Left to Fear (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Ten) Read online

  “Silence,” the painter snapped. “Quiet!”

  The woman whimpered, but obeyed, marching along the sidewalk, under the broken streetlights, away from the gas station, and away from witnesses.

  They were nearing the green SUV the woman had indicated. Green. Not ideal. A color that stood out. He wrinkled his nose, but decided it was the best they could do on short notice.

  He'd really screwed up. He should have killed the s Sergeant. He gritted his teeth, though not too tightly, and gave the woman another push along the sidewalk, sending her stumbling, but then reeling back due to his grip on her arm, like some sort of lure on a fishing line.

  They approached the SUV, and he heard the jangling sound of keys in trembling fingers as she pulled them out, desperately trying to hand them over.

  In the distance, he heard the sound of a siren. For a moment, he stiffened, watching blue and red lights, from streets over, reflect across the windows of the large apartment complex to their right.

  “Please,” the woman was blubbering now. Probably with snot bubbles and spit. All the nasty little fluids leaking from the orifices of his canvas.

  “Shut up!” he snarled in French. “Open the door! Open it—now!”

  He glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the gas station, wincing once more against the pain in his neck, along his cheek. Damn it. He should have cut Joseph Sharp's neck. Should have killed him. Now he had too much heat.

  Airports were out of the question. Bridges too. Even using a car... risky. Very risky. But he needed a place to lie low. Somewhere to hide for a bit until things cooled down. Leaving Germany by conventional means was out of the question...

  He paused for a moment, frowning.

  What about unconventional?

  He watched as the keys were pressed and the lights to the SUV flashed as the automatic locks clicked. He watched the woman try to shove the keys towards him, desperately. She held out her hands as if in surrender, trying to step back. “Yours,” she was saying. “Please. It's yours.”

  “No,” he said, smiling for a moment. “Don't be silly, dear. You're coming with me. Go on now—go on. I'll be gentle.” He jammed the knife against her back, even harder.

  The woman tried to protest, her eyes flashing horribly, glancing back in the direction of the gas station. But the customers had returned to their own car and were pulling away in the opposite direction. Even the red and blue lights, and the distant sound of the siren had faded now.

  They were alone, in the dark, with the SUV.

  The painter paused, standing next to the canvas. She had a small little tattoo on her wrist—he could see it when she'd opened the car door, where she still gripped her keys trying to offer them to him like some sort of sacrifice to appease a god.

  He frowned at the tattoo past her sleeve.

  A marked canvas.

  He could feel his temper rising, staring at the stupid little squiggle of ink. A marked canvas!

  “Bitch!” he snarled, and slapped her, hard with an open hand.

  She yelped, but didn't retreat, the knife still against her spine.

  “Please,” she sputtered. “Take it. Take the car. Yours.”

  She spoke in broken and stuttered German as people often did with foreigners, thinking that somehow, by dumbing down their speech they would make it easier to understand. He snorted, and took in a delicate, inhaling little breath, trying to think.

  Well, that tattoo was just the icing on the cake, wasn't it? He was looking forward to a long night of stress-relief and creative expression, somewhere in a parking lot, hidden from sight, where the screams could be muffled.

  But what was the point playing with an already marked canvas? Even now, hearing her whimpering, he wrinkled his nose.

  Tempting, certainly tempting. But he was no hack. He wouldn't paint over another's work. Especially some sloppy, amateur.

  No. This was the cherry on top of a shit sundae. Everything ruined. Joseph Sharp alive. Police out in droves. He couldn't leave the country... And now the tattoo—even the pleasure he'd planned for the evening. Ruined.

  He stood for a moment, considering his next step, one hand still pressing his blade to the woman's spine, the other gripping the keys she'd extended, relieving them from her grasp, and holding them tight in his fingers.

  There would be roadblocks on bridges, at checkpoints. Even the car couldn't last long.

  But if not a car, no airplanes, no trains...

