Left to Crave (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Thirteen) Page 4

  She sighed, reaching her conclusion and extending her hand which didn't hold the folders.

  “Hello, Agent Paige,” she said stiffly.

  “Adele,” the older agent said. She ignored the extended hand and instead snatched the folders from her grip. “Plane booked yet?”

  Foucault nodded. “Yes, Sophie. Do you have everything?”

  Agent Paige looked up from the folders, glancing towards Adele. She let out a world-weary sigh, not quite rolling her eyes and yet somehow communicating the sentiment. “I suppose,” she muttered. “We should get going, Adele.”

  And then, the woman turned, marching right back where she'd come from, both folders clutched in her hand, her head bowed as if in prayer as she read the folder while power-walking back to the elevators.

  Adele bit back any response, hiding her sudden flare of resentment as best she could.

  “Good luck, Agent Sharp,” the boss muttered, still spinning his cigarette. His tone hardened suddenly, and his eyes stared off, distant as if seeing something Adele couldn't. “No failure on this one—Adele. I mean it. You and Paige are the best I've got. I expect results.” He then growled beneath his breath, twisted his cigarette, tossing it onto the carpeted floor before shoving roughly back through his office door, slamming it behind him.

  Adele released a long sigh of resignation, and slowly made the long walk towards the waiting elevator and Agent Paige.

  ***

  Agent Paige had conquered the armrest. The small plane shook and jolted around them as they were carried through a bout of turbulence.

  Adele's own arms squished against her as she fidgeted uncomfortably in the airplane seat. She hadn't been allowed the seat by the window or aisle, either. Instead, whoever had booked the tickets, had decided to plop her smack dab in the middle of two economy seats.

  Adele shifted again, avoiding the large man sitting in the aisle seat, trying to turn Agent Paige who was by the window, examining the photographs in the folders which she'd displayed on the lowered table. The man on the other side of Adele kept shooting glances past her, towards the photos.

  “What?” Paige snapped as the man glanced for a third time.

  He pretended he couldn't hear, pushing in his earbuds deeper and staring at the small television screen in front of him, while wiggling his great girth to settle.

  Adele tried to avoid the elbow jamming into her forearm, but she was quickly running out of personal space to retreat to. She angled away from the man, trying to examine the folder on Sophie's table.

  “Do you mind?” Paige said, scowling as Adele brushed her arm.

  “No. Sorry,” Adele replied, though it felt like pulling teeth. She wanted to add more but decided this likely wouldn't prove fruitful. “See anything of interest?”

  Paige sniffed, glancing back towards the photos. Her perfectly manicured, but unpainted fingernails spread the photos again. She still smelled of soap, and her hair, despite the nozzle of air above, was perfectly in place.

  “So... did you volunteer for this?” Paige said curtly, avoiding the spoken question but probing at the unspoken one.

  “I—no—Foucault called.”

  “I see.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Well,” Paige said, “I'm sure we'll both behave professionally, yes? When we catch the killer, we're going to arrest him. Right?”

  Adele felt a jolt of unease. “Wh—what does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No—hang on. What do you mean arrest him? Of course, we'll arrest him. What are you implying?”

  “Oh don't play thick with me, Adele. You've created somewhat of a reputation for yourself. I'm primary, so we're going to do this by the book. That's all I meant to say.”

  Adele felt her stomach twist. A couple of things stood out about this, neither of them particularly comforting. For one, she didn't appreciate the inference. What were people at the office saying about the killing of the Painter? Her report had been clear self-defense. But were other rumors circulating?

  She glanced sidelong at Paige, but the older woman seemed satisfied with her comments and was now studying the coroner's report.

  In addition to this initial unease, Adele couldn't help but notice Paige's use of “When.”

  When they caught the killer. Not “if.” When.

  A lot of confidence, though the closest they'd come to the crimes at all was this plane ride to Switzerland. Foucault had high expectations. Paige did too.

