Left to Murder (Adele Sharp #5) - Blake Pierce Page 0,66
names in those birth years, with AB negative in a fifty-mile radius.”
“Five?” Adele said, a prickle across the back of her hand. “That’s… that’s not many at all. Excellent—excellent work! Do you have numbers—addresses? We need to warn them—right now!”
“I’m sending the info now. Also sending it to dispatch for the backup with you.”
“Excellent, perfect,” Adele said, practically crowing. “Great work, Sam. I’m hanging up—send me the numbers. Now!”
She heard the line die, and then, a few moments later, her phone buzzed. She glanced around and noticed the officers standing by their vehicles answering their radios, or looking at their own phones as the notifications came up.
Adele scrolled to her messages, found the unmarked number, and opened the file. Five names, five addresses, five phone numbers.
“John,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “Start calling. Right now—we have to warn them.”
Hastily, John fished his phone out. He leaned in next to Adele, his breath warm and heavy against her cheek. Together, they parsed the numbers. Adele took the bottom three numbers and John took the top two.
After a moment, her fingers still prickling, Adele hastily dialed her first one. She heard John do the same. She waited, and the person in question picked up on the third ring.
“Hello?” said a voice on the other end. “Who is this?”
“My name is Agent Sharp,” Adele rattled off, now stepping down the porch and into the lawn. “I’m with the FBI. I need you to listen closely.”
“Is—is this a joke? Sal, is that you?” The voice seemed equal parts annoyed and amused. It creaked with age and Adele heard another voice in the background. “Who is it, Greg?” Adele tried to interject, but before she could, she heard a muffled voice replying, suggesting the phone had been pressed against someone’s shirt.
She scowled in frustration, waiting expectantly. A moment later, the voice on the other end said, “All right, Sal—good one. I’m watching the game and you better believe I remember our wager.”
“No, sir,” Adele said quickly. “I really am with the FBI. You’re in danger. I’ll have an officer call you as well to confirm. I need you to stay inside, understand? You and anyone in your household. Lock the doors, don’t talk to anyone.”
A pause, a stretch of silence as the person on the other end seemed to be determining if she was serious or not.
“Sal?” the voice said hesitantly.
Adele swallowed back a shout. “No—I’m not Sal. My name is Adele Sharp. I work with Interpol, DGSI, and the FBI. You’ll receive a confirmation call soon from local police. For now, though, it’s imperative you listen to me. Stay inside, lock your doors, don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. Understand? Do you have family?”
The voice started to crack now, prickles of panic interjected into the tone. “Hang on, you’re not joking?”
“No, sir. Look—I have others I need to call. Please, just follow my instructions.”
“Wait—hang on, am I in danger?”
“I hope not. But possibly. Look, I need you to—”
“Is this connected to that body dropped over on Darby?”
Adele breathed heavily. “Yes sir,” she said. “Please, just do as I say.”
She heard another muffled sound as the phone was once again pressed to a shirt or a leg. A shrill voice now called out, “Honey—lock the doors! No, it’s the police. I don’t know. Yes, now!”
Adele waited, but the person didn’t reply again. She waited a bit more, then hung up—it would have to do. At least, by the sound of things, it seemed as if they were complying with the directive. She had two other numbers to go.
The next two calls went a bit more smoothly. One of them, another local officer had already notified. Though they seemed panicked and badgered her with questions she couldn’t answer, it felt as if at least they would take care for the night. A locked door wouldn’t keep the killer out if he was determined, but it would help.
She looked at John. His voice had been a humming background noise up to this point. But now, as he cursed, muttering, “Merde,” a couple of times between breaths, she frowned. “What?” she asked.
He was looking at his phone, dialing a number and waiting. “No response,” he said, growling. “They’re not answering.”
Adele looked over his shoulder. A local number, belonging to one Arthur Castle. In his sixties—lived alone.
She cursed and dialed the number herself. She waited—no response. She tried again, still no response.
“Stop,” John snapped. “You might be blocking me from reaching him. Hang up—I’ll try.”
Adele complied and waited