Left to Prey (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eleven) Read online

  Adele’s eyes brightened and she began to tap a finger against her arm, shifting from foot to foot as her mind raced.

  “What?” John said, his frown receding for a moment.

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t hmm, me. What? You look like you have to pee. Which usually means you have an idea.”

  “I—I do not look like I have to…” Adele stared, scandalized.

  John smirked now, straightening, the scarred skin beneath his chin standing out in the fluorescent lights above. “I’m joking, American Princess. What are you thinking?”

  Adele reached out, flicking John’s wrist in retribution before saying, “It will be hard for us to track down Ms. Alvarez’s movements. She’s been taking buses, hitchhiking… the like.”

  “Right.”

  “But what about Father Fernando? His commune in France is fairly isolated.”

  John hesitated, nodding. “Yes, perhaps. So?”

  “He interacts with the same people most of the time, no?”

  “And?”

  “Why did he die now? Why did someone else kill him? His commune is isolated. Most of the others in the commune would be conspicuously missing if they’d vanished for a few days.”

  “So the killer has to be a stranger, then…”

  “Or someone outside the commune, yes.”

  “Well… A tourist?”

  “Perhaps. Maybe. But if the father was targeted, it needs to be someone who knew he’d be alone in that church at that hour.”

  “What if it wasn’t targeted—what if it was just dumb luck?”

  “I was thinking about that—but don’t you remember what the coroner said? No defensive wounds. If he was the only one in the church, he would heard someone arrive, surely.”

  “So you think he must have recognized the killer? But how does that make sense? You just said anyone missing from the commune would be conspicuous.”

  Adele nodded quickly. “Exactly. Which means it was someone he recognized who wasn’t from the commune. But also someone who was in Spain only a few days later to kill again. Someone on the move, who frequents the commune in France.”

  “I—I don’t…” John’s eyes went up. “Oh.”

  “Right. Oh.”

  John said, “Even priests have to eat, no?”

  Adele smiled, nodding now, glad John had reached the same conclusion she had. A delivery driver following the same route would have access to the commune—familiarity—but also not the same level of oversight. In fact, coming and going at odd hours was part of their job.

  John shrugged, looking impressed. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”

  Adele patted the tall man’s muscled forearm. “That’s all I need to hear. Do you still have Father Paul’s business card? What was it he’d said—we could usually get hold of him in the evening.”

  “No time like the present,” John muttered, pulling a small, rectangular piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to Adele.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Adele waited patiently, standing on the steps outside the precinct and looking at the distant mountains of Northern Spain. The vast, blue horizon now hung heavy with darkness as evening introduced itself across the skies.

  The heat of the summer slowly faded now and wafting zephyrs brought in a faint, pleasant chill.

  Adele stood on the steps, leaning against a concrete support beam, listening as her phone continued to ring.

  John had gone back into the precinct to grab food from the break room fridge. She hoped he wouldn’t steal a local officer’s pre-packaged dinner like he’d done at other stations they visited, but she wouldn’t count on his self-restraint. More than once her own leftovers often vanished from her fridge without so much as a warning.

  As the phone rang, she sighed in frustration when the answering machine voice began to speak.

  She lowered the phone, double-checking the number on the business card John had provided. Then, determinedly, she entered the number a second time, lifting her phone once more and waiting patiently.

  Two rings… four…

  How late did Father Paul work?

  Six…

  Then silence.

  Adele perked up.

  A soft, crackling voice, very faint and hard to hear, spoke on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Father Paul?” Adele said, quickly, speaking louder just in case her connection was similarly poor. “Hello, can you hear me? This is Agent Sharp. I’m the—”

  “DGSI, yes,” said the faint voice, still crackling. “Yes, I remember. Hello, Agent Sharp. Apologies, I see I missed a call from you. I only just turned my phone back on after evening prayers.”

  “Yes, well,” Adele said, “I appreciate you picking up. I had a question for you.”

