Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,63

the bottles and murmuring to herself as she read the labels. “See these? They’re marked. Numbers.”

John left the bookcase and, though he remained standing, he read the labels. Adele envied a sharpshooter’s eyesight, but waited for him to say, “Numbers… This one,” he said, nudging at the shattered bottle on the ground. “See… number on the base as well.”

Adele pulled a pen from her pocket and, delicately, so as to not contaminate evidence, she tilted the edge of the smashed base. A white label with a number on it read 1978.

She looked up sharply at the wine rack. An identical label with a handwritten number also displayed beneath one of the empty compartments on the rack.

“Matches,” she said, pointing with her pen and remaining crouched, her elbows pressed against her knees.

“What’s the significance?” John said, slowly.

Adele scanned the rest of the case, noting more numbers. At the top, the numbers started with two and zero, and toward the very bottom, they were ones and nines. “John,” Adele said, hesitantly, her gaze skipping to the blood bag. “What was the birth year of our third victim?”

“Birth year? Dunno.”

“Check.”

Adele kept her eyes fixed on the blood bag and the shattered bottle, as if fearful they might flee without her attention. A few moments later, as John scrolled through his phone, he said, sharply, “1978. Same as the labels. She was born in 1978.”

Adele huffed a breath. “Thought so,” she murmured. She reached out with her pen, tapping the wooden display case. “The numbers are years of the vintage… But… But I think he’s matching the blood year—the year of his victim—with the year of the wine.”

The moment she said it, she realized how it sounded. She looked up at John and met his expression of disgust. She winced apologetically.

“Gross,” he said.

She didn’t disagree. She pointed toward the top of the case. “Looks like he had some younger vintages—but they’re untouched. Think he has a thing about killing kids?”

John’s voice took on a growling tone. “For his sake, I hope so.”

“Then that means he’s after one of these.” She extended her arm, moving the pen now and tapping it against the two remaining bottles at the very bottom of the wine rack. The pen against the glass made a dull tapping sound and she read both the labels. “1956 or 1958,” she said. “That’s the birth year of his next victim. It has to be.”

“Older victims this time, then,” said John. “The bastard is going after someone’s grandmother, yes?”

Adele shivered, rising again and standing in the basement, detecting a faint coppery and fruity odor on the air that made her stomach churn. As she breathed in the basement air, she also faintly smelled puke. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I’ll get Carter to bag and tag and photograph. I need fresh air.”

As the two agents turned and moved slowly back toward the steps, Adele murmured beneath her breath. “We know his motive, his name, his license plate and his address. We know his MO… we just need to find out where he is.”

John led onto the stairs, taking them three at a time with his lengthy strides. “Think he’s killing right now?”

Adele winced at the thought. “Let’s check with Carter about blood type. It’s the only connection I can think of—might help us narrow his targets.”

They reached the top of the stairs and it took the agents a few moments in the chaos of the raided house to move through a sea of blue to find Carter. Eventually, they did, locating him against a backdrop of flashing lights and ominous dark vehicles with tinted windows blockading the road outside the house. Adele spotted a couple of pedestrians walking their dogs being ushered away from watching by two officers.

She noted other homes, across the street had lights emanating from their windows and citizens standing, peering out into the dark. The killer had been operating in secrecy—that, now, was no longer an option. But if they didn’t find him soon, another victim might lose their life.

Agent Carter spotted them and at a wave from John, he approached like a Labrador, half-smiling and moving with urgent motions.

“Sam,” Adele said, quickly, “my tip about the blood type. Have we heard back on that yet?”

Agent Carter winced and said, “I—I totally forgot. I was supposed to call them back. Sorry, really, just with all the craziness, I thought—”

“Sam,” Adele said, impatiently. “It’s fine. Could you call them now? How late is the lab open?”

Sam, though, was already fishing