Left to Envy (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Six) Page 3

  She instantly felt quite self-conscious about her frazzled hair from the flight. She adjusted her sleeves and smoothed the front of her shirt subconsciously.

  The man inside the car was the single most handsome person she’d ever met. She stared through the open window, and the man smiled politely.

  “Ciao. Agent Sharp?” he asked in an Italian accent.

  The man had a sharp, masculine jaw, completely clean shaven. His hair was parted to the side and trimmed short on the edges, also neat, tidy. His eyes were a rare blue—like moonlight trapped in winter frost. His nose was straight and firm, his lips…

  Adele didn’t linger long on his lips. He looked like a Calvin Klein model. Suddenly, disappointment at John not being there didn’t seem so important after all.

  “And you are?” she asked, leaning in just a bit to hear him better, and also to get a closer look. She’d known Italy had marble statues, she just hadn’t expected one to pick her up from the airport.

  “Christopher Leoni. Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna.”

  Adele blinked. “AISE? Not Interpol?”

  He shook his head. “We have a working relationship, I’m told. I’m here to take you to the crime scene.” He spoke English nearly perfectly, with just the right amount of an accent that Adele resisted the urge to pinch herself. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t refused this case.

  “Er, yeah,” she said, clearing her throat and brushing her blonde hair behind an ear. “Sounds good. Just let me put my things in the trunk.”

  Once she had, she moved around the car and sidled into the front passenger seat. As she did, she detected the faint odor of cologne and soap. Not overpowering, especially since the window was open, but a pleasant, soft odor. Even up close, Agent Leoni looked like a man who valued tidiness. Even the inside of his car was immaculate. The dashboard shone as if polished, the floor mats were freshly vacuumed, or so it seemed. The glass displays had no hint of dust.

  “How was your trip, Agent Sharp?” asked the handsome Italian.

  Adele glanced over, but didn’t look long, lest he suspect her of staring. The Italian agent pulled the vehicle away from the curb and moved smoothly through traffic.

  “Fine. No complaints. I appreciate you taking the time to pick me up,” Adele said, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything else to mention.

  Agent Leoni nodded once, a polite, understated gesture. “The Vatican has its own authorities,” he said. “They must really need the help to ask for you specifically.”

  Adele paused for a moment. She’d been considering this ever since Robert had told her—why ask for her by name? Then again, over the past year or so, she had been making a bit of a name for herself in the agencies based on her closure record. For some reason, this didn’t give her the small surge of pride she would’ve expected. Rather, she felt a bout of nerves twisting in her belly.

  “Interpol has been trying something new,” she said. “I’m just happy to be a part of it.”

  “You flew in from Germany? Another case?”

  Adele hesitated. “Not a case, no. I have family there.”

  He continued driving through traffic, and then, in perfect German, he said, “Do you speak German too?”

  She smiled at this and replied in the same language. “Yes, actually, I do. I’m surprised you do though.”

  The corner of his lip turned up into a coy smile. Instead of addressing her assertion, he continued in German, “Perhaps the Vatican was right to call you in. We have already cleared out the tourists, and the docent who found the body is there, along with the custodian.” He transitioned back into English. “We’re headed there now.”

  Adele was struck by how flawless his accent was. For a moment, she wondered if perhaps Agent Leoni had lived in other countries as well. For another moment, she thought of John, and his fumbling, stumbling way with any language other than French. There was nothing strained about the way Leoni spoke.

  She shook her head and glanced out the window, watching the passing cars on the gray roads.

  After they moved off the highway, away from the coast and through the flat farmland, they reached the circling stone walls of Vatican City. Leoni parked the vehicle in the Gran Melia and then they moved, walking along Via Del Fondamenta until they finally reached the rectangular brick building with six arched windows. The Sistine Chapel didn’t stand out like some gaudy attraction or fairground spectacle. Rather, it stood separate and resolute from the buildings around it, a thing demanding attention in and of itself—a snapshot into a bygone era. The large, archaic structure stretched into the sky, a solid foundation beneath the heavens. Adele couldn’t help but find herself staring much in the same way she felt tempted to do with Agent Leoni.

