Left to Crave (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Thirteen) Page 3

  “Language,” she reminded him, half out of humor but also to deflect. She didn't want to talk about this with him. Not again.

  “No, Adele, I mean it.” This time, he did place his hand on her foot, patting it like one might a puppy's head. Still, for him, this was the same as a deep hug and tears. “I'm proud of you,” he said, his voice hoarse. He bobbed his head, his wiry mustache shifting. “Very proud.”

  He couldn't quite bring himself to look her in the eyes, and his cheeks were still tinged red. The sunlight behind him illuminated his form, washing them both in a warm glow.

  He'd been acting odd ever since she'd told him. Ever since he'd drowned. As if he wanted to reconcile... Cleaning her dishes, even something as stupid as patting her foot. And now this... proud. She could count on half the knuckles of one finger the number of times her father had said anything like this. Did her father want to reconcile? To turn over a new leaf?

  How often had she hoped for this very thing? How often had she desperately wanted reconciliation with her dad?

  But now... like this?

  She forced a smile, allowing it to twist her lips. But it was painful. Inwards, she only felt horror. She hadn't told him the truth. Hadn't told anyone.

  “Dad,” she said hesitantly, her own voice also hoarse. “Look—I... It's not what you think.”

  He wasn't listening though, still frowning at the ground as if lost in thought, his hand pressed against her shin, his skin warm.

  She went quiet, still. Did it even matter to tell him? Would he care at all? Self-defense. That's what she'd said. That's what she'd told everyone.

  Would her father care that she'd let him drown? Would he care that his baby girl was now a killer, too?

  Was she just being too hard on herself?

  That wasn't how the courts would see it. Certainly not in the present climate. No. If it ever leaked, what had actually transpired in the park—if Claudia told someone, Adele would spend the next couple of decades behind prison bars.

  No... She couldn't do that to him. He'd lost his wife already. She wouldn't plant the seed that he might lose her too.

  So she kept her smile fixed, reaching out to pat her father's hand where it rested. “Thanks, Dad. I'm proud of you too. I'm glad it's...,” she swallowed, feeling a surge of anxiety. “Glad it's over.”

  The Sergeant was still lost in thought, but as she retracted her hand, her phone began to buzz.

  Adele's heart jolted. Seven days had passed. She was expecting the all-clear any day now. If the news was coming by phone, rather than a battering ram at her door, then it most likely was good news.

  She pried her phone from her pocket, swiveling until her feet hit the cold ground and the sunlight caught her silhouette.

  When she saw who was calling, though, she felt a jolt of nerves.

  Not Foucault. Not work.

  John wanted to video chat.

  She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Did she want to see him? Want him to see her?

  “Who is it?” her dad said. “Not Jim, is it?”

  “John, Dad. You know his name.”

  The Sergeant grunted. “Whatever. You gonna answer—that beep is annoying.”

  “It's my phone, Dad. Look fine—I'm answering.”

  She sighed, pushing off the couch and moving towards the kitchen as she held the device up towards her face.

  It took a second for the phone to connect, but then her screen changed, and she found herself looking at the handsome face of John Renee. His hair was neatly in place, gelled, save a single strand dangling over one eye. His dark gaze seemed to flick around a moment as if trying to decide if he ought to look at the camera or the screen.

  At last, he settled on something in between. “Adele,” John said, his voice a bit delayed compared to the motion of his pixelated lips.

  She waved, nodding. Her stomach still twisted. Was he calling because his daughter had told him? Was this how she was going to find out her fate?

  “Hey Adele,” John said with a sigh. “Look, I just wanted to call to see how you were do—”

  “Fine.”

  “No, I mean just—”

  “Doing great, John. How are you?” Adele's voice softened. “How's Claudia?”

  John gave a half-smile at this, nodding. “Good. She's good. Thanks for asking. Scared—with her mother right now. But—yeah, she's tough.”

  “Renees often are.”

