Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,28

chin. “Looks like we have a suspect in the area. Robert went through a list of people who matched the MO of the killer.”

Adele perked up, now uncrossing her arms and leaning across the table. “What did he find?”

John turned his laptop with a flourish and presented the image on the screen with a slight wiggle of his fingers. “Voilà,” he said. “Jean Glaude, scumbag extraordinaire. Indicted on one count of sexual assault. They arrested him,” John said, grimacing as he spoke, “get this, for two counts of exsanguination. Two warm ones, bled out, left in the dust. They weren’t able to peg him on those charges, though.”

Adele stared at John. “But they got him for the rape?”

“Looks like. This was seven years ago. He only recently got out.”

Adele looked at the picture on the LED screen. It displayed a man with a short ponytail, balding on top. He had piercings all up and down his left ear, and a single hoop through his nostrils. His face wasn’t anything remarkable, and he seemed to be in relatively good shape. “Looks like he’s a member of Lock-up Fitness,” she muttered.

“He isn’t all that,” John muttered. “Mr. Glaude lives about twenty minutes from here. Close enough to the sommelier.”

Adele nodded slowly. “All right, worth checking out. What did they have tying him to the exsanguinations?”

John shrugged a shoulder. He glanced back at the screen, rotating the laptop just a bit and causing it to squeak against the glossy surface of the table. He read a moment longer, then said, “Only circumstantial. Couple of witnesses saw a man fitting his description enter the building. Security cameras spotted his vehicle in the area. But nothing enough to convict. He skated on those charges.”

Adele pushed away from the table, getting to her feet for a moment, and she felt a flicker of worry which had nothing to do with the case.

“Did Robert say anything in the email? Is he doing okay?”

John gave her a musing look. “Didn’t see anything. He just sent the email. Why?”

Adele breathed heavily. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and went to the most recently dialed numbers. She tried it again and waited a few moments. After a second, a buzz, and then an annoying, clinical voice. Voicemail.

She cursed and stowed her phone. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Come on; let’s go check out Mr. Delightful.”

John flashed a thumbs-up. “Our squad car should be patrolling the area. Just let me get my jacket.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was the same officer who had driven them to Mr. Bich. The policewoman pulled the squad car up to the curb outside the small French public housing complex.

She nodded through the window, toward the dirt-stained once-white building. “That’s the address,” she murmured. “Sure you don’t want backup? This isn’t exactly a hospitable area.”

Adele jerked a thumb over her shoulder from where she sat in the front seat once more. “That’s my backup,” she muttered. “We’ll be fine.”

John, the indicated party, chuckled quietly to himself as he pushed out the back door. Adele followed, and the two of them stepped into the afternoon. The sun was playing peekaboo behind some clouds and above, sitting on a couple of telephone wires, two blue-feathered birds darted around, chirping and chasing each other.

Save the birds, the rest of the area seemed in disrepair. The buildings themselves were stained gray, the driveways cracked and scattered with stone. The grass was sheared too close, as if the tenants couldn’t be bothered to mow frequently, and wanted to put off the chore as long as possible.

A row of slotted mailboxes with locks sitting on the curb boasted the addresses for nearly fifteen of the units surrounding the street.

“Mr. Scumbag lives up here?” she asked.

“One-fifty-five,” John muttered. “No telling what the idiot will do. Better be careful.”

Adele nodded, and together with John, she moved up the sidewalk, toward the dilapidated building, and through the front glass door that led into the small entry. A row of buzzers was set in the wall next to her.

She tried the handle, but it was locked. John reached across her and slid his finger down all the buttons, stepping back a second later.

There was a pause, then a crackle of a voice asking, “Who is it?”

John and Adele didn’t reply. John ran his fingers down the buttons again. A few seconds later, the door buzzed. John smirked, pushed open the door which creaked on rusted hinges, and moved into the small, cramped space in the atrium of