  “About Father Fernando?” The man’s voice sounded soft and sad now.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Have you found anything, yet? Oh—look at me. Apologies. I’m not even letting you speak. Please, please, go ahead, how may I help you, Agent?”

  Adele flashed a grateful smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “Wonderful,” she said. “Look, it isn’t much. But I’m wondering who supplies your commune?”

  “Supplies?”

  “Groceries, Bibles, toiletries, whatever…”

  “Oh… hmm… One second.” The faint voice became even quieter and then Adele heard a nearly inaudible shout on the other end. “Vera! Vera—yes… Here, come here one moment. I have a question for you.” A faint exchange ensued which Adele couldn’t quite make out.

  After a few moments, though, a new voice spoke on the other end. This fellow sounded exhausted, every word laden with a lack of sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes? Hello, my name is Agent Sharp.”

  “How may I help?”

  “I… I was just asking Father Paul about any supplies delivered to your commune.”

  “I see. Yes, well, I’m in charge of hospitality and distribution. I can probably help with that. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “You have multiple delivery services?”

  “Multiple suppliers.”

  “I see. Thank you, but I’m more interested in the drivers, or deliverers themselves.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case we get weekly deliveries by truck.”

  “What’s the company’s name?” Adele said, trying to hide her excitement.

  “Passo National,” said Vera on the other end, pausing to yawn before continuing in a lethargic tone. “We’ve been with them for four years now.”

  “And the deliveries are weekly? Did one come through last week?”

  “I—yes… Three days ago. Why do you ask, Agent?”

  “No reason. Thank you for your time. Please thank Father Paul also, I have to go.”

  “This isn’t about the murder, is—”

  Adele hung up, wincing as she did. Wondering if it was bad luck to hang up on a priest. Still, for now, it seemed, her luck was running strong. She slipped her phone back into her pocket. She turned hastily toward the precinct, moving back in the direction of Agent Pascal’s temporary desk.

  The tall, broad-faced woman was sitting in a space far too small for her size. As Adele approached from behind, she noted the woman was murmuring something to herself, her eyes closed, something rattling in her hand where she reclined in her cheap, plastic chair she’d been loaned by the locals.

  The CNI agent continued to murmur as Adele came close. The woman’s eyes fluttered for a moment, but she didn’t seem to realize she now had an audience and continued murmuring beneath her breath.

  With her eyes closed, her posture relaxed, Agent Pascal looked at peace. She seemed calm and after another few moments of quiet murmuring, she lifted a hand resting in her lap.

  Adele realized the sound she’d heard came from Catholic prayer beads which were now circling the woman’s hand.

  Adele hesitated, still gripping the business card in one hand, but then cleared her
throat. She waited, then, louder, cleared it again.

  Agent Pascal’s eyes opened suddenly; she spotted Adele and her lips stopped moving. Carefully, she stowed the beads back into her lapel pocket, near the stenciled outline of the red rose.

  “Sorry,” Adele said, hesitantly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Agent Pascal just smiled, her broad features communicating an easygoing attitude. “Agent Sharp, pleasure,” she said in that faint accent of hers.

  “Yeah, hello. Umm, look, I was wondering if we could get in contact with your CNI team?”

  “Oh? For what?” Agent Pascal leaned forward now, a bit more eagerly.

  “To look into a delivery company called Passo National,” Adele rattled off. “Specifically examining delivery drivers who frequent the Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port commune.”

  “Oh… I see. We have a new suspect?”

  Adele shook her head. “The guy we brought in has a solid alibi for the murders. We’re verifying it, but also looking at a new angle.”

  “All right. Give me one moment.” She held up a long finger and then pulled her phone out, tapping a speed-dial number. After a moment, Adele heard a voice on the other end.

  Agent Pascal said something in Spanish before glancing back at Adele. “What was the name of the company again?”

