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

  He stumbled a bit toward the bottles against the back wall. His eyes scanned the white labels with yellow sharpie. Each of them depicting a date.

  He frowned, recollecting. “How old was she again?” he murmured.

  Then he lifted the small bottle of cherry juice. On the bottom, stenciled, the number “1994.” His eyes flicked back toward the glinting bottoms of the wine bottles displayed against the back wall. The circular glass dots seemed like many eyes watching him, studying his movements.

  With trembling fingers, he withdrew a vintage from the same year: 1994. Crucial they matched. Imperative, even.

  Gabriel popped the cork with practiced ease, simply using his thumb and forefinger and a strong twist. Very few could uncork a bottle this way. But he’d practiced.

  He poured the contents into a small tumbler sitting on the top of the wine case. Then, his fingers still shaking, he took the cherry juice and opened it. The ironlike smell of blood met his nostrils. Exhaling shakily, in a sort of orgasmic puff of breath, he poured the contents of the small container into the tumbler. Wine mixed with blood. He used his finger to swirl the contents around and around, red against red against deep red.

  He smiled now. So close… so near…

  He could feel the spasm wracking his body—could feel the need cloying through him desperate, searching, screaming.

  “All right,” he muttered. “All right. Guide me to light, accept me through the gates. Drink of my blood… I will enter!” He shouted this last part at the gray stone ceiling above. Eyes narrowed, he gripped the tumbler and then poured it into his mouth, gulping slowly at first, then faster, faster.

  The taste pungent against his tongue, smooth in his throat and warm in his belly.

  Some of the tremblings left, some of the anxiety lifted. He looked at himself in the small glass divider over the wine rack and beneath a bookshelf. His handsome features stared back… He looked at his hair, frowning.

  Dark… no gray.

  Too dark.

  He growled, staring, feeling his chest heave, the rush of adrenaline that always accompanied the elixir of life. But life unto death. Life unto the next. His hair would gray, his skin wrinkle—this never scared him. This was the plan.

  But it had to happen naturally. It could not be forced. To drink of a life force would spill out his own. A step at a time, a step toward eternity. His own death would be his crossing—but it needed to happen naturally. As one born without unnatural aid.

  He ran his fingers through his dark hair, poked at his smooth skin, staring at his handsome features. He looked too young… He wasn’t aging fast enough. He wouldn’t die soon enough. He might miss it all—miss his chance. He might remain stuck this side of eternity forever!

  “Damn it,” he muttered, the pulse of adrenaline fading a bit now. “Damn it,” he screamed, lifting his voice now.

  The third vintage. He’d stuck to the recipe. The farmer had been old. The sommelier young. 1963 and 1994. The numbers of Gabriel. The code that unlocked passage. Why was he still so young? How long would he have to wait for the freedom offered?

  Again. Soon. He couldn’t wait. He could feel the effects fading already. The bolstering of his spirit—the rising of his soul. Not enough elixir. Not enough…

  Desperately, his fingers scrambled for his pocket. Trembling again, still wearing his black gloves, he groped about for the list. Another name. Another number. Steady, steady on the narrow road unto eternity.

  “Damn it!” he screamed. And then he felt a flash of guilt again. Damnation was for the others. Eternity was for the determined.

  He pulled the crinkled piece of paper out, smoothing it against his gloved hand, his eyes desperately scanning now, wide, searching, hunting for the next name. The next sacrifice. The next ingredients for the elixir.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “An email?” Adele said, staring at the side of John’s face.

  He grunted, shrugging one shoulder, and continued to scan his laptop screen.

  Adele felt a flicker of annoyance. They were once more back in the motel just outside Bordeaux. Once again, seated at the small table near the closed door of the room they shared. The blinds on the other side of the room were opened once again, allowing the sun to stream in and reflect off the slick, glossy surface of the table and illuminate John’s strong features in a soft glow.

  “What does it say?” Adele said, testily.