  He paused, frowning briefly. Then his brow, the shaved eyebrows no more than a prickle, arose.

  What about a boat?

  He'd heard of more than one cruising riverboat crossing into Austria and beyond via the Danube... How far to such a stop? Not too far, surely... Close enough. Certainly close enough.

  He exhaled, nodding to himself and making up his mind. He needed out of this cursed country, this botched masterpiece. He needed out now.

  “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

  And then, he jammed the knife into her spine, allowing her to fall. The blade twisted as she stumbled, like a puppet with snipped strings, yelping in pain as she did. He stared at where she lay, bleeding on the ground.

  She might not die. For a moment, he just watched her writhe in agony. He leaned against the hood of the SUV, wiping his knife off on his sleeve, and hefting the car keys. She twisted and contorted in such lovely patterns. He could have just killed her outright, could have cut her deep... but where was the fun in that?

  Someone had already marked this canvas. And now he'd ruined it.

  Maybe, if he'd aimed properly, she'd recover the use of her legs... with some therapy. Maybe she'd be wheelchair bound. Maybe no one would find her, and she'd simply bleed out. She was whimpering now, increasing in volume.

  He leaned down, patted her on the cheek, and murmured, “Thank you,” again. He watched her writhe for a moment longer, for the sheer joy of it.

  And then, he slid into his new vehicle, humming to himself, wincing against the shards in his cheek, and putting the vehicle in gear. He felt a momentary temptation to run over the woman where she lay, half on the sidewalk, half off.

  But why put her out of her misery?

  Misery was the point, after all.

  And so, carefully, he avoided the form of the desperately mewling thing and pulled onto the road, driving slowly, carefully, and checking street signs. He needed to make his way to the river, and then onto one of the riverboats.

  The clock was ticking. The noose was tightening.

  But like always, they'd miss him again. They always did.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  John and Adele reached Ingolstadt as night arrived and the clouds came with it. The city seemed separated between main portions of civilization, large swathes of farmland, and then residential islands of homes clumped together amidst the flat land. Adele gritted her teeth, glancing up at the sky as their taxi driver pulled into the parking lot outside the dock. She glanced at the small, red digital clock on the dash and shook her head. “Boat isn't leaving for another twenty minutes,” she said, quickly.

  John frowned, glancing towards the vessel sitting by the dock. A few passengers were handing tickets to a collector and being ushered up the ramp, but for now, the area was sparse under the darkening skies.

  The tall Frenchman's eyes darted to the railing beneath the bridge, and he exhaled softly, pushing out of the taxi and stepping onto the sidewalk. Adele remained in the front, frowning and checking her phone. “Address came in,” she said quickly.

  John leaned against the window, ignoring the taxi driver who watched them both curiously.

  “Emile Hemler's address?” John asked.

  Adele bobbed her head, once, frowning from the boat to her phone. “He only lives ten minutes from here.”

  “He might not be getting on the boat,” John said. “Maybe he's laying low.”

  “We still don't know it's him.”

  “He knew both victims—intimately.”


  “True. Still.”

  John scratched the back of his head, one forearm against the outside of the windowsill, his full frame half-bent. “Well? What now?”

  Adele frowned in concentration, considering their options. She looked at the sky again as the clouds pulled in. A heavy rainfall might affect the riverboat schedules. On the other hand, the forecast only mentioned a drizzle.

  “One of us needs to be with the boat,” she murmured. “No choice. If Emile's the killer, he'll be on it. If not, we at least need someone on one of those things.”

  “There were ten boats owned by the company,” John replied, softly. “If Emile isn't our guy—we have a ninety percent chance of choosing the wrong floater.”

  Adele leaned her head back, and she could feel the dark eyes of the taxi driver watching them even more curiously now. Again, she ignored the man, hoping that by speaking in French they were offered enough privacy.