  As she strolled slowly under the sunlight toward the chapel doors, feeling the gentle breeze against her cheeks and the warmth on her forehead, she couldn’t help but shake a memory.

  A memory as a young girl. A memory of coming here before with her mother. It had been after the split. After they had left Germany. Her mother had been afraid that perhaps her daughter wouldn’t be given the full experience of family vacations, travel, and life experience. As a single parent, she had done everything to the max, desperately trying to make up for any holes that might’ve existed in her daughter’s life. They had traveled often, using their home in Paris as a launching platform.

  Adele remembered the trip to the Sistine Chapel. She remembered an ice cream cone in her hand, the chill liquid dripping down her fingers. She remembered the tour guide, refusing to allow her entry until she washed her hands. She remembered her mother standing up for her, but eventually taking her daughter off into the washroom and clearing the melted ice cream from her fingers. She remembered a gentle kiss on her forehead, and a quick hug, as Adele had felt frustrated, humiliated. Her mother had made her feel protected, warm, though. She didn’t remember much of the Sistine Chapel at all from the trip. Strange that. The people, not the locations, stuck out most in her memories.

  Now, as she moved with the handsome agent away from the parked car toward the Sistine Chapel, stray, loose pieces of gravel crunched underfoot, and her mind continued to wander back to that fateful day. She couldn’t remember exactly what her mother had looked like. Some of the memories were fading; even the beautiful memories ended up swirling, swirling, being dragged into a drain, unable to resist the gravitational pull of an even stronger recollection… Adele shivered now as images flashed.

  Fingers sliced, a stitchwork of cuts and torturous marks up and down her mother’s body, discarded on the side of a jogging path in the park. Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding.

  “Agent Sharp?” said a quiet voice.

  She blinked, the searing images disappearing for a moment. Adele glanced over toward where Agent Leoni stood. Once, she had likened John Renee to a James Bond villain. If that were true, then Leoni was like James Bond himself.

  Expressionless and stoic for the most part, save a coy smile creeping across his lips as if he found something funny in all things, Leoni wore an immaculate suit, as if he were just stepping out of a dinner party, rather than onto a crime scene. He was, of course, impossibly handsome, with nothing out of place save the single superman curl of hair against his forehead.

  He looked at her, the same little smile in the corner of his lips; they curved down for a moment as he studied her. “Are you all right? You look pale. If you need to stop to get some food, I don’t mind.”

  She quickly shook her head, realizing her hand was trembling. She jammed her fingers into her pocket, and said, “I’m fine. Just get a little bit airsick. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Of course not,” he said, curtly, looking away to spare her. Then, with careful strides, not quickly so she could keep up without jogging, he moved back toward the chapel, allowing her to gather herself, breathe a few times to clear her mind, and then follow.

  She was grateful he was ignoring her for the moment. There was nothing Agent Leo
ni could offer her except, perhaps, a beautiful distraction from the memories and thoughts swirling through her brain.

  Exhaling deeply, she entered through the museum’s entrance into the entry hall. The walls were lined with ornamental paintings in golden frames, and the halls were wide, leading toward the deeper portion of the structure and the heart of the chapel itself. Adele looked around, examining the nearest paintings for a moment—some of the frames were wider than she was tall.

  No sooner had she entered than she spotted two police officers standing by a small table, with seats that looked to have been dragged in from porch seating. Two men were sitting at the table. One of them in neat, tidy blues, sitting closest to a mop bucket. She took this to be the custodian. The other had a golden name tag, and a twitchy disposition which he leveled on the police officers guarding them. The twitchy one with the golden name tag gnawed on the corner of his lip. He was a middle-aged man, with glasses and silver sideburns.

