Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,47
hair to rise and fall like dandelion fluff. “It’s possible,” she said, wearily. “Did Agent Carter say he’d be back in the morning?”
John shrugged. “Didn’t really pay attention.”
“Great. Well, I need some sleep. Whatever the case, the killer has been one step ahead. He knows too much. It’s almost like he anticipated what we might do. He covered his tracks.”
Adele came to a halt in front of her door, glancing at the key card, then at the brown number painted on the steel frame.
She looked at John. “This is me.”
Renee waved with a wiggle of his fingers, and then moved toward the room at the far end of the hall, two doors down from Adele’s. From the doorways between their rooms, Adele heard the quiet buzz of classical music. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 9 PM. She hoped the music wouldn’t last too long. She opened her door with the key card and stepped in, sealing herself in the hotel room and cutting her off from John’s line of sight.
She tossed the card onto the small counter with greeting plaques and a small complimentary basket of soaps, then moved away from the desk, toward the single bed, and her eyes flicked to the TV. Whoever had last used the room had left the TV on a news channel. She didn’t even want to look, and quickly grabbed the remote, turning off the device. Then, remembering the slick banister, she wrinkled her nose and hurried over toward the sink in the small bathroom. She lathered her hands with a fragrant soap that smelled a bit of honey, and then poured warm water into her palms, rubbing the soap clean, and with it, the feeling of germs.
She wished she could wipe her mind in a similar way. The killer was draining his victims, dropping them off in isolated locations. Three countries, and who knew if he’d stop.
Adele sighed, wiping her hands on a pink towel over the sink.
As she did, grazing her knuckles against the smooth, fluffy fabric, her phone began to buzz. She reached down, fishing her telephone out of her pocket; wiping her hand one more time to completely clear water droplets, she then clicked through with her other hand, swiping her password and holding the phone up.
Executive Foucault.
She winced, but then held the phone to her ear. “Sir?” she said, politely. Inwardly, she did some math, trying to figure out what time it was back in France.
The Executive’s voice sounded strained, tired. “Agent Sharp?”
She huffed a breath. They weren’t doing very well on the case. She figured Agent Grant back with the FBI was likely filling Foucault in on their movements. This didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. She coughed delicately and glanced back at the small pink towel; her eyes traced to the caramel marble-patterned wall above the bathtub.
“Sir,” she began, “we just got here. I know it doesn’t look good. But really, if you just give us a couple of days, I’m sure—”
“Adele,” said the Executive, his voice serious, “I’m not calling about the case. Do you have a moment?”
Adele shivered. It took her a second to realize he had called her by her first name. Foucault rarely did that. “Is everything okay?” she asked, hesitantly.
A long, huffing sigh. A pause, and in her mind’s eye, Adele could practically see the Executive taking a long draw from a cigarette. Then another long, heavy breath. “I’m afraid everything isn’t okay.”
The tingle in her spine grew worse. “What is it?” she said, her voice hoarse. Before he spoke, her mind had already rushed to the worst eventualities.
“It’s Robert,” said Foucault. “Agent Henry. You are close with him, yes?”
Adele stared at the mirror over the sink. She could feel her breath—slow, shallow, as if she didn’t want to breathe too loudly, lest she missed what he was saying. “Is he okay?” she said, her voice strangely calm in her own ears. It was as if she’d been expecting this, anticipating it. She had known the news would come. It was a resigned inevitability.
“No,” Foucault said, simply. “He isn’t. He’s in the hospital.”
“Is he alive?” Adele asked, and found her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what the emotions were. It almost felt as if she were disengaged from her own body. And yet, she swallowed and tried the sentence again. “Is he alive?”
This time her voice didn’t crack. Executive Foucault replied, “Yes. For now. He’s in a bad way. I’m heading over