  They needed to find Emile. It was the only lead, and a strong connection between the two victims. On one hand, he very might well have been in transit, or heading to the boat now. For all she knew, he'd already boarded.

  On the other hand, if he was at home, someone needed to find him before he could slip away.

  “Think we have to split up,” Adele muttered, feeling a sour taste in her mouth. “No, I know. I hate it too. But what other option? You need to go on the boat, I'll go to his house.”

  John sighed, pushing off the windowsill and crossing his arms over his large chest. “You sure? I could go with you. You might need backup. I've seen you shoot.”

  “Ha. Funny. But no. We need someone with the boat.”

  “Merde. Fine,” John said, rubbing his jaw, and glancing up at the ever-darkening skies and the gathering clouds. “Looks like rain,” he muttered.

  “Forecast doesn't think so.”

  “Those guys are never right,” John snorted. He turned back towards the boat, shaking his head. “I hate the water,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  Adele patted her partner through the window, fingers against his knuckles. “You'll be fine,” she said. “Just avoid the wet part.”

  “Great. Thanks. Avoid the wet part—genius advice American Princess.” He snorted, and began to move away, heading towards the boat and leaving Adele with the taxi driver and her phone—carrying Emile's address—resting on her lap.

  Before he'd gotten far, though, John's phone began to ring. He paused, pulling it out and checking it. The blue light reflected off his features in the darkening night. After a moment, John stiffened, wincing.

  “Who?” Adele asked.

  John swallowed, and then clicked the phone to silent, stowing it back in his pocket. “No one,” he muttered.

  “Who was it, John?” Adele said, eyes narrowed.

  “No one,” he repeated.

  “It was Foucault, wasn't it?”

  “Dunno. It's fine. I've got it handled!” John waved over his shoulder and began to march towards the ticket queue to the boat again.

  Adele pushed her head out the window, calling after him, “You can't dodge his call forever, John!”

  He waved again, this time without looking back, hunching his shoulders against the cool breeze over the river, and marching with steady steps, like a man facing the gallows, towards the boat on the river.

  Adele sighed, leaning back inside the cab and glancing towards the driver. She switched the German and, softly, murmured, “Here, please.” She pushed her phone, showing him the address for Emile Hemler.

  Without comment, the driver nodded once, not even plugging the address into a GPS, suggesting he knew these streets by memory, and pulled out of the small, concrete lot behind the docks. He moved onto the street beneath the overcast skies, steadily picking up speed as he maneuvered through the outskirts of Ingolstadt between the farmland bridging the gap of suburban islands.

  Adele's one arm rested against the frame of the open window, her bangs fluttering in her eyes, and she winced. Night was coming.

  And with it, predators in the dark would start to hunt.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Adele thanked the taxi driver while sliding quickly out of her seat and pointing up the sidewalk. “Wait for me there, please. I shouldn't take long.”

  The driver frowned at her, but then sighed and nodded, gravel crunching quietly as he maneuvered up the street towards the indicated stretch of road. The small houses on the outskirts of Ingolstadt were only a ten-minute drive from the docks. Even here, she could smell the odor of river water and glimpse evidence of gulls and birds which had made their mark on the sidewalk and the occasional parked car on the old, worn streets.

  She glanced at her phone again, double-checking the address, then frowned towards a small, worn white duplex. The windows on one side were shuttered, and one of the windows was boarded up, with indications of blue-green glass on the ground, suggesting it had been shattered from the inside.

  Adele's eyes narrowed further as she moved slowly up the sidewalk, one hand darting to her firearm, caressing the grip.

  Adele came to a halt in front of the door, next to the boarded-up window. She scraped some shards of glass off to the side with her shoe, momentarily thinking back to her father's house in Germany. She frowned, and glanced up, noticing a security camera facing the driveway. Her frown only deepened. The camera didn't have the door or the sidewalk in view. Rather, it angled off to the side of the house, as if keeping an eye on the small garage behind the condo. Adele tapped against the door, stepping back and placing her hand on her holster.