  Adele stepped passed Leoni, approaching the table. “Good morning,” she said, softly. “My name is Agent Sharp. Are you Docent Vicente? Do you speak English?”

  The man with the glasses looked at her, nervously, and nodded once. The custodian was staring past her. Clearly, Agent Leoni’s movie star good looks weren’t lost on everyone in the room.

  She looked from the custodian to the docent. “I’m sorry for keeping you here for so long. I won’t waste any more of your time. Are you the one who found the body?”

  The docent hesitated, then nodded once. “I do speak English,” he murmured. She supposed he would—given his role in guiding tours from all over. The man leaned back in the chair, eliciting a small, metallic creak from the seat. He sighed toward the cavernous ceiling and folded his trembling fingers in his lap. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “This won’t take long. So you found the body?”

  He cleared his throat and adjusted the golden name tag absentmindedly, but then said, “Yes, Agent Sharp. It was an absolute shock, I can tell you that. I thought I’d found spilled juice.” He trembled at this, his face turning a bit pale. “But it wasn’t,” he said, shaking his head in quick, furtive gestures. His golden name tag flashed, reflecting sunlight through the large windows above the entrance.

  “And the body was how you found it?” she said. “Hanging?”

  She winced apologetically at the word. The docent also grimaced and looked away, muttering to himself in Italian, before glancing back at her. “Yes,” he said. “Hanging. I didn’t look long. I didn’t want to. I called the police right away.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Adele. “What time did you arrive this morning?”

  He shook his head. “Same time as always. On schedule. You can ask Timothe,” he said, nodding toward the custodian.

  She looked over. “Do you get in at the same time?”

  The custodian blinked and glanced between them. Agent Leoni stepped smoothly in, translating the question into Italian.

  The custodian replied. Leoni said to Adele, “He says he gets in a little bit earlier. He was just finishing rounds. Says he didn’t see anything in the main chapel. They keep lights dim before tourists arrive to preserve the paintings.”

  Adele nodded. “All right. Can you ask him if he saw anything strange? Anything out of place? Doors left open, security cameras turned off. Anything.”

  She waited a moment as Leoni communicated the question.

  After a moment, and following the custodian’s reply, Leoni returned, “Nothing like that. He did say he was a bit distracted, as it’s his wife’s birthday tomorrow, and he was trying to think of a gift.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Adele. “But not helpful. All right, well, I’d like to see the scene. Do you mind recording a few more questions? Just to get out a timeline?”

  “Certainly,” said Leoni.

  Adele nodded in gratitude, then moved away from the table, toward the main doors. As she approached, she found her breathing began to come quick and unsteady. She winced, trying to focus as the familiar tendrils of fear rose in her chest. She breathed slowly, steadying herself—her eyes closed for a moment—and then, gritting her teeth, she stalked toward the crime scene to face the site of the murder.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She didn’t need to ask to know where the body had been found. She could already see the caution tape stretched around the room, and the red splotch on the ground.

  She moved into the main area of the chapel, her feet squeaking on ceramic mosaic tiles, and more memories returned. She winced as she remembered walking with her mother, remembered marveling at the sheer beauty and the artistic nature of the paintings covering the ceiling and the walls. Some of them scary, others hauntingly lovely. She had always loved pictures of the angels. She remembered the way her mother had held her hand, the same hand that had been sticky with ice cream. She remembered the sidelong glances from the tour guide, disapproving looks, especially toward the children in the crowd.

  These memories came, and again, the swirling, gravitational pull of an even greater memory swallowed them.

  Again, bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding. Severed fingers, a stitchwork of cuts and marks.

  Adele nearly bit her lip. She pushed aside the thoughts, standing in the heart of the chapel, staring up now. In her mind’s eye, she replaced the images of her mother with the images she had seen on the plane. She pulled out her phone, cycling to the folder Robert had sent her. She found the pictures, scanning the crime scene photos, positioning herself so she was in the same angle as the photographer must’ve been.