  “Passo National,” Adele said, tapping her foot against the floor again. Was she fishing in the dark? Or would the lead pay off? It seemed straightforward enough. Like John had said, even priests had to eat. And this way, a delivery driver would have access to the community without being noticed missing.

  Pascal seemed to sense Adele’s hesitation. She smiled, reaching out and patting the younger woman on the arm. “It is a good idea,” she said. “I’ll see what we can find.”

  ***

  Adele’s arms were crossed so tightly she was beginning to sweat. John had rejoined them now, eating a slice of cold pizza which he’d sworn he’d gotten from the vending machine.

  Instead of reprimanding her partner for stealing a Spanish cop’s dinner, Adele was watching Agent Pascal—specifically watching the file now opening on the woman’s computer.

  Pascal’s phone was on speaker, a faint Spanish voice chirping out, guiding their translator through the information and how to properly access it.

  Pascal, despite a few failed attempts to figure out the software on the unfamiliar computer, still hadn’t lost her temper. She seemed a very patient, even-keeled woman. Adele wished she could have said the same for herself.

  But now, arms crossed, her foot was beating a tattoo into the ground.

  “See?” John whispered in her ear, his breath smelling like pepperoni and mozzarella. “You look like you need to pee.”

  She shot him a venomous look, but returned her attention to Pascal, waiting on tenterhooks.

  At last, the voice on the other end of the speaker said something that faintly felt like a farewell. Agent Pascal replied, “Adios.” And then she hung up, lowering her phone and swiveling in her chair to present the computer screen.

  “Passo National,” she said, crisply, “run by three brothers and employing over two hundred truckers.”

  “How about those delivering to the commune?” Adele asked.

  “Two, in fact,” said Agent Pascal, pointing to a spreadsheet open on her computer. “A Gabino Lazar, and a Tomas Cannizzaro. By the looks of things, Mr. Cannizzaro is currently on vacation and has been for nearly two weeks now. He’s currently in London. Passport confirmed.”

  “So only Gabino Lazar was on that route last week?” Adele said, eyes widening.

  Agent Pascal nodded. “It seems so. And get this,” she said, clicking on her screen and pulling up another file. This time, Adele didn’t need an explanation to realize she was staring at someone’s mugshot. A bald man with a beer gut and angry eyes was glaring at a camera. A few lines of text next to the photo identified him.

  “Gabino Lazar has a record,” said Pascal. “A few years ago he assaulted a hitchhiker.”

  Adele shared a significant look with John. “A hitchhiker, hmm? Like Ms. Alvarez.”

  John frowned. “Think he’s escalating?”

  “Very possible,” said Adele.

  “Not only that,” Pascal continued, sounding mighty pleased with herself. Adele didn’t blame the woman. This temporary expertise had come at the cost of nearly half an hour of annoyance, trying to navigate an unfamiliar computer while speaking with a software engineer on the other line who’d sounded annoyed by the call. Ever cheerful, the CNI agent said, “Passo National has routes that take him into Northern Spain also. Not just your commune in France.”

  Adele felt a prickle along her upper chest and cheeks. “I see,” she murmured. “So Mr. Lazar has a record and has a route through the commune and into Northern Spain where Ms. Alvarez was found.”

  Pascal nodded, still looking quite pleased, adjusting her suit where she sat.

  “Well, that just leaves the million-euro question,” John murmured. “Where is Mr. Lazar right now?”

  “Ah yes…” said Pascal, squinting back at the computer and clicking through a couple more files. She accidentally closed one and it took her a few minutes to figure out how to open it again. John tried to help, but ended up suggesting she simply restart the computer. After few moments of mounting irritation, Pascal finally brought the appropriate file back up. She tapped a finger on the screen.

  “He is currently en route from Santander to Bilbao,” she said, “see here? Less than an hour away.”

  “And that information is current?” Adele said.

  Pascal bobbed her head. “My contact spoke with the company directly.”

  “So Mr. Lazar might know we’re coming?” John said, frowning.