  "Police!" She called, her voice filling the air.

  She heard the sound of a smashing bottle further up the street, and what sounded like voices, drifting from an open window on the other side of the condo.

  She waited, frowning, and then knocked again, louder. She tried the door handle. Locked.

  "DGSI!" She said, louder now, her voice carrying in the night.

  Again, no answer. Feeling a jolt of frustration, she open-palmed the door, banging hard. Her other hand gripped her firearm, her knuckles tight.

  "Open up! Police!" She yelled.

  Again, there was no answer.

  Muttering to herself, Adele began to turn but just then, she heard what sounded like a million old men gargling their throats. It took her a moment to realize it was the noise of a sports car engine. She wrinkled her nose, glancing along the street, and watched as a spaceship pulled up the road, moving towards her. The thing looked like something out of a movie, with bright red paint, and even two little German flags fluttering from the mirrors. Someone had stenciled big, blocky, graffiti style letters over the hood. Along with the horrible engine sounds, loud, obnoxious music blared from the tinted windows. She stared, jaw unhinged, as the sports car pulled into the driveway of the condo, moving beneath the security camera pointed towards the garage, and then came to a purring halt.

  The noise died, mercifully, and the music shut off a second later. The door slammed, and she heard the crunch of footsteps as someone moved around the side of the house, humming off key to complete the now silent song from the overpowering car stereo system.

  A handsome, blonde man stepped around the side of the condo, flicking keys between his fingers, but then pulled up short, staring at her.

  Adele met his gaze, frowning. "Emile?" she said, her voice gruff.

  She recognized the man from the Facebook pictures. He had the jaw of some sort of athlete, and the physique to match. His pants were low, and his shirt untucked. The keys which had been circling his fingers came to a halt, and he hastily jammed them into his pocket. "Who are you?" he snapped, frowning. A second later, his eyes darted to her weapon, and he swallowed, taking a quick step back.

  "Police," Adele said in German, deciding to avoid the alphabet soup conversation about all the different agencies she was associated with. "I need to speak with you."

  The young man glanced shiftily off to the side and scratched at his chin. "Is this about Zeynep?"r />
  Adele followed his gaze toward the expensive car parked in front of the garage. She looked up at the security camera facing the thing. "Yes. So you know what happened to her?"

  The man crossed his arms, frowning. "Everyone knows," he said quietly.

  "Mind stepping onto the porch, and keeping your hands where I can see them?”

  For a moment, she thought he might refuse. This was the only connecting point between the two victims, so far. He lived within a ten-minute drive of the Danube. He'd clearly been romantically involved with the victims. Means. Motive. Opportunity.

  But instead of retreating, the young man sighed and stepped onto the porch, moving towards the door, and leaning against it.

  When he turned to face her though, Adele stared in surprise. The man was blinking tears from his eyes. He reached up, rubbing angrily at his face, sniffling, and then glancing off again. The silence stretched, now.

  For a moment Adele stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling a jolt of discomfort and she stared at the young man doing everything in his power not to meet her gaze.

  She adjusted, swallowing once, and then shifted track. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said slowly. "Do you know why I'm here?"

  "You just said. Zeynep."

  "And when did you hear she..." Adele trailed off.

  "Was murdered? On the news. Like everyone else."

  Adele felt a pang of guilt and pity. "I'm sorry you found out that way. I take it you two were close."

  He shrugged, his chin jutting off to the side for a moment. "We were what we were," he said, growling. "We didn't put a label on it."

  Adele looked past him towards the driveway again. "That car was a gift?"

  He hesitated, looking like he wanted to deny it, but then, with an air of resignation, his eyes still damp, he nodded once. He glanced sheepishly at the busted window of his small condo. "Hardly something I could afford. She paid the insurance, too. I guess I'm gonna have to sell it now. Though I'd give it away it meant I could get her back."