Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,57

tape his mouth.

At last, though, she pulled to a stop, careful to avoid the curb and the mailbox. She gave a pointed look at John as she parked like a normal, decent human being outside the front of the house.

It was an old condo, split down the middle. The left side marked A, the right side B.

“Which one?” Adele demanded.

John looked at his phone. “B,” he said, quickly.

John and Adele exited the sedan and moved up the sidewalk toward the condo. John went left, and Adele stayed on path with the main door. She watched as John sidestepped around a couple of trash cans, and then leaned on his tiptoes, peering through a window into the garage. He looked over his shoulder and called, “No van.” He gave a grim shake of his head.

Adele’s eyes moved from the driveway, which was empty, toward the red door set on the left side of the building.

She hesitated, looking toward the garage, then flicking her gaze to her partner.

“Maybe he’s hiding it somewhere,” she said.

John shrugged. “Maybe it was stolen.”

Adele balked at the thought. If the van had been stolen, it would be as good as going back to square one. No, she had to hold out hope. She moved toward the red door and looked at the golden letter B emblazoned over the doorknocker. She reached up and tapped on the door.

She waited, listening. No sounds came from within. She looked back at John, who was sidestepping the garbage cans once more.

She knocked on the door again.

Still no answer. John shrugged at her. He moved over toward the garage, and began sliding his hands along beneath the door. He seemed to be looking for a purchase to pull. But the door was also sealed shut.

John emitted a string of curse words, then approached the front door as well. He scratched at his jaw, glanced toward the neighbor’s door, and said, “Do you hear that noise? I could swear I heard screaming.”

Adele winced. “I don’t think we should just break the door, John.”

Before they could reach a decision, though, there was the sound of squeaking tires. Both of them turned and looked towards the end of the street, and watched, their mouths unhinging as a white van circled down the road, turned up the cul-de-sac, and approached the very condo they were standing in front of. Adele and John blinked at each other as the van was parked in the drive.

The door closed with a thumping sound, and two feet emerged beneath the vehicle. Adele watched as the figure stepped around the front, and a young, skinny teenager began moving toward the condo door, whistling to himself. He wore a black T-shirt, far too baggy, with a big white skeleton on the front. He had his pants too low, and his hair was buzzed close to his head. Still, his features were sharp, and would have been handsome if he’d spent even a second focused on looking presentable rather than tough. Instead, he failed at both.

John and Adele moved toward the young man, stepping over the sidewalk onto the driveway and blocking his path as he tried to reach his door. He pulled an earbud out of his ear and looked up, noticing them both for the first time. He blinked, and tried to take a step back. John didn’t stop him, but followed, with a lengthy stride of his own.

“Are you Ken Davis?” John said, his accent heavy.

“What?” the boy said.

Adele stepped in, and in crisp English, said, “Are you Ken Davis?”

He wrinkled his nose, one earbud still dangling from his fingers. Adele could hear the sound of metal, and loud voices blaring from the device. “Yeah,” he said, in a noncommittal sort of way, shrugging with one shoulder. “Who are you?”

Adele said, slowly, “Is that your van?”

At this point, the young man, who couldn’t have been much older than nineteen, seemed to realize he was backed into a corner. Both metaphorically and literally. Now John was between Davis and his van, corralling him toward the garage door, if only to keep his back up against something solid.

The young man stopped moving, despite John encroaching on his personal space. He lowered the earbud from his other ear and draped it over his one extended finger. “It’s my van, so what?”

Adele exhaled. “Your van is wanted in connection to a murder. It was spotted on Darby Road, about ten miles from here.”

His eyes seemed to bug, and his chin wobbled a bit. “Hang