  Adele just shrugged. “Well—we know where he is. I think it best we go and speak with Mr. Lazar.”

  Pascal was already rising to her feet. John and Adele both glanced at her curiously.

  “I’ll drive,” she said, indifferent or unaware of their shared look. Still smiling, the tall woman began to lead them from the room, toward the precinct doors. “We can take one of the police cruisers,” she called over her shoulder. “The sergeant is an old friend—he won’t mind.”

  Adele shrugged and fell into step with John pulling up the rear. They maneuvered after Agent Pascal, out the sliding glass doors at the front of the precinct and making a beeline toward a new, sleek police cruiser sitting in a designated parking spot.

  A couple of police officers, returning from an evening shift, nodded politely as they side-stepped the agents on the stairs and headed into the building.

  For her part, between John and Pascal, Adele could only hope they would reach Mr. Lazar’s truck in one piece, intercepting him on his route to Bilbao. Then again, sometimes it was good to have partners who observed speed limits more as suggestions than rules.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The man’s legs were practically aching from his bike ride up the side of the mountain. A small bell dinged above his head as he stepped into the sandwich shop built on the slope of the mountain. The aromatic odor of wheat and flour and meats and cheese wafted over the protective glass case around the food. A pleasant young woman was moving through the tables carrying a silver tray, dressed in a sweater and long pants, appropriately modest. The man kept his head down, wincing as he took steps on his sore legs. He would have to recover. He was weaker than he thought. Absolution would come costly if he couldn’t will himself to obey. There was no pain. No preference. Only latent obedience or nothing.

  He stepped past a couple of tables, moving toward a booth at the back of the small sandwich shop. As he passed the waitress, she said, “I’ll be right with you, sir.” He nodded politely back, but didn’t speak. The less he talked the fewer temptations. He wouldn’t let the wiles of a beautiful woman entice him. He moved over to the booth, sliding in, sitting straight-backed and letting out a soft sigh of relief as his legs crumpled under him. He breathed a bit easier no
w, resisting the urge to slouch and relax completely.

  A couple of other customers sat in the sandwich shop. An older couple reclined at one of the tables, eating a particularly noisy bag of chips. He hoped that they would see the sense in cleaning up after themselves. The man had dropped some lettuce on the ground. It would be wrong if he left it there.

  Another table had a group of youngsters. Perhaps only in their teens or early twenties. Three boys, all of them laughing a bit too loudly. One of the young men had a bag of chips and two sandwiches he was already working on. He grabbed a beer bottle from the fridge to join another bottle he’d already emptied. The waitress was moving quickly between the two tables, brushing her hair behind an ear, clearly frazzled. She smiled in a strained way toward the young man, placing another sandwich in front of him.

  The man waited patiently. Patience was a virtue. Tardiness was a sin. He would be patient, but if the waitress was late, there would be a comeuppance to pay.

  It was only the first day of his true voyage. He felt emancipated. Never before had it seemed so sweet to sit in an unfamiliar place watching the sights and sounds and inhaling the mountain air.

  He was free.

  Briefly, he closed his eyes, holding a quiet conversation with his mind.

  He wondered what his younger self would have said, seeing him now. There had been a time he hadn’t thought he would make it past his youth. Despair had set in. A sickly, cloying sin. A lack of hope. A lack of trust.

  His hand clenched on the table in front of him, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he realized just how putrid he was. He had been. The Lord hadn’t left him like this. He was changing. He could feel it.

  But once upon a time he hadn’t seen a future that would end well. Once upon a time, there had been no hope.

  He could remember his own priest, the sound of the whistling rod. The sudden flare of pain. He could remember his gasp as the rod hit again and again. “Sinner,” the priest had yelled. “Sinner,” he screamed.

  And in his youth, the man had cried. Since then, he’d grown to appreciate penance. Appreciate the value of proper punishment in its place. And now the Lord was giving him signs of his own flock to respond to. Sometimes a sheep was so sick it had to be put down for the sake of the herd.