  Adele needed to bring her A game on this one. The two people she least wanted to upset in the French government were now both holding her accountable for the apprehension of this killer. The expectation alone felt like burden resting on her shoulders.

  Paige's cold, clipped tone clarified things. Neither of them particularly liked this pairing, but in order to catch the killer of the boss's cousin, they'd have to find—if not the same—a similar wavelength.

  “Same MO,” Paige was murmuring. “Two stab wounds to the heart, then both male victims were stuffed into these large, antique items.”

  “Any connection between the victims?” Adele murmured.

  “Not at first glance. Did you find anything?”

  Adele shifted uncomfortably again in her seat. “No. We'll have a better idea when we land and get a look at the crime scene. Apparently it's a mansion in the Alps.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The mountain views, the cotton-white clouds, the steep arches and columns of the old mansion were all lost on Adele.

  She marched away from the taxi they'd taken from the airport, grateful to be—finally—free from close confines with Agent Paige. Ahead, in the open double-doors of the enormous home, she spotted Swiss police officers gathered on the threshold, murmuring to each other in conversation.

  The three men and one woman perked up, glancing over their blue scarves and black jackets.

  “Interpol?” said one of the men, stepping forward and wearing a frown as dark as his overcoat.

  “Yes,” Adele replied quickly. “Interpol corresponding with DGSI.”

  “Ah, French,” the man replied, nodding once as if he'd heard enough. “Please, come this way,” he said in nearly perfect English. He gestured with a hand, and Adele didn't wait for Agent Paige to catch up before entering the mansion.

  Instantly, her eyes were drawn to the giant, antique clock set beneath a walkway, framed by a stairwell. The huge, wooden, glass-faced thing was barricaded by police tape and standing in ominous shadow.

  Adele blinked in the dark, rubbing her cool hands on her sweater sleeves to warm them. “No lights?” she asked.

  The officer who'd followed into the house shook his head. “Someone tampered with the circuit breaker. Electrician is on holiday—going to be another day.”

  Adele paused, nodding and scanning the room. “Body?”

  “At the coroner's,” the Swiss officer said. “Crime scene has been photographed as well.” He studied Adele out of the corner of his eye, cleared his throat, then said, “Is it usual for Interpol to work through French agencies?”

  Adele took a moment to register the question. She kept her gaze on the clock but replied, “It's experimental. I worked in Germany and the USA before this.”

  “Ah—a marriage of convenience, then?” He grinned.

  Adele returned the smile, hers a few notches more reserved. “I suppose so.” She glanced back towards the main doors, her eyes flicking to the locks. Then she turned to look at the windows. “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “No. Not that we've found.”

  “Do we know how the killer entered the house? Any open windows?”

  “Hard to say. The front door was unlocked, but that was probably due to the wife.”

  “Ah, yes. And how is our witness?”

  The Swiss agent shook his head, his scarf swishing across his jacket. “Not well, I'm afraid. She's still recovering from the initial shock. We got a brief report, but not much. Mostly, she wants us to leave the house.”

  Adele looked over. “She's here?”

  “Yes. Upstairs in the master bedroom. She requested no guests.”

  Footsteps suddenly joined them, and someone cleared their throat. Then, Agent Paige said, “We will have to disappoint Ms. Vosloo, I'm afraid. Do we know the point of entry?”

  Adele looked back towards her partner, wishing Paige had spent more time making her way from the car. Instead, she kept her tone polite. “Already asked—no sign of force.”

  “I see.” Paige looked towards the large clock but seemed disinterested. “Where is Ms. Vosloo? We didn't fly all this way for nothing.”

  Adele shifted uncomfortably, and the Swiss officer looked similarly unsure of himself. In the doorway, the other officers were all watching, preferring to stand in the threshold where the sunlight could illuminate their gathering, rather than in the dingy dark of the mansion.