  John just shrugged again and continued to read.

  She could feel her frustration mounting. Earlier, he had been annoying for constantly questioning her. Prying into her personal business. Now, though, he was annoying her by being aloof and quiet.

  Or maybe you’re just projecting, said a small voice in her mind.

  Adele slumped petulantly in her chair, crossing her arms over her wrinkled suit. She wasn’t projecting. John was projecting. What a stupid idea.

  But the more she looked at her partner, the angrier she became. “What’s wrong with you!” she shouted after a moment.

  John, who hadn’t said a word for nearly two minutes, looked at her in mild surprise. However, if she had wanted her outburst to provoke some sort of reaction, he didn’t give her the satisfaction. “I said,” he murmured, “I got an email from Robert. Give me a moment.”

  Then he returned back to scanning his computer.

  Adele huffed, sighing. She felt embarrassed all of a sudden, and some of the irritation faded to be replaced by chagrin. Perhaps she was projecting. Angry at John for talking too much, angry at John for talking too little, maybe she was just frustrated with herself and the case. Faintly, she thought back to her interaction in the chocolate bar factory. The memory prompted her to wince.

  “Sorry,” she muttered across the table.

  He didn’t even seem to hear. At last, he looked up from the computer.

  Adele said, “Email was from Robert?”

  John nodded once.

  “That’s strange,” she said. “Normally he likes to call for business.”

  John shook his head. “You can try calling him if you want.”

  Adele had already attempted while John had scanned his computer. Both times, the number had gone to voicemail. “He’s not picking up,” she said, suppressing the cold tingle of worry scurrying down her spine. “Whatever—did he say anything useful?”

  John nodded now, tapping one calloused finger against the side of his chin. “Looks like we have a suspect in the area. Robert went through a list of people who matched the MO of the killer.”

  Adele perked up, now uncrossing her arms and leaning across the table. “What did he find?”

  John turned his laptop with a flourish and presented the image on the screen with a slight wiggle of his fingers. “Voilà,” he said. “Jean Glaude, scumbag extraordinaire. Indicted on one count of sexual assault. They arrested him,” John said, grimacing as he spoke, “get this, for two counts of exsanguination. Two warm ones, bled out, left in the dust. They weren’t able to peg him on those charges, though.”

  Adele stared at John. “But they got him for the rape?”

  “Looks like. This was seven years ago. He only recently got out.”

  Adele looked at the picture on the LED screen. It displayed a man with a short ponytail, balding on top. He had piercings all up and down his left ear, and a single hoop through his nostrils. His face wasn’t anything remarkable, and he seemed to be in relatively good shape. “Looks like he’s a member of Lock-up Fitness,” she muttered.

  “He isn’t all that,” John muttered. “Mr. Glaude lives about twenty minutes from here. Close enough to the sommelier.”

  Adele nodded slowly. “All right, worth checking out. What did they have tying him to the exsanguinations?”

  John shrugged a shoulder. He glanced back at the screen, rotating the laptop just a bit and causing it to squeak against the glossy surface of the table. He read a moment longer, then said, “Only circumstantial. Couple of witnesses saw a man fitting his description enter
the building. Security cameras spotted his vehicle in the area. But nothing enough to convict. He skated on those charges.”

  Adele pushed away from the table, getting to her feet for a moment, and she felt a flicker of worry which had nothing to do with the case.

  “Did Robert say anything in the email? Is he doing okay?”

  John gave her a musing look. “Didn’t see anything. He just sent the email. Why?”

  Adele breathed heavily. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and went to the most recently dialed numbers. She tried it again and waited a few moments. After a second, a buzz, and then an annoying, clinical voice. Voicemail.

  She cursed and stowed her phone. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Come on; let’s go check out Mr. Delightful.”

  John flashed a thumbs-up. “Our squad car should be patrolling the area. Just let me get my jacket.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was the same officer who had driven them to Mr. Bich. The policewoman pulled the squad car up to the curb outside the small French public housing complex.

