Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine) Read online

  John though cleared his throat and grunted, "Probably stolen. A lot of those sorts of things earn you a nice buck on the black market. Something the military is clamping down on, but not perfectly. My guess is that's where he got it. A guy looking like that, small as he was, he definitely didn't serve."

  Adele gritted her teeth in frustration shaking her head, and looking back from John to the Executive. "Sir," she said, "you know this case is important."

  The moment she said it, she wished she hadn't. Trying to leverage personal preference with Foucault was a venture in futility.

  He was glowering again and tapping his finger against an ashtray which hadn't been used in months. He just seemed to keep it nearby, like a security blanket. He twisted the ashtray a couple of times in his fingers, and said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll have someone look into those cameras, if you help me out on this case. Also, this time, Agent Paige isn't available."

  Adele glanced at John. "What sort of case?"

  Foucault frowned. "Does it matter? Or did you forget that you work for us?"

  Adele leaned back in her chair in frustration. "You'll have someone look at the cameras?"

  Foucault crossed a sharp finger over his suit pocket. "Cross my heart," he said, grimly. "And Agent Sharp, this is the last leeway I give you. You're either back for good,or need to find another job."

  Adele blinked in surprise at the harsh words. Blunt though he was, the Executive wasn't normally one for such ultimatums. Vaguely, she wondered if Agent Paige had perhaps said something behind her back after their last case together. But then she shook her head. Perhaps the Executive was just stressed.

  "Sir," John said, interjecting, and sensing the tension. "What's the case?"

  Adele allowed her silence to serve as acquiescence. She waited patiently now, deciding that the promise to have the lab techs look at those cameras would have to be good enough. Who knew, maybe they'd get lucky and find a fingerprint. Either way, that would take time.

  She supposed it wouldn't be the worst thing to solve another case to keep her mind off things, and more importantly, to keep herself sharp when it mattered most.

  "Right," the Executive said, firmly, "two dead. One American two days ago, and one German, only last night."

  John frowned. "Tourists? Where?"

  "Venice."

  John cursed. Adele glanced at him.

  The tall agent was shaking his head. "I hate Venice."

  "Keep it to yourself," Foucault snapped. "You're going. Both of you. And look, that first victim, she was a fashion model. High amount of press will cover her death if it leaks. The second, not as well-known, but a young woman working to become an actress. Both of them were found with their throats slit."

  "Throats slit? Is that the only connection?" Adele said, frowning.

  "No.” Foucault reached behind the table, slid open a drawer and pulled out two white, glossy photos. He slid them, roughly across the desk, twirling them with his fingers, the same way he had twirled the ashtray, so they were facing the agents.

  Instinctively, Adele and John both leaned in, peering at the photos.

  "They were both wearing those," Foucault said, tapping the pictures.

  Adele couldn't tell the victim in frame was a woman. The photo was close, cutting out most of the torso. But more importantly, the victim was wearing a mask. A beautiful, ornate mask, that reminded her of the inside of a porcelain cup. Small flowers, blue and red were painted up the side of the mask. The eyeholes were dark, and the mouth had a streak of lipstick crossing over it like a big red X.

  Adele stared at the lipstick X mark, and then scanned the rest of the photo. She regarded John, who was also staring at a second photo with another woman wearing a similar mask.

  This second mask had a mesh of silk coming out of the back and looping over the top. Instead of painted flowers, the porcelain surface of this one was pure black, with pale butterflies etched into the face. Instead of two eyeholes, this one had two slits in the shape of stars.

  Adele glanced from one photo to the other, "They were both found with their throats cut wearing those?"

  "Even more strangely," the Executive said, "those masks don't fit them, and weren't actually strapped to their heads. More like laid on top of their faces."

  As he said it, the Executive just shrugged, signaling that he realized how strange this might sound.

  "Laid on them?" John said, wrinkling his nose. "What do you mean? Like the masks weren't theirs?"

  "The killer put them there?" Adele asked. "We're sure it's the same person?"

  "We're not sure of anything at this point, agents," said Foucault firmly. "That's why we pay you."

  "Not enough," John muttered beneath his breath. Adele resisted the urge to kick him. They weren't back to that level yet.

  If he had heard the jibe, the Executive didn't show it. "Flight is booked. Just keep in mind, these girls have followings. Lorraine Strasser,” he tapped an indicating finger on one of the photos, “was quite popular because of her Instagram, and Rebekah James,” he tapped the other, “like I mentioned, was a fashion model. She was making waves. Which means her death is going to make waves the more people find out."

  "Her identity hasn't leaked yet?" Adele asked.

  "Not yet. One thing those masks help with, I suppose. But just keep in mind, the moment that's released, you're going to be working with a lot of scrutiny." He glared, clasping his hands beneath his chin and leaning forward, resting his face on his knuckles as if they were stone. "And what reflects badly on you, reflects badly on me. The more eyes, the better the behavior, yes?"

  Adele and John both shared a look. A lot passed in that flickering glance. She wasn't sure if the Executive knew exactly who he was hiring to work this case. If there was one person he didn't want to stick in front of a camera, it was Agent John Renee. In fact, the last time they'd tangled with a camera crew, he thrown expensive equipment off the edge of a cliff.

