Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,3

least he’d written it down before he’d forgotten completely. Someone had been switching notes, handwritten, funny…

So someone had been switching notes. What did that mean exactly?

Adele tapped the notebook against her hand and stared at the mailboxes.

She’d already spoken with the mailman. A young fellow, no older than thirty. Certainly didn’t fit the bill. She had tried to extort him for information of who had delivered mail to this building nearly ten years ago. He hadn’t known. Couldn’t say—confidential.

If someone had been switching her mother’s mail out, and leaving notes, perhaps he’d been a stalker. Someone interested in her. Perhaps the killer himself?

But the mailboxes were locked. Not sending notes… switching them. That’s what the message said. That’s what her father remembered. He’d been adamant about that part. On the phone call, from all those years ago, her mother had been upset that someone had been switching notes.

But for that to happen, someone would need a key to the mailbox. Not even the landlord had one. Adele had already tried to call the post office a few times but they refused to relinquish the information over the phone. She thought to use her credentials, but without an active case, it would be a breach in protocol and grounds for termination. This was only her second week working as a correspondent for the DGSI, in between cases for Interpol. Using credentials without permission might not be the best tactic.

But Adele now had a new idea.

She moved along the corridor and approached the door to 1A, raised her hand, and tapped delicately.

A shuffling sound from inside, then quiet. She tapped a bit louder. More sound, then footsteps.

Then the sound of a chain rattling, and the door swung open. Within, the apartment was quite neat. A cupboard filled with china sat across from a clean dining room table with four embroidered chairs tucked neatly under the table. The woman standing in front of Adele was old, with wrinkles around her eyes and forehead. She wore a single silver locket on a chain and had on a pink cardigan. One painted eyebrow rose on the woman’s forehead as she examined Adele. “You again,” she said in creaking French.

“Yes,” replied Adele, also in French, nodding politely. Very few Parisians could pick up that Adele’s first language hadn’t been their native tongue. She spoke with a faint accent, according to some, but for others it was difficult to detect. “I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.”

“Not about tenants again, is it?” said the landlord. “I told you before, I can’t tell you.”

Adele fixed a smile and nodded politely. “I remember. No, not tenants. Postman.”

The landlord’s eyebrow seemed permanently quirked. “Like I said, I don’t remember. It’s been years.”

“Yes,” said Adele, “but landlords in France are required to keep tenant records, yes? For tax purposes.” Here was the risk. But Adele had to go with her gut. She glanced back into the apartment, her eyes scanning the neatly arranged furniture, the freshly painted walls. Everything about the building, and the renovations, suggested order.

“You don’t use a computer for your records, do you?” said Adele.

The woman frowned. She adjusted her glasses and shook her silver-crowned head. “So what if I don’t?”

Adele swallowed slightly. “And you’ve owned the building for what, more than ten years?”

“Been in the family for fifty; yes, I’ve owned it. My late husband helped, but I do most of the paperwork, what of it?”

“I was wondering if there are disputes. Missing packages, complaints. Fragile items that have been smashed. In a building this large, there has to have been someone with an issue.” Adele swallowed. “Specifically, anything from up to ten years ago.”

The landlord blinked behind her glasses. “I do have a folder for complaints. Not sure how long they go back. But so what? Without a warrant, I can’t show those to you.”

Adele nodded once, feeling a prickle spreading across her skin. “Because you don’t want to betray your tenants, I understand. But what about tenants that don’t live here anymore? People that have left? Surely it wouldn’t be an invasion of privacy. Specifically… what about my mother?” It was now Adele’s turn to study the landlord, waiting patiently.

The woman wrinkled her nose. “You don’t want to let this go, do you?” Her voice creaked with age, but there was a glint in her eye that propelled Adele to say, “If I could, I would. Please, I’m not interested in the tenants. Just the postman. That would’ve been public information anyway,