  She nodded through the window, toward the dirt-stained once-white building. “That’s the address,” she murmured. “Sure you don’t want backup? This isn’t exactly a hospitable area.”

  Adele jerked a thumb over her shoulder from where she sat in the front seat once more. “That’s my backup,” she muttered. “We’ll be fine.”

  John, the indicated party, chuckled quietly to himself as he pushed out the back door. Adele followed, and the two of them stepped into the afternoon. The sun was playing peekaboo behind some clouds and above, sitting on a couple of telephone wires, two blue-feathered birds darted around, chirping and chasing each other.

  Save the birds, the rest of the area seemed in disrepair. The buildings themselves were stained gray, the driveways cracked and scattered with stone. The grass was sheared too close, as if the tenants couldn’t be bothered to mow frequently, and wanted to put off the chore as long as possible.

  A row of slotted mailboxes with locks sitting on the curb boasted the addresses for nearly fifteen of the units surrounding the street.

  “Mr. Scumbag lives up here?” she asked.

  “One-fifty-five,” John muttered. “No telling what the idiot will do. Better be careful.”

  Adele nodded, and together with John, she moved up the sidewalk, toward the dilapidated building, and through the front glass door that led into the small entry. A row of buzzers was set in the wall next to her.

  She tried the handle, but it was locked. John reached across her and slid his finger down all the buttons, stepping back a second later.

  There was a pause, then a crackle of a voice asking, “Who is it?”

  John and Adele didn’t reply. John ran his fingers down the buttons again. A few seconds later, the door buzzed. John smirked, pushed open the door which creaked on rusted hinges, and moved into the small, cramped space in the atrium of the building.

  The air here smelled of mold and cigarette smoke concealed poorly by cologne. The stairwell itself was sagging, a portion of the wall bloated from water damage.

  Adele wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t seem like our scumbag extraordinaire is too concerned with hygiene.”

  John shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”

  Adele paused for a moment, and nodded. “Good.”

  The two of them moved up the stairs, reaching the end of the long hall.

  “One-fifty-five?” she said.

  John maneuvered ahead of her, his hand on his hip, his weapon visible beneath the tucked edge of his shirt.

  Adele put her own hand near her waist. She wasn’t nearly as quick off the draw as John, so she unhooked her holster, deciding one could never be too careful. They moved down the hall past 150… 151… 152… A couple doors later, next to another portion of wall where the wallpaper was peeling from more water damage, beneath a particularly impressive black mold stain, Adele came to a halt.

  “Door’s open,” John muttered.

  Adele stared at the crack in the entryway and pushed.

  The door creaked, but then went taut. It was stuck on a chain. But a thin glimmer of flickering light, as if from a TV, emanated from within apartment 155.

  Adele pressed against the door, feeling the cold of the metal against her cheek; she glanced along the gap, into the apartment. The angle of the slightly ajar door gave her a long look into a kitchen crowded with piles of bottles, a scattering of newspapers on top of the stove, and a sink full of dishes, with a couple of flies flitting around beneath a window that stared out into a side alley. Adele wrinkled her nose.

  She tapped her fingers against the door; no response.

  “Sounds like he’s home,” John murmured.

  The TV continued to blare and buzz.

  Adele raised her voice. “Mr. Glaude, are you in there?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Glaude?” she said, louder now. A slow prickle spread down her spine.

  No answer. She tapped even more insistently against the door until her knuckles practically bruised against the metal.

  “Adele,” John said, sharply.

  She felt another tingle across the back of her neck, and looked at her partner.

  John was pointing toward the microwave set in one of the cupboards. The glass surface of the door reflected the glow from the TV, and then something on the floor.

  She strained, trying to discern the shape displayed in the glass. Then she realized what it was and went suddenly very still, her eyes widening.

  A body lay on the ground in front of the TV, face down.

  “Get back,” John said, sharply.