  She sighed, and John smirked. "That all, sir?" John said, chipper.

  "Yes. The rest of the information can be sent to you while you're in the air. Get going. We want to stay ahead of this, try to catch the killer before the names of the victims are released to the public. At least that way we will have something to stem the tide of questions. Oh, one last thing."

  John and Adele, who'd been in the middle of rising from their chairs paused, half out, but also frozen. They both looked at their boss.

  "Venice is currently having a festival. A masquerade festival. It's going to go on for the next week."

  "Hang on, masks?” John groaned. "Are you telling me we're going to be surrounded by a bunch of fruitcakes with hidden faces? How are we going to find the killer in all that?"

  "What's the phrase again? Needle in a haystack? You'd better bring a magnet," Foucault said.

  Adele wasn't sure if this was meant to be clever or cutting. Either way, the Executive seemed quite proud with it, and nodded to himself; he turned away from them, deliberately, and returned his attention to his computer.

  John continued muttering darkly about how much he hated Venice. Saying things like, "Too much water. An ungodly amount of water."

  For her part, Adele was more troubled by the prospect of the masks. It would be hard to hunt down witnesses, to find culprits, and to interrogate suspects if everyone was anonymous. Not to mention, during a Venetian festival, there would be crowds, all of them in the cafés along the river walks and the waterways. Crowds upon crowds. The perfect cover for a murderer.

  She shivered, and then turned, following John out of the opaque door to the Executive's office. It wasn't ideal, as far as silver linings went, but killers aside, Adele had always wanted to see Venice...

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Come on, it's not so bad,” Adele said, standing by the Giudecca Canal, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the crowds on one of the lower roads below.

  In her honest opinion, it was really quite beautiful... Wild, too, for sure. Already, t
hough it was still early—nearly noon, some of the festival participants were drunk, and tossing their bottles at the prow of a passing gondola.

  John surveyed this with mild approval and amusement, but as his gaze moved across the rest of the scene throughout Venice, his eyes took on a reproachful, if not queasy quality.

  “So much damn water,” he muttered, his eyes tracing the old lagoon and the more than a hundred small islands upon which the entire city had been constructed. “And such tight spaces,” he added, glancing at the Venetian callettes behind them—streets so small, someone of John's size would have to turn sideways just to walk through.

  “Is it true there isn't a damn road in the entire place?” the large Frenchman muttered beneath his breath.

  Adele patted him consolingly on the arm. “Just think of it as being hugged by a building and kissed by the Adriatic. You'll be fine. Come, the crime scene is this way.”

  Adele turned her back on the rousing spectacle in the early afternoon of the festival. Already, many jugglers and mimes and magicians were moving about the walkways between the canals and flows. She spotted a small troop on a low balcony performing some unfamiliar play, all of them wearing porcelain masks. Many of the tourists along the waters or floating on boats in the canal also wore masks which, likely, they had purchased from the many stalls lining the entrances to the calli.

  John tried to follow Adele's lead as she headed towards the tiny, cramped alleyway. But before he could catch up with her, Adele watched as a group of acrobats appeared at the top of the street, flipping over each other and singing as they passed. Another group of spectators laughed and cheered, following along after them, with streaming green ribbons fluttering in the air over their heads.

  The spectacle of joy and beauty and energy put John Renee in a sour mood.

  “I hate Venice,” he muttered, facing the tiny alley.

  Adele rolled her eyes before side-stepping into the small callette, gesturing John to follow. “Good you've taken up running,” she called. “Might still need to suck in that gut of yours.”

  “Gut? I don't have a gut. What gut?”

  “Pay attention, you might see it,” Adele replied, stepping through the alley, beneath the large shadows of the buildings on either side.

  “Can't see anything with your giant fat ass blocking the view,” John muttered, wrinkling his nose.

  “My ass might be fat, but at least my belly isn't. Santa, come on!”

  John cursed after her, taking twice as long to slide through the tight space, and scraping his shirt along the edge of one of the windowsills as he followed.

  Adele turned, hands on her hips, watching him approach and beaming at his dark muttering and discomfort. There was nothing like John's sour mood to remarkably improve her own.

  Given where they were headed, of course, she could use all the mood boost she could get. It was rare to find the scene of a murder that was anything but dour.

  Then again, if she were to find such a thing, she imagined it might be in the swing of festivities during the Carnevale di Venezia.

  ***

  “She was staying nearby, yes?” John murmured, dusting off his shirt and leaning in to examine the portion of the street where Lorraine Strasser's body had been discovered. The body itself had long since been taken to the morgue. But the blood stain from the knife wound could still be seen leaked into the dusty ground beneath a bronze bench.

  Adele leaned in, one hand brushing the arm of the bench, feeling the chill extend up her fingertips from the cool metal. The clustered Venetian buildings, crowded as they were, prevented much of a breeze from swooping through the pathway between the structures. The air smelled of the canals and, in the distance, she could still hear the revelries of the festival attendees.

