Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,10

alarm.

With a hint of frustration, she realized she’d slept right through her phone’s timer.

Another quiet, polite knock on her door. “Coming,” Adele called.

It took her a bit, but she got dressed quickly, brushed her teeth over the sink, and gathered the remnants of her things, storing them quickly back into the suitcase she’d brought with her. She pushed the suitcase under the bed and then strode to the door, pushing it open.

She smiled as she recognized the person waiting for her on the motel steps.

“Agent Marshall,” Adele said, nodding once. “Good to see you again.”

The young, twenty-something BKA agent nodded in return. She was quite pretty, and had an energy about her that sometimes made Adele feel old. Beatrice Marshall tended to do things by the book, but had proven more than once that she was a reliable agent. She’d gone out of her way to cover for Adele back in the ski resorts, and had even bent a rule or two on Adele’s behalf. Adele was grateful their chaperone would be a familiar face.

She glanced past Marshall, her eyes flicking to John, who was leaning against a chipped, rusted support beam protruding from the motel railing.

“You’re up early,” she said, frowning.

John winked at her. “Slept like a babe. You snore, you know.”

Adele glared at him. “I do not.”

John grinned in response. Adele glanced at Agent Marshall hesitantly, looking for confirmation to John’s comment. The younger agent, though, just stood by.

“Are you two ready?” Marshall said at last. “I’m supposed to take you to the Black Forest station. The truck driver who found the victim is waiting there.”

“Ready and willing,” said John.

Adele’s eyes narrowed on him. “I’ve never known you to be much of a morning person,” she said.

John glanced toward the pretty Agent Marshall and wiggled his eyebrows over the back of her head where only Adele could see. “Sometimes the early bird just needs the right incentive,” he said. “Besides, this place,” he waved vaguely to the airport motel, “is not unexpected. I came prepared with two extra pillows. Executive Foucault is notorious for shacking agents up in dumps when they’ve irritated him.”

“Yeah?” Adele glared. “You could have warned me.”

“Slipped my mind.”

Adele heaved a sigh skyward. “You chuck a camera off a cliff, but I end up sleeping on a box of springs. How is that fair?”

John reached out and patted her on the cheek. “I admire how you suffer in silence. Anyway, how about we let the nice young agent take us to speak with the truck driver.”

He extended an arm, which Agent Marshall accepted with a quiet chuckle. With her arm looped through his, they descended the metal stairs from the motel’s second level, the sound of an airplane engine buzzing overhead.

“Nice young agent my ass,” Adele muttered beneath her breath. She double-checked her holster, adjusted her belt, and then, with a sour mood, still feeling every creak in her body from the night before, she followed after them toward the waiting car.

***

The Black Forest police station was smaller than Adele remembered from the last time she’d been there. Only a couple of officers lounged in the entry hall, and one desk sergeant had to be called from the back to attend the new arrivals.

Agent Marshall, Adele, and John waited patiently to be escorted into the back of the building.

The truck driver awaited them in one of the interrogation rooms. The man wore a corduroy shirt, and had a neatly trimmed gray mustache to match the salt-and-pepper stubble along his temples.

The moment Adele spotted him, she decided he had kind eyes. There were soft laugh lines around them, and though he clasped his hands together, he didn’t fidget or twist nervously.

As Adele and John took seats across from the truck driver in cushioned, metal chairs, she reflected this man had to be made of stern stuff to stop for someone in the middle of the night on an abandoned highway.

“Are you Herman Carmichael?” she asked, softly.

The truck driver nodded at her in greeting, meeting her eyes and then flicking his gaze to John.

Agent Marshall stood, allowing the more senior agents to lead the interview.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Eat?” said Adele.

“Danke. Coffee would be nice,” said the man.

John raised an eyebrow at Adele. In French, she translated, “Could you go get him a coffee?”

John sniffed. “Merde. Why should I?”

“Because you can’t understand a word he’s saying. Try to be useful.”

John grumbled to himself and then left the table, stomping out of the interview room.

Adele