  By now, of course, the body had been taken. The rope that had been used to hang the victim had also been removed. She saw no marks in the ceiling, her eyes flitting from the arches to the sheer craftsmanship of the structure. A strange, eerie beauty to have housed a murder.

  Droplets of blood still spattered the floor; she glanced toward them and looked away. Nothing to see there.

  She circled the heart of the chapel, once, twice, moving around. But as she made her way past the small, arching box-frame, along the edge of the wall, and the glowing orange lights, she spotted nothing. What was she hoping to find? A cigarette butt? A thumbprint with arrows pointing to it, saying, killer here?

  Perhaps, simply a distraction. Anything to keep her mind occupied from the images cycling again, and again, and again through her brain.

  This time, she couldn’t run away. This time, she couldn’t run off to Germany, hiding in her father’s house to avoid confronting the inevitable. She thought of the copycat murderer, reemerging in Paris. The same MO as her mother’s death. Possibly even the same killer. She’d been kicking over the hornet’s nest and interviewing the owner of the shop, the factory where the chocolate bars were made. She should’ve known better. She should’ve known the killer wouldn’t take it sitting down.

  She shivered at the thought. Now, though, she had a different case to focus on.

  She exited the main area, moving back to where the men were seated.

  She approached Leoni and said, “Did you get what you need?”

  “Possibly. Did you want to question them further?”

  “Did you ask them where they were at the time of the last murder? The one in Notre Dame.”

  Agent Leoni nodded. “Working.” He held up an old-fashioned timecard, pointing it toward her. She took it and scanned it.

  “They punched in and out. Supervisor signed off. Our docent was leading a tour, and our other friend here was waiting to clean up once they were finished. They weren’t in Notre Dame for the other one.”

  Adele nodded, feeling a slight flicker of disappointment. Then again, when were cases ever that easy?

  “All right. I think we have all we need. I’d like to go see the coroner.”

  Leoni stepped away from the table, gave a little bow before bidding farewell to the docent and the custodian, and then moved away, allowing Adele to take the lead back to the vehicle.


  These murders were strange enough, with the hanging, the posing, the locations, that perhaps if anyone could find an unnoticed clue, it would be the coroner.

  ***

  The corpse on the table in the small, cold, gray room at first glance seemed like any other—Adele had seen her fair share of corpses before. Perhaps this was a testament to the desensitization of her job. Or, perhaps, simply a commentary on the other horrific images still trying to bob to the surface. But as she neared, staring at the body, she felt a chill creep along her spine.

  “Cause of death?” she murmured, drawing even closer.

  Adele now wore protective gloves and a face mask, which had been required on entry into the coroner’s lab. Next to her, Agent Leoni stood, not quite looking at the body, his eyes fixed on the coroner instead.

  The woman wore a white coat, and she spoke with a cigarette-stained voice which reminded Adele of Foucault. In broken English, the dark-featured woman said, “You can see around the throat, ligature marks. Fractures in the cervical vertebrae. Death by strangulation.”

  Adele winced. “And the wound on the head you mentioned?”

  The coroner nodded and carefully tipped the victim’s head. Adele winced, spotting a bloody wound in the back of his skull.

  “Not enough to kill him. Just to knock him unconscious.”

  Adele stared at the corpse, trying to think of it as the shell of a person. Once upon a time an American cardinal on holiday. He had come to Italy likely to see the sights, to enjoy some time off from the demands of the smock. And now… cold, lifeless… All the time off in the world.

  Also, clean. No defensive wounds, no signs he’d even seen his killer. But also, death by strangulation, not the blow to the head. Most bodies Adele interacted with showed signs of putting up some defense, or—at the least—of death upon first strike. But this killer was different. Meticulous, cold, careful. He’d knocked the victim unconscious, somehow managing to drag the body—still unconscious—to the noose. Then, without bruising or scraping in any other fashion, he hung them.