Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) by Blake Pierce (a book to read .txt) 📕

white uniform stood by the doors, glancing around andpulling out a cigarette. When he noted Leoni walking over, the driver sighed,stowed his cigarette, and moved around the vehicle to open the passenger door.

Leoniwaved one last time before entering the car.

Adelewatched as he did, and John looked away nearly instantly, glaring at his phoneand muttering to himself about damned reception.

“Everythingokay?” Adele asked in as innocent a voice as she could muster.

“Fine,”he retorted. “Taxi is on its way.”

“Tothe airport?”

“Unlessyou want to take a train…”

Adeleshook her head adamantly. “I think I’m done with trains.”

“Thatwe can agree on,” John said.

Theystood next to each other on the curb, facing the street outside the trainstation. For a moment, the silence stretched between them and Adele wasreminded of how obnoxious she’d found Agent Renee when they’d first met. He hada prickly nature. If John decided someone was cut out of his life, he dideverything in his power to keep them out.

Andyet, as she stood next to the tall Frenchman, other images and memories flashedthrough her mind. Thoughts of when she’d first heard about Robert’s illness…The way he’d comforted her, the shared moment of solace. The time when she’dbeen in her father’s house, attacked by a killer. He’d come then too, rescuingboth of them. He’d been there when they’d chased the exsanguinator, and hadbeen there when she’d wept at the new evidence in her mother’s case.

Theonly reason he’d been the one to glimpse her mother’s killer had been becausehe’d wanted to solve the case… for her.

Sheshivered and took a half step closer to him. More a subconscious gesture thananything. She watched as Leoni’s limousine pulled onto the highway,disappearing from sight.

“Youall right?” John said, at last, a tinge of gentleness to his otherwise rigidtone.

“Ithink so,” she replied, softly. “And you?”

“Fine.Taxi should be here in five.”

Adelenodded softly. The sense of foreboding she’d felt had come to nothing. Maybeshe really was losing her edge. The thoughts of John, the memories, came as acomfort. But also a reminder. The time she’d cried in his arms in that hotelroom, learning about Robert’s illness.

Robert…she needed to speak with him, and soon. She’d forgotten to touch base beforeleaving. He hadn’t been at headquarters. She made a mental note to visit himfirst thing back.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

 

 

Thepainter shivered in giddy delight, his eyes once again fixed on the mansionsettled behind the black gate and hedges, winking with the white marble ofstatuary arranged around the lawn. The lights were off now inside the mansion,though glowing orange coals could be seen, distorted through the lowest windowpeering into the study.

Tonightwas a night of friendship. Tonight was a night of artistry.

Andthe savant of the Seine had eyes on his next masterpiece.

Headjusted the metallic mask he’d affixed to his face—a spit shield more than adisguise. Disguises were only needed for those who might tell tales. And theoccupants of the French mansion wouldn’t be speaking to anyone but the painterhimself following tonight.

 Thepainter hefted his black bag, striding forward now, feeling the odd way inwhich the fabric of his two sweaters rubbed against each other and againsthis hairless arms. His eyebrows were gone, his legs waxed. No DNA evidence leftbehind.

Thepainter didn’t believe in half measures. A man of finality knew the risks,weighed the cost, and then set the bid.

Andfor him, the bid was well worth it.

Hedidn’t hum, he didn’t whistle, he didn’t speak at all as he moved to the oldblack gate. His small, fragile form might—on the offset—look ill-suited towardacrobatic ventures. But while the painter was wire-thin, he was also fit, in areedy sort of way, like an insect or the rigid bones found in an unearthedtomb.

Heclimbed the gate in three quick motions: one—a foot to the ivy-strewn wall.Two: a hand latched on the cool black metal. And finally, a pull, bringing hislight form up and over, tumbling to the other side where he landed, bracingagainst his small, black bag.

Fora moment, his single good eye fixed on a marble statue. An angel with a missingwing and a half halo stared sightlessly back at him.

Thepainter paused, rising slowly to his feet, staring at the statue. Then, with asnort, he reached out, shoving the angel down, burying its sculpted face intothe mud, before stalking around the side of the mansion, moving toward thewindows of the study. Already, his gloved fingers dipped into the satchel onhis hip, moving about for the tools of the trade.

***

Robertjerked awake, frowning in the night. He blinked, shaking his head, and thenglanced over to the old, whittled cuckoo clock above his bed. Moonlightstreamed through the window of his second-floor room, illuminating the clockand the ticking hands. The bird itself had long lain dormant, the featuredisabled. But Robert liked the way the clock looked and so he kept it acrossfrom the bed. Digital sorts had never much appealed to the Frenchman.

Hisphone lay next to his bed, where he kept it in case of emergencies. Givenrecent health issues, he’d kept emergency services on speed dial. Now, though,as he lay against his pillow, staring at the moon-streaked cuckoo clock, hefelt a cough forming in his throat. One a.m. Exactly.

Astrange time to wake. Robert Henry had always been a bit of a night owl, but he’dalso been a fastidious sleeper.

Duringthis illness, things had changed. Basic things, like his ability to ascend thestairs to the second floor without pausing to regain his breath. Even some ofthe foods he’d used to enjoy would no longer stay down. He’d been minimizedrecently to little more than a meal of white rice and chicken broth.

Notmuch longer, though. Not according to the doctors.

Still,Robert wasn’t the sort to give up without a fight. He wasn’t particularlylarge, nor what others might perceive as a fighter. But he knew the game—knewhow to tussle. He’d built a career off of it.

Sucha silly thing, though, it seemed now. A career. So much of his life spent on ajob…

Butno, he reminded himself as he leaned back, holding off a cough. Not just a job.A purpose. Killers had been put to justice. And other agents he’d adopted ashis own. Adele… He smiled at the memory of