  He nodded, brushing a hand through his hair. The loose curl lifted but then fell again, hopelessly out of place. “Just wanted to let you know I'm sorry for not contacting you sooner. Things have just been—”

  “Busy.”

  “I was going to say hectic. But yeah. Busy. We've been seeing a counselor with Claudia. Her mother is going to home-school her. My visiting weekends have been extended.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He scratched his jaw, his fingers brushing over the top of his scar. “Never really saw myself as a, well, you know, dad. But there's a first time for everything.”

  Adele glanced towards where her own father was still sitting on the arm of the couch, peering out the window into the streets of Paris.

  “I'm happy for you. So you think you're going to take some time off still?”

  John bobbed his head. “Leave of absence for another few days at least. Just until Claudia is feeling better. Though, I'm not sure after something like that you ever truly feel better. Just... Just thanks Adele. For, you know. Everything.”

  Adele smiled back, nodding. “I'm glad I got there in time.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” John scratched his chin. “Look, I should probably let you go. But was just thinking it might be nice next week if you wanted to stop by during one of my weekend days. Claudia has been asking about you.”

  “She has?” Adele's heart skipped a beat.

  “Yeah. Think she wants to thank you for saving her. I know I've already said it, but for what it's worth, I'm also super, super—”

  “You've done the same for me many times,” Adele cut him off, feeling another surge of guilt. “Thanks John. Really. I'd love to spend some time with your daughter. Just tell me when.”

  Though she was smiling again, though the sunlight streamed through the window, Adele couldn't shake the strange, dark cloud descending on her... It came like chill wind, like a sudden shiver... A strange sense of sheer...

  Isolation.

  Her father was proud of her. John wanted to spend time with her and his daughter.

  Her relationships were all doing great—for now... So why did she feel so isolated?

  Liar... the voice whispered.

  She gritted her teeth, but disguised it by forcing another smile. “Thanks John,” she said. “Oh—hey, look, I'm getting another call. I'll hit you up tonight. Alright?”

  “Sounds good. Take care, Adele.”

  Adele flashed a thumbs up and used the same motion to swipe to the next call, frowning as she did.

  This time, as she spotted the name, her heart went still.

  Foucault.

  On the phone.

  Good news?

  She glanced towards her door. No shadows in the hall. No sound of police officers preparing to barge in. She answered.

  “Yes, sir?” she said, her anxiety heightened.

  “Hello, Agent Sharp,” Foucault said. “How are you?”

  “Fine sir. Great sir. What's the news?”

  “Right—well, I have your clearance form here. Just waiting for a signature. I know it's sort of rushed, but with Agent Renee taking a leave of absence we're a bit short staffed. I was wondering if—”

  “Yes! I mean, sorry... Yes, I'd be happy to.”

  “Well... Alright then. It's a fresh case, and I already have a primary assigned. You'll be assisting. Is that amenable?”

  “Whatever you need sir,” Adele replied reflexively. Part of her wondered if this was the best idea, taking a new case so quickly after what had happened last time. But she couldn't spend the next week trapped in her apartment. Not again. She needed a distraction. Needed something to focus on.

  “Look, Adele,” Foucault said, “this is an important one to me. It's...” He cleared his throat and for a moment, Adele frowned. Did the executive sound... nervous?

  “Is everything alright, sir?”

  He sighed on the other end. “Yes, Agent Sharp. It's fine. One of the victims is a close personal—well, my cousin, in fact.”

  Adele's eyebrows shot up. “I'm—I'm so sorry.”

  “Me too. But look, I need the best on this, Adele. If you can solve this for me, I'll owe you one. I don't normally—well, you know how I operate—I don't normally pull levers. It's not my style.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But if you solve this, I'll owe you a favor as well. Find who killed him.”

  Adele felt her stomach twist. Again, she wondered what Foucault might think if he knew what had actually happened in that misty park beneath the bridge, amidst the mud and streams of swirling water.

  For now, though, he was offering an olive branch.

  His own cousin, murdered. Horrible. Truly. Her heart went out to him.