  Cursing, her arms prickling with goosebumps, she stepped aside, her weapon already springing out of her holster. John took two lunging steps and shoved hard; there was a splintering sound as the chain pulled from the door itself, cracking against the wood. The chain now dangled, with a fragment of the frame still stuck to its side. The door slammed open, and Adele and John stumbled in, weapons raised.

  “DGSI!” Adele shouted.

  Both of them pointed their weapons around the room, across the disgusting kitchen, into the small, dingy, hazy apartment. The air smelled of skunk weed and mold.

  She spotted an overflowing trashcan next to two bags with blue ties adjacent to the bin. She turned toward the TV and the corpse, her heart hammering.

  Except, it wasn’t a corpse.

  The body was still moving, emitting low, gurgling sounds and huffing breaths.

  John hesitated and then grunted. A second later, scanning the scene, he slowly stowed his weapon. “Mr. Glaude?” John asked, some of the energy fading from his tone.

  John took a couple of steps toward the snoring man lying prone on the ground. He had a bottle of wine clutched in his hand, his lips sucking on it. Adele noticed another couple of bottles scattered beneath the counter. She leaned down, poking at one, listening to the glassy, rolling sound as it slid across the tiles.

  “John, this one’s from the same vineyard where Ms. Gueyen worked,” she said.

  John snatched a big handful of the man’s hair—balding on top, but a long ponytail. Adele spotted many earrings through the man’s ears. John gripped the greasy hair, winced in disgust, but then lifted the head.

  The man continued to snore, his eyes sealed, his jaw hanging, a thin trail of drool spilling down onto his fingers. Above him, the TV was playing a pornographic film.

  “I think we found our princess,” John said. And then he tapped the bottle, picked it up, and wiggled it. “And here’s her glass slipper.”

  Adele wrinkled her nose, moving over to John, and slowly, with his help, lifting Mr. Glaude.

  “Guess we’d better take him down to the station. More than one of these bottles is from Ms. Gueyen’s workplace—he likely knew our victim.”

  Together, John and Adele endeavored to wake their suspect, at the same time trying to keep their distance for the sake of hygiene, while simultaneously r
eaching for handcuffs.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nina Wagner hefted the small brown box. She tucked her tongue inside her cheek, shouldering the container, and wincing as one of the bags of sugar nearly toppled over the edge. She resisted the urge to curse, blinking beneath the sun just outside the small wine-making store, Artisan’s Supplies. She looked over her shoulder, embarrassed, wondering if anyone was watching her struggle. Then, huffing a bit, she tottered, one step at a time, barely able to see over the box toward her car.

  She felt her purse swinging off the strap on her arm, dangling low. If anyone opportunistic came by, she’d be helpless to prevent them from snatching it.

  Puffing and huffing, she reached the back of her small sedan and placed the box on the lid of the trunk. Then she exhaled, hands on her hip as she gathered her breath. She glanced back toward the shop and noticed one of the clerks smiling at her. She gave a little wave. Nina smiled back and waved in return. Today was a good day. Far too warm and bright and full of hope to be filled with anything close to resentment. Besides, everything in that little box of hers was just the ingredients for the next best vintage in the area—ingredients to her future. Perhaps even the future of her children and their children. In her early forties, she had heard from many how it was quite late in the game to be getting into wine-making. But Nina had never been one to back down from a challenge. She’d spent the last couple of years studying the craft, practicing, perfecting. And now, she felt certain she’d reached the perfect blend.

  All that remained was getting these new appliances into the studio. She looked at the box on top of the trunk, and then toward the lock.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered.

  The items in the box needed to be in the trunk, but the box held the lid shut. She sighed, and resigned herself to another embarrassing shuffle. She grabbed the box, lifting it, and slowly lowered it to the ground. But just then, the strain from too many items broke through the side of the box. The corner gave out, and a flap of brown dangled down. One of the glass decanters fell, smashing on the gravel.