  The noise and festivities would increase in direct proportion to the darkening skies. For now, though, the sun was still high, beams reflecting off the staring windows around them. A few of the windows had drapes brushed aside, with locals watching the police do their work. Still other witnesses to the scene had exited the front doors of their homes—few porches or steps to speak of. The crowded nature of the city only allowed the doors to lead directly to the pathways themselves. Leaning against the walls and ignoring pointed looks from the police, various denizens watched the morbid scene with curiosity.

  Adele felt her spine prickle, remembering the Executive's warning about this particular case. Once the names of the victims became public knowledge, more eyes would be on them all. She glanced towards where John was still frowning at the blood stain, his dark brow low over his even darker gaze.

  She could only hope no one—names unmentioned—caused too much of a public spectacle once they were being watched. If Executive Foucault was going to follow-through on his promise and send those military cameras in for inspection, she knew she'd have to be on her best behavior and make sure John was as well.

  One of the best ways, of course, to please the Executive was by solving the case.

  She tapped her fingers, one at a time on the metal arm rest, murmuring. “The first victim was American, yes?”

  John grunted.

  “The second was German.”

  “Tourists,” he said as if it were a nasty word.

  “Perhaps. Venice does attract a lot of tourists this time of year. The thing the victims most had in common...” Adele glanced at her phone, scrolling to the information provided by the office. “Lorraine Strasser was only twenty-three,” she said, softly, feeling a lance of regret. She couldn't do anything about it now, though. So young to die so violently. Still... there were others out there counting on her. She couldn't let her emotions sidetrack now.

  She shook her head. “And the American, Rebekah James...”

  “She was twenty-five,” John said, frowning even more deeply and sighing as he leaned back up, straightening, his large shadow casting across the bronze bench.

  Behind them, Italian police officers were muttering to each other and scrutinizing the surrounding alleyways, scanning for anything that might catch their attention.

  Adele turned though, now looking at the single item that had been left behind at the scene of the crime.

  The mask. The beautiful, porcelain craftsmanship reminded her of old plays she'd once read back in German school. The delicately hand-painted flowers along the edge of the white caught her attention and she leaned in even closer. Most jarring, though, of the entire piece was the slashing red mark of lipstick over the mask's mouth.

  “What do you think that means,” she murmured, pointing at where the mask had been left when the body was taken.

  “Means she wasn't wearing it,” John grunted. He tapped a large finger to the ground just next to the right eye-slit. “Cracked, see? Wasn't like that in the photos.”

  Adele frowned, leaning in and noting where John had caught a small spiderweb of a blemish. “Damn it,” she muttered. She glanced towards the local police moving through the buildings, sighing as she did. “Think they dropped it when moving it?”

  “Her body? Probably. Too much time skating about on water—clumsy clogs on land no doubt.”

  “It's just water, John. Let it go.”

  He growled further, but didn't reply, occasionally shooting askance glances at the buildings around them as if worried they might sink into the lagoon before his very eyes.

  Adele took her phone and took a picture of the slight crack on the edge of the mask. It wouldn't have been secured to her face, in that case. According to Foucault, it had been too big for her as well.

  “The killer must have left it,” she said, quietly. “The red lipstick—what do you make of that?”

  John frowned more deeply. “Maybe he's silencing them... Say, when's our Italian liaison getting here? I want to know which numskull cracked the mask.”

  He looked up and around, his furious gaze shifting from one local to another. As if somehow sensing his indignation, the three police officers who'd been waiting at the scene redoub
led their efforts, scanning the alleys and beneath the windowsills in search of anything the killer might have left behind. One of the officers was moving from onlooker to onlooker, checking to see if anyone had seen anything.

  At first, Adele had thought this promising; now, though, as she watched the fifth apartment-dweller shake her head and shrug, she felt an icy lance of frustration shoot through her. No one seemed to have seen anything or heard anything. Likely, most had been involved in the festivities. The killer had struck at night, beneath a sky showered in vibrant streaks of fireworks.

  Just then, a voice called out from between one of the small pathways through the buildings. A handsome man with perfectly sculpted features stepped beneath an arching stone loop topped with red shingle. He called out, “Adele! John! What a pleasant surprise!” He spoke nearly perfect English, with a mild Italian accent; his tone inflected delight, and the sound of his footsteps increased as he hastened over to them, his smile matching the rest of his features, perfectly maintained and displayed with an easy confidence.

  Adele blinked in surprise, feeling a flush of excitement immediately beset by a flurry of discomfort. “Oh—ah, Christopher!” She declared, swallowing and straightening over the cracked mask. She beamed as he approached, matching his smile, but she felt John's glower level on her and she quickly dialed back the smile a couple of notches, feeling an odd cavalcade of emotions make their presence known.

  “I—Christopher,” she said, trying again. “Good to see you. I didn't know you were our liaison!”

  The Italian winked and in a teasing voice, said, “Maybe if you'd ever answered some of my calls, I could have told you.”

  Adele winced at the jibe, but Agent Leoni was still smiling, so she decided not to comment.

  Agent Leoni had worked with Adele on a couple of separate occasions, both times proving to be an excellent partner and even better agent. Not to mention he was quite easy on the eyes. Which also, perhaps predictably, meant John disliked everything about the Italian.