  The Swiss officer coughed delicately. “I suppose I could ask if Ms. Vosloo would like—”

  “Would like what?” This voice came from the stairs, speaking in English with a light accent.

  Adele and the others all turned, watching as a small-framed woman, wearing a business suit—which was now wrinkled as if it had been slept in—came down the stairs. Her eyes were framed with red, and her extended hand hovered over the curling rail, not quite touching the surface.

  “Ms. Vosloo,” the Swiss officer said reflexively, clearing his throat and holding out a mirroring hand as if to keep her at bay. “Apologies. Did we wake you?”

  She didn't reply, taking the stairs but then coming to a halt halfway down the steps. She overlooked the entrance, the grandfather clock not visible from her angle, as if this had been intentional.

  Agent Paige cleared her throat, beginning to speak, but Adele—quite familiar with Sophie's bedside manner—stepped forward and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the widow. “I'm very sorry for your loss,” she said.

  The woman had neat, silver-speckled hair tied back in a bun, and two long, earrings shaped like music notes dangling on either side of her face. Evidence of streaked mascara was visible only in the faintest of trailing shadows, residue of what had been wiped away.

  “Is this going to take much longer?” the woman said in an effervescent tone, glancing at the faces below.

  “Electrician is delayed,” the officer replied, wincing. “We still need more crime scene photos.”

  The woman on the stairs sighed, her hair flitting and falling with the gust of air. “A crime scene... I never really thought of my home as a crime scene.”

  Adele cleared her throat. “I'm Agent Sharp with Interpol and DGSI—I don't mean to bother you Mrs. Vosloo. I know how difficult things must be.”

  “Yes. Difficult. That is one word for it.”

  “I'm very, very sorry. But you are the one who... who found...”

  “My husband? Dead? Yes, dear, I was.” Her voice still carried that echoing, airy quality, and Adele realized the woman must have taken something to calm her nerves. Her eyes were dilated, and her motions were trance-like.

  “And did you notice anything else?”

  The woman waved a hand over the banister. “A body. A body in the clock.”

  Paige murmured behind Adele. “She's drugged.”

  Adele just nodded but addressed Ms. Vosloo again. “I couldn't help but notice where the clock was placed. In the middle of the room. Did the killer do that—it would've surely taken more than one person to drag that clock.”

  “No... No, it was just delivered. My husband won it at an auction recently—it cost us a small fortune.”

  “An auction?”

  “Yes—during a trip to France, in fact. We'd just returned.”

  Adele frowned, beginning to nod, but now, Ms. Vosloo was leaning over the rail, lifting herself off the ground and kicking her feet like a child imitating an airplane. She wore a dopy grin and seemed, momentarily, to forget everyone there.

  “Probably best we return her to her rooms,” the Swiss officer said with a significant tilt of his eyebrows.

  Paige frowned, but Adele just nodded, turning and moving back through the door without so much as a farewell. A single dot was only a data point. Two, though, formed the threat of a trend. The Belgium crime scene would help narrow in on the pertinent clues.

  She was already fishing her phone from her pocket, entering Foucault's number.

  His cousin had been killed two days earlier.

  As Adele exited the mansion, out into the sunlit mountain view, she heard Agent Paige coming after her. “Adele? Where are you going?”

  Adele paused in the driveway, stray gravel crunching underfoot. She ignored the other Swiss officers watching quizzically from the door. She held up her phone in answer, where it was already ringing.

  Paige sniffed, glanced at the number, back to the house then to Adele again. “The Belgium scene?”

  Adele resisted the urge to smile. Credit where credit was due—Paige knew her way around a case.

  “Make it a video call,” Paige said firmly. “Foucault can provide the investigator's number—It's Guyenne.”

  Adele's eyebrows shot up. “From our office?”

  Paige snorted. “You think he was going to let the locals trample all over the scene? Guyenne is good at his job. But I want to see his face—make it a video call.”

