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

yes?”

The woman cleared her throat. “Did you try calling the company?”

Adele flinched. “Yes.”

“And?”

“They said the information was confidential.” Adele quickly added, “But that’s on their side. They have to safeguard employee records. But a public dispute—a missing package… Or,” she licked her lips, “tampered mail… That would be on record. Yes? Please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Elise Romei, do you remember her? My mother. We used to live here nearly fifteen years ago.”

To Adele’s surprise, the woman seemed to react at the name; she blinked owlishly behind her glasses. “Elise Romei?” she said. “Of course I remember her. I still remember the policeman when they came around asking questions. Tragic. You say she’s your mother?”

Adele nodded. “I don’t know if you remember. But I actually used to live here too. With my mother—I should have mentioned it when signing the lease, but didn’t feel it was relevant.”

“Yes? It is now, though?”

Adele nodded, quiet, patient. She watched the older woman. Somehow, in those intelligent eyes set in a wrinkled fixture, she glimpsed something familiar. The woman looked back at Adele, studying her, evaluating her, and then said, “I can make no promises. But I’ll check. Give me a few hours. If there are any names on the dispute form for a postman that involved your mother I can send them to you. Other tenants, though—I can’t. Will that suit you?”

Adele smiled, a flush of relief spreading through her. “That would mean the world to me, thank you.”

The landlord smiled, her eyes wrinkling again, and she nodded once. Then, slowly, she began to close the door.

Adele breathed another quiet gasp of relief and stared at the closed, freshly painted door. Now, she would just have to wait. The landlord had her number.

She could only hope the lead would pay off. Someone had been exchanging notes. Handwritten. Funny? That last part still didn’t make sense, but Adele hoped she could figure it out by talking to the postman. What if he was the killer? Someone who’d been delivering packages years ago would’ve had the perfect alibi to sneak into buildings and spy on his unwitting victims. Adele wasn’t sure, but she felt closer than before.

Still, she suppressed the emotion, not wanting to get her hopes up, and exited the front door, stepping into the street. She paused for a moment, facing a closed bus stop across from a cafe. Above, she noted a speed limit post. Kilometers, not miles. Small differences, but small differences compounded.

Adele sighed. She would just have to wait for the landlord to reply.

CHAPTER THREE

It felt different walking into DGSI headquarters this time. No longer as an Interpol correspondent, but once again an employee. Not a proper agent, but a resource all the same. Freelance investigator. At least, that’s how Executive Foucault had pitched it.

Yet, as she entered through the side doors, passing security, she wasn’t headed to the Executive’s office. Instead, Adele made a beeline toward the stairs, heading down. It had only been a half hour since she’d spoken with the landlord. She had checked her phone while driving the borrowed vehicle the agency had provided her. But after nearly running a red to a chorus of blaring horns in the Parisian streets, Adele had decided perhaps it was best she parked herself somewhere.

She took the stairs, enjoying the sense of physical motion. One of the reasons Adele liked to go on runs was because she enjoyed the sheer movement. The way her arms would extend, her legs beneath her, like pistons. She enjoyed a similar feeling of vitality on the stairs—control. At the bottom, a long stretch of corridor led to open and empty old rooms. The basement of the DGSI had been abandoned years ago. And yet, one person, she knew, still made use of it.

For a moment, she thought she could detect the faint odor of fermentation on the air.

She tapped her knuckles against the second door on the left, then glanced down at her wrist. It was nearly nine p.m. Which meant most of the agency had gone home for the day. Which also meant he would still be here.

“What?” came a gruff voice from within.

“John, it’s me,” Adele replied.

“Me who?” said John’s voice, a little less gruff.

She rolled her eyes, and without waiting, she twisted the door handle and pushed open the door.

John was sitting on his couch, without a shirt, his head back, a glass with ice and clear liquid clinking in his left hand.

One eye was closed, as