Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,53

the very bottom of the case. An old vintage. 1956. And 1958.

Only two within the parameters. The only two that wouldn’t cause the death of a child.

He shook his head; where on earth would he get that vintage?

He would have to consult the list once more. Perhaps he would even have to update it. He still had access to that information. Then again, he didn’t want his credentials to be flagged. Too many attempts, too much access to those files, given the current atmosphere, might be costly.

He stood, still naked, as naked as the day he was born. A gray hair on his head, a wrinkle on his forehead. The flesh dying, his spirit strengthening. But at his feet, the discarded blood bag, a puddle of crimson, the wine and smashed bottle.

There was still a distance to go yet. He hadn’t arrived. But soon, very soon. It had to be soon. He knew it had to be.

Another name. He needed to find another name.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Adele stood outside Artisan’s Supplies at the T-intersection, scanning the road. She was glad, secretly, John wasn’t with her. Things had only gone so far. Clothes stayed on, and dignity remained intact. But she remembered Executive Foucault’s admonishment and his warning about the careers of those involved in office romances.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. John was a big boy, and he could take care of himself. She looked down at her phone. She scrolled through recent calls. Robert’s number—four calls unanswered. He wasn’t picking up. Foucault wasn’t picking up either. She doubted this heralded good news. She needed to solve this thing so she could return and see him. Foucault’s and Jayne’s warnings weren’t lost on her either… She was on a timer—barring some political incident, the killer was operating at a waspish pace. More bodies would drop if she didn’t pick up tempo as well.

Her eyes scanned the trail, in the direction of where they had found the body. Two miles away. She looked back at Artisan’s Supplies.

The killer had been in a hurry.

He had kidnapped the woman, and she had been found only a couple hours later. Drained. How much of a hurry though? Had he gone in a direct path?

She made a chopping motion with her hand, pointing straight toward the path at the edge of the intersection. That was the way he would’ve left. From this shop to the body. A straight line. She felt a shiver of anticipation at the prospect of movement through the trees and the soft, gently sloping terrain. Not quite her normal jog, but close enough.

She counted the houses as she went. Two miles of road. Two miles was a long space. She could’ve driven it, but that would have defeated the purpose. She was looking for something specific, though she wasn’t sure what.

Security cameras, witnesses, old ladies who liked to sit on front porches. Anything that slipped the killer’s attention.

The space between the houses was wide, the houses themselves not particularly large. It was as she passed the halfway point, continuing on, still marching up the street, sweating a bit, her suit rolled up at the sleeves, that she paused.

She spotted an old rope swing dangling from a large tree. An abandoned tire, split at the middle, rested against the tree. A couple of roots, like rolling waves calcified against the shore, protruded from the ground in the dirt. Grass abandoned the dust closest to the tree, likely from children playing around the roots, and scuffing up the earth. An old two-story house sat at the very top of a small hill, facing the road. She spotted a thick red mailbox shaped like a rooster. The aluminum bird stood out against the backdrop of dusty ground and withered grass.

A sprinkler system, in front of the porch, was spraying waves in angled patterns through the air, in palliative care for the grass closest to the house.

Adele saw glints near the door. She paused, fully stopping now, and turned to look.

She glanced up and down the street one way, then the other, and then crossed toward the rooster mailbox.

The glint grew more pronounced.

She felt a flicker of hope in her chest.

She picked up her pace, now striding up the driveway, moving over the tangled roots and past the swing from the oak tree. As she neared, she realized what it was.

One of those Ring doorbells. The sort that activated with motion and recorded whatever passed.

She felt a shiver of anticipation and hurriedly walked