  But another part of her, a small, whispering part suggested just how valuable it might prove to have the Executive of the DGSI owe her something. Especially if any other news about the death of the Painter came to light.

  “I'll do it. Should I come in for details or—”

  “Yes. I'll brief you myself. Come quick. Thanks, Adele,” he cleared his throat again. “Just—yes, well, thank you. See you shortly.”

  Then he hung up.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Adele glanced out the passing windows as the elevator moved up from the garage. A small, pink café sat ou
tside the DGSI headquarters. The whole place still faintly smelled of paint as the building had only been renovated for federal use fifteen years ago.

  And yet to Adele, it felt like only yesterday. All of this seemed new, in a strange way. Foreign. Even as the elevator doors dinged open, revealing the carpeted, third hall's floor.

  Adele inhaled shakily, staring down the hall towards the foreboding opaque glass door. Things felt different now, somehow.

  As the doors closed behind her, she summoned some inner courage and marched towards the executive's office.

  Before she reached the door, though, she pulled up short.

  Foucault was sitting in the hall, spinning a cigarette between his fingers. The DGSI executive's pronounced nose beneath dark brows reminded her of an eagle's beak. He wore a neat, pressed blue-pinstripe suit with notched lapels. And currently, spinning the cigarette in one hand, he stared at the glass of his shut office door as if in shock.

  Adele approached slowly, clearing her throat as she neared.

  He looked up, spotted her and the spinning cigarette suddenly went still.

  “Agent Sharp,” he said with a nod. “Thank you for your haste.”

  “Foucault. I thought you quit.”

  “Wh-oh. Just an old habit. I like holding it is all. Forget about that. Files are there.”

  Adele glanced towards the seat next to her boss at the two red, plastic folders, each marked with a case number on the front. “Two?” she said.

  “Just two for now.”

  “Which one is...”

  “My cousin?” An extended cigarette tapped the top folder. “Hercule Foucault. He was in Belgium at the time.” Foucault spoke with stiff, jolting words, his eyes narrowed. His tone was flat, his expression emotionless. But the little white cigarette was spinning rapidly again, between two fingers.

  Adele slowly lowered herself on the bench facing the boss's door. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the way he scowled above the carpet. Normally, so professional, now Foucault seemed a bundle of nerves.

  “Two days before, Herc was the first victim,” Foucault said matter-of-factly, his voice tinged with only the faintest of growls. “An antique-collector, my cousin—they found him in an old wardrobe he'd purchased.”

  Adele picked up the folder and flipped it open, frowning at the crime scene photos. Bright, glossy images beneath the fluorescent lights in the hall stared back at her. A picture of the victim: he looked quite similar to the executive, with the same hooked nose, and thick, bushy eyebrows.

  Below, the crime scene photos splayed out as she set the folder on her lap. Pictures of a body found inside an old chestnut wardrobe in a small room. One arm dangled out of the wardrobe where it had been discovered. The face was obscured in the first picture, hidden in shadow.

  “Cause of death?” Adele murmured, scanning towards the coroner's report.

  “Stab wound,” Foucault said simply.

  “Ah—yes, here. I see...” Adele leaned in, frowning, tucking her tongue inside her cheek. Now that she had a case file in one hand, sitting next to the executive, she felt a bit more at home. Other thoughts—other, far more distracting thoughts, were now sitting on a back burner.

  The hunt always caught her attention. John Renee often called her a bloodhound with a scent, and while she resented the comparison to some animal, the sentiment was accurate.

  Plus...

  Adele felt a flicker of her own anxiety, her hand trembling where it gripped the top folder. If Claudia told anyone what she'd seen back beneath that bridge, then Adele would need an ally like Foucault. He'd asked her on this case as a personal favor. Being owed one by the head of the DGSI could go a long way in keeping Adele out of prison...

  Is that what you want? Adele gritted her teeth, her fingers still shaky. To get away with it? You're a killer. Just like him.

  She let out a long, shaky breath, pretending to read the coroner's report, but her vision was swimming. Perhaps she was a killer. Perhaps it was too late to take it back.