  Adele nodded, waiting for the line to connect with the executive in order to get the number for the investigator at the first crime scene.

  What dots would connect? Which ones wouldn't?

  Adele felt a faint shiver down her spine. No sign of a break-in. No potential witnesses out in such seclusion... What if...

  For the first time she considered the horrible proposition...

  What if...

  What if they couldn't catch the killer? What would that mean for her career? Her freedom? Would Foucault be furious?

  The phone connected. She heard a faint growl, then a response. “Yes? Did you find anything? Sharp—what is it?”

  Adele bit her lip. “Nothing concrete yet, sir. I need Guyenne's number in Belgium, sir—we're going to compare notes.”

  “You're not going to Belgium?” Foucault snapped, but then he paused and huffed a sigh. “Never mind—never mind. No, I get it. Another two days of travel will only allow this murderous scum a bigger lead. Fine—fine...”

  “We can go if you'd like...,” Adele began.

  “No—I hired you because I knew you were the best. What does Paige think?”

  Adele glanced towards her reluctant partner. Paige pursed her lips—seemingly a very familiar expression for the lower half of her face—but then she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “No,” she said simply. “Guyenne's report will be enough for now. We can always head back if nothing comes up. For the moment, I want to see what he's found.”

  Adele felt her stomach twist, equal parts relieved and stunned that Paige had backed the play. Hopping from country to country would provide more information but also give the killer a greater head start. Especially in the first few days of a new serial case, time was of the essence.

  “Sir,” she said, “about that number? Please?”

  She waited, nerves tingling as Foucault began to text her the number for their colleague in Belgium.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Adele and Sophie walked side-by-side circling around the garage in search of both privacy and better reception. Adele held her phone up, watching the grainy footage of Agent Guyenne on the other line.

  “There... no—wait... yes, I can hear you now—Agent Sharp?” The speaker crackled and Guyenne's round, friendly face flashed across the screen.

  Paige leaned in next to Adele, squinting up at the device. “Mati,” she snapped, “Stop shaking your arm—you're giving me a headache.”

  “Oh—Sophie, hello—didn't see you there! Is this better?”

  Adele felt a flash of gratitude as she circled around the garage, watching the screen finally settle, displaying the French agent in Belgium standing outside a chateau-style mansion at the edge of a private lake.

  Adele whistled softly. “Nice place,” she said.

  The round-faced agent bobbed his head, moving aside to give a better view of the estate behind him. “Seems like you're in a similar space,” he replied, wiggling his fingers towards the camera.

  Adele glanced back towards the mountains, her eyes lifting to view the scenic passes beyond. “Both victims came from wealth,” she said simply. “We spoke to the wife—she found her husband here.”

  Guyenne bobbed his head, flashing a thumbs up, over-gesticulating as if worried the pixelation might disguise the motion. “Mr. Foucault was found by a cleaning crew. He was discovered just up there.” The phone rotated now, facing the chateau, a pudgy finger gestured towards the second window above the entrance. “Second floor,” he said. “In an old antique wardrobe.”

  “That's what I wanted to speak about,” Adele said, moving around the front of the garage again for a second lap. Agent Paige was shorter so had to move quicker to keep up. “Do you have a timeline on that antique wardrobe?”

  “When it was purchased?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't have purchase date. But I did notice packing materials in the dumpsters—so I asked about delivery date.”

  Adele's eyebrows perked. “When?”

  “Twenty-four hours before the murder,” said Guyenne with a significant nod.

  “I see... Did you find any points of entry? Was it a break-in?”

  “None. We're still looking into it. How about you?”

  Adele shook her head. “The lights were cut—someone tampered with the breaker badly enough to require an electrician.”

  “Lights were off here, too. Something with one of the main lines. It's up and running again, though.”

  Adele circled around the garage for a third time, footsteps crunching against gravel and dust. Paige's footsteps tapped staccato as she hurried to keep up.

  “Which auction house?” Paige said suddenly.