Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight) Blake Pierce (classic english novels TXT) 📖

“Here,” Becker said, reflexively, his fluffy eyebrowsdropping low. “Exactly here, every day. I don’t take weekends either, AgentAdele Sharp.” His face wrinkled a bit in a frown, and he waved a hand towardthe door. “Ask Audrey—she’s been here with me mostly.” At this he cougheddelicately and smoothed his sleeves, glancing off out the window once more.

Adele studied Mr. Becker’s posture for a moment. He seemedmildly embarrassed, but not fearful. Perhaps a bit offended, but confident. Thesort of confidence of a man whose alibi would check out.

Not that it much mattered. He didn’t have the physique tobe the killer. And the accomplice angle seemed a far stretch at this point. Itwasn’t like he’d managed to buy back the properties he’d lost on the cheap.

But if not him, then who?

At that moment, her phone began to ring. Adele held up afinger and turned, fishing the device from her pocket and answering. “AgentSharp.”

“Oh, ah, yes, hello,” said a nervous voice on the otherend. “This is Sara Cote.”

Adele frowned in confusion for a moment, but then the nameclicked and her eyebrows imitated Mr. Becker’s, rising high. “The propertymanager?”

“Um, yes. Hello, you said I should call you if I foundanything about the previous owners of the house.”

Adele swallowed, finding her throat dry all of a sudden. “That’sright. And?”

She pictured the small summer home on the beach, with thestained glass window in the bathroom.

“I found out who owned it.”

“Yes?”

“It was the church,” Ms. Cote said, her tone one of mildbemusement. “At least that’s what I was told.”

Adele didn’t respond, the phone clutched in her hand now,staring sightless across the room while her mind spun a million miles a minute.

The church.

All three properties now had ties to the church.

She coughed delicately and said, “You’re certain?”

“Yes. I spoke with one of their development officesdirectly.” Sara Cote paused as if gathering her thoughts. She then, with renewedintensity, continued, “It sounds like a couple of decades ago they were sellingold properties to migrate some of their churches and the like closer to thecity.”

“And this summer home,” Adele pressed, quickly. “What aboutit?”

“A cloister,” Ms. Cote’s voice came, ushered by a burst ofstatic which made Adele wince. “An old medieval cloister of all things. Isuppose that explains some of the odd stone arches and the like. Well… is thathelpful at all, Agent Sharp?”

Adele’s mind whirred. She thought quickly to the thirdsummer home, like the miniature castle… More a medieval building, though,surely… maintained, perhaps, but old and archaic. And as for the secondproperty, with the modern home, hadn’t she been told twice now that it had oncebeen occupied by old ruins?

She lowered the phone slowly, pressing it to mute itagainst her collar. “Mr. Becker,” she said, “your memory is quite impressive.Is there any way you know what exactly those ruins were on the property?”

He waved a hand, still frowning in her direction—no doubtmiffed by the earlier line of questioning. For a moment, she worried he mighthold out on her. But then he just shrugged his bony shoulders. “I told you—thechurch owned the land. The ruins were some sort of cloister. No choice but toknock it down and rebuild—it was in disrepair.”

Adele could feel her heart hammering now, and she spun onher heel, hurrying toward the door. She lifted her phone again. “Thank you,”she said, quickly. “If you find anything else, please call.” Then she hung up,pushing through the door to Becker’s office and back into the lobby.

She could feel her excitement mounting. The murderweapon—not beads, not pearls—a rosary. She’d had the thought herself. A theoryat the time. Simply a theory.

But no longer.

Two of the summer homes had once been cloisters. The third,owned by the church, also—most likely—a similar history.

She kept her phone gripped in her fingers, ignoring thesecretaries as she marched out of the small office space and into the hall oncemore, striding down the long, echoing corridor. She raised her phone now,calling Agent Paige.

She waited, feeling the tension in her chest rising,feeling fit to burst.

The phone continued to ring without answer and some of Adele’sexcitement was now replaced by frustration. At last, she was sent to voicemail.

Trying to keep her tone professional, Adele said, throughhalf-gritted teeth, “Paige, the church owned all three properties. The killeris murdering wealthy women who own vacation homes in this region that wereformer cloisters and on church ground. It’s a religious angle. He’s going tokeep at it! Call me!”

Adele hung up, jamming her phone back in her pocket as shehurried to the stairway. Everything was moving… nothing felt certain anymore. Herinstincts were off. Maybe she didn’t have it anymore. Had she totally lost it?

Her chest pounded, her eyes fixed on the smooth railing.

Motive was religious. MO obvious.

But this still wasn’t enough to find the killer.Closer—closer than ever. But the murderer had proven himself more thanresourceful, dancing around the continent as he had.

But what did it mean? Where was he headed to next?

She took the stairs two at a time, picking up her pace asshe did.

Would he strike again in London? Germany?

Where would he kill? She had to beat him to it. It felt likeshe’d finally managed to pry open a door and get a peek inside the madhouse.Now she had to use this illumination to find the architect of these murders.

“I’ve got you,” she muttered to herself, nodding firmly.

The only questions: Where would he strike next? And couldshe beat him to it?

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Back in France—so lovely. ElkeSchmidt breathed a soft sigh of satisfaction as he pedaled along on hisborrowed bicycle. His habit was folded neat and tidy, stowed in the backpackslung over his shoulder.

Elke rolled his shoulders as hepedaled up the hill, wincing a bit against the still open wounds along hisshoulders. The pain lanced sharp and sweet and he found his lips folding back,revealing teeth.

The man who now called himself Elketurned along a side street, glimpsing Bordeaux in the distance, his eyes tracingthe outline of the city against the horizon, a welcoming embrace of stone andglass, witnessing the arrival of a tool of retribution.

He wheeled the bike into a sidealley along