  But for now, avoiding a cell was motivating enough. She knew how Foucault treated his friends. Once, Agent Sophie Paige's husband had been a suspect in a federal case. Foucault had gone to bat for his friend, Sophie, and her family.

  It had made all the difference.

  “Adele?” the executive was saying. “Did you hear me? What do you think?”

  She looked up, startled, hesitant and began to shake her head. “I—I...” She frowned. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “The stab wound. Not a knife. Any guesses?”

  Adele turned slowly, flipping the picture again towards the coroner's report and the square photos attached.

  There, outlined in cold flesh, she spotted clean puncture wounds. Two of them, both above the heart.

  She frowned, leaning in, studying the wounds. They were shaped like diamonds, the wounds about the diameter of a human thumb. But the shape itself was clearly caused by something geometric, with four sides.

  “How deep are these—oh, never mind.” Adele said, finding the appropriate section in the report. She whistled softly a moment later, looking up, eyes wide. “Pierced straight through the heart? Twice? Not a knife, but it pierced deeper than one.”

  Foucault, though, was determinedly looking away, down the hall again. Adele winced, realizing she'd shifted the folder, so the coroner's pictures were angled towards the boss. She closed it. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  He ignored this and said, “We don't know the murder weapon yet. Nothing was found on the premises of either murder. Perhaps a fire poker, maybe some mechanical instrument. Certainly something to pay attention to.”

  “Right, and the second victim?”

  “Swiss. Found in a grandfather clock.”

  “In? Like inside—the same as the old wardrobe?”

  Foucault glanced back and seemed relieved to find Adele had closed the folder. He pushed slowly to his feet, his back arching like a cat in sunlight. “Yes,” he murmured. “The same way. The same exact wounds. Two punctures through the heart. Both men,” he cleared his throat, “were very wealthy.”

  “I see.” Adele remained sitting. “Alright—well... Perhaps the best starting spot is to retrace—”

  “You already have a plane booked for Switzerland, Adele. Remember, I already have a primary for the case.”

  “Of course, sir. Whatever works.” Adele, sensing this meeting was coming to a close, also reached her feet, watching Foucault. A sudden ding resounded from the elevators.

  “Ah, speaking of... Here she is.”

  Adele turned, frowning, feeling a slow shiver up her spine.

  And then, her teeth pressed tightly together in frustration.

  Agent Sophie Paige was marching stiff-legged as ever, towards the two of them, a look on her face like she'd sniffed something smelly.

  “Oh,” Adele said, trying not to tense too much. “Paige is lead on this one?” she asked innocently.

  “The two of you have the best closer rates in the department. Like I mentioned, this one's personal to me, Agent Sharp.”

  Adele winced, watching as the older DGSI agent approached. Sophie Paige looked like a retired nun. She had dark hair now turning white brushed neatly behind both ears and held in a simple ponytail. She wore no jewelry and her suit looked immaculate. Given the five kids she helped raised, Adele didn't know how the woman always looked so put-together.

  As she neared, Adele detected the faintest hint of soap. No perfume—just a clean, soap smell.

  For a moment, frowning at Agent Paige, Adele felt an urge to turn to Foucault and make some excuse. More than anything, she wanted to refuse the case.

  But if she did that now, everyone would know why.

  Things with Paige were rough, but they'd been able to work together in the past. Paige had even kept tabs on the Painter for a few hours the previous week as a favor to Adele. Then again, he'd managed to slip her surveillance. They now, at least, could abide each other’s company. To an extent. But years ago, Adele had reported missing evidence to the higher-ups. She thought she'd simply been going by the book. But Paige hadn't seen it the same way when the trail had led back to her husband. Things had worked out in the end, with Foucault intervening on behalf of his friend, but bad blood remained.

  The case was personal to her boss. Now, if she refused, it wouldn't just be a slight to Paige, but also to Foucault. Being owed a favor by the executive was a far cry from being resented by him.