Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,44

of anything yet.”

“Ah,” said John. “What you’re saying is don’t shoot the nice doctor and his wife?” He glanced back to where Carter had joined them, looking a bit sickly. “I’m joking,” he said, for the benefit of the young agent.

Then the three of them moved toward the front of the mansion. The house was in the suburbs midway between Sonoma and San Francisco. Around them, the other homes matched this one—all large, all expensive. Just shy of mansion status in Adele’s mind.

As they neared the front door, Adele held out a hand, pressing it against John’s muscled chest. “Look,” she said sharply.

First, she’d noticed the U-Haul parked outside the garage, attached as a trailer to a small mini-coupe. The juxtaposition would have been funny if not for the scene playing out through the large glass windows allowing them a glimpse into the living room.

Two people were seated at a long, glistening dining room table beneath a chandelier.

A man and a woman—older, but laughing and, in each of their hands, a glass.

“Is that wine?” John asked, slowly.

The doctor was older, but had dark hair. Possibly the man in the video, though it was hard to tell. The wife looked younger, and was one frame removed from movie star good looks. Still, she was the sort of woman who would have given Adele all sorts of jealousy back in high school.

John whistled beneath his breath. “Hello, darling,” he muttered. “I like wine too.”

“John, she’s married, and possibly a serial killer.”

John shook his head. “I don’t judge.” He moved up the stone drive, through the garden toward the front door.

Adele followed quickly behind, trying to match his long strides. They reached the massive oak doors, stepping past the windows. Adele reached out before John and tapped on the door. No answer. She waited, then extended a steady finger, pressing the buzzer.

A few seconds later, she heard voices—quiet, hushed. Then she spotted a silhouette through the glass, peering out into the drive.

“FBI,” Adele called—though technically this wasn’t true. Americans, though, had no clue what DGSI was. “Open up!”

The door opened without making a sound, but then stopped. A sliver of orange light, emanating from the dining room beyond, fell across the agents on the stoop. John’s shadow was cast into the rose plants surrounding the house. A thin, olive-skinned face, with premature wrinkles around the eyes, and an overly large nose, stared out at them.

“Are you Dr. Gardner?” Adele asked, using the name Agent Carter had provided.

The man bobbed his head, his nose like a rudder, swishing as he tried to glance back over his shoulder toward the dining room.

Adele spotted a security chain, keeping the door half closed. “FBI,” she repeated. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Could you open the door?”

Dr. Gardner squeaked, and seemed caught between indecision. Again, he glanced over his shoulder. Now John was following his gaze, frowning. His hand had migrated toward his hip, hovering near his holster.

“Mr. Gardner,” Adele said, quietly. “Is there a reason you won’t let us in?”

He looked back at her and swallowed, muttering to himself a bit. Then he raised his voice, and in a deep, velvety, masculine tone, which, in Adele’s assessment didn’t suit his physicality at all, he said, “Let me see some credentials, please.”

Adele hated to admit it, but part of her enjoyed seeing the doctor squirm. She didn’t know Mr. Gardner at all. But she hated doctors. She hated hospitals. She hated anything that reminded her of illness or ailment, or death.

The last time she’d voluntarily gone into a hospital for anything besides her job had been when she was a teenager. Even physicals for the agency had been done through private clinics, rather than hospitals.

Adele and John removed their badges, and Agent Carter stood just a bit behind them, watching.

After the doctor looked at the credentials, Adele began to lower hers, but he wiggled his fingers. “I didn’t see, one more moment.”

Adele frowned, but held out her credentials a bit longer. The doctor wasn’t quite looking at them, and instead, glanced over his shoulder again.

Now, Adele looked at John, and her partner raised his eyebrows.

“Sir, is there something you’re hiding?”

The question seemed to alarm him. He turned back on her, sharply, and stared. “Hiding?” he stammered.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to get back from that door.”

He let out another small squeak, which didn’t match his normal speaking voice. “Look, it’s all a misunderstanding. Just give me one second, and—”

“—No more seconds,” John growled. “Open