over at the office.”

  Adele massaged the bridge of her nose with her free hand, the cold phone still pressed against her cheek. She wanted to shout in frustration, but instead said quietly, “I’m on my way.”

  She lowered the phone and looked at Robert.

  “You’re going in?”

  She nodded.

  “Anything to do with what happened this morning?”