Adele sighed. “Are you saying you three spent the night together?”
One by one, they all nodded sheepishly.
Adele looked at Leoni, who shrugged back at her.
Either the three of them were in cahoots, were lying, or she’d completely missed on this one. She studied their faces, looking from the red tinge on Dr. Boler’s cheeks, to the embarrassed hunch of the dreadlocked woman’s shoulders and the sheepish grin of the man still intertwining his fingers through the woman’s hands.
It was hard to kill a man while in the middle of a threesome, Adele supposed. She glanced around the Apollonia, regarding the ruins, the dust, the shattered ground catching columns of yellow light, and then breathed in frustration.
“I have pictures,” the woman added, grinning now.
Adele heaved a sigh, wearily. She shook her head, muttering, “I’ll need you to send any,” she coughed, “evidence about your alibi to my number.” She provided a business card and stepped back as the woman allowed the thing to flutter and drift to the ground.
“Oops,” the woman said.
“I’m serious,” Adele returned. “Anything to corroborate the alibi. Send it to me, please.”
She heard the man mutter something beneath his breath which sounded suspiciously like pervert. But she refused to look his direction and instead faced Dr. Boler again. “Stay in town. Which place will you be sleeping at?”
Boler quickly rattled off the address to his Airbnb.
She looked at Dr. Boler, gauging the man. Instead of continuing the same line of questioning, though, she hoped to catch him off guard and said, “What does that phrase mean? About hearts cast in stone?”
Dr. Boler coughed again, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze for a moment. His eyes flashed angrily as he looked up at her once more. Anger. Not the reaction of a guilty man. A guilty man would’ve been relieved at the alibi. Anger was for embarrassment. Anger was for the innocent.
Adele waited as Boler muttered, “It’s nothing. Just a turn of phrase. The hardened hearts of the industry. Can’t you see it?” he said, some ire rising in his tone once more. “They exchange solemnity for coin! It’s appalling!” He frowned, then his eyes narrowed. “Why? Why do you care so much about that phrase?”
Adele hesitated, but just shrugged, shaking her head. “No reason,” she muttered.
But the professor was now studying her, his eyebrows twitching. “Did the phrase show up with the murder somehow? That’s it, isn’t it? Did he cut it into the victim’s flesh?” His eyes brightened a bit, taking on a sickly glow. “Did he record it and send it to the police? Truly? He used a phrase from my blog?” The professor was practically beaming now. A second later, though, he seemed to realize the effect his words were having on Adele and he coughed, quickly adding, “Anyone can access my blog. This killer of yours most likely is a fan of mine.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest now, where Leoni allowed him his wrist back. He glared at Adele. “Well?” he said. “I have my alibi. Are you going to keep wasting my time?”
She considered this for a moment, mulling over Dr. Boler’s words. Much ado about nothing? Perhaps. They’d flown overnight to another country. Shouldn’t they at least arrest the man? But again, Adele was struck by the physique of the professor. He couldn’t lug a body by rope up a column. Impossible. Were they a team?
That was a theory not founded in evidence. And while she was getting desperate, Adele had never approved of arresting the general public willy-nilly based on theory alone. So what? Let him skate?
If he really did have an alibi… it couldn’t have been Dr. Boler. Besides, he was right. Anyone could access his blog. It wasn’t like the phrase from the riddle was so unique, either. The killer—the real killer—was playing games.
Adele reached a decision, her fingers moving fully away from her sidearm now. She nodded and said, “Send me those pictures. With time stamps. If they don’t match, I’m coming back here and I’m bringing all three of you in, understand?” She pointed at the two lovers and Dr. Boler in turn. Then she smiled pleasantly. “Apologies for bothering you. Have a good night.” She tugged Leoni and his cuffs away from the professor. Leoni frowned at her, but didn’t protest. Instead, he said to Dr. Boler, “We need you to stay put for the next few days, understand? Is there a way we can reach you?”
Dr. Boler nodded and provided his number, which Leoni saved in his phone.
Then, full of chagrin, exhausted to the bone, and frustrated, Adele moved off with Leoni back up the trail, away from the ruins and the gathered array of flashlights.
Adele could feel the gaze of the people behind her burning a hole in her shoulder blades as she stalked away. “Should we stay the night?” Leoni asked.
Adele, though, shook her head firmly. “Not another second here. I’ll call the taxi.”
Another dead end. But the embalming of time in her job often ended in more than simply a metaphorical corpse.
She could only hope the killer was suffering delays of his own. If not, this setback had just cost another soul.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The prophet drove through the night, observing every speed limit, following every law down to the smallest. An airplane was too easy to track—flights could be followed. He hadn’t made it this far by abandoning caution, no—caution was king in this bloody business.
The prophet rolled his fingers, tightening them around the wheel. His eyes flicked up to an old factory behind a sign advertising diet cola. He cared little for the sign, but the factory itself intrigued him. An older construction—perhaps twenty years old. The support beams would have been hauled from a well-known lumber company two towns over. Given his previous job, his previous success, the prophet could regard any building and see its skeleton, its inner workings.
Just another language he’d learned along the way. The language of concrete and steel. But, also, the language of pillars and stained glass. He knew it all, the archaic and contemporary. He knew them well.
As a harbinger—a herald and trumpeting servant, it was on him to remind the world, to remind them all what lay in store for desecration.
And this next one… He smiled, allowing himself the rare expression across his countenance. Once upon a time, he might have cried, even, at the thought. Well, perhaps not. He didn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Perhaps thirty years ago? Hard to recall.
But at the very least, he could feel a flutter of excitement at the knowledge of his next stop. The next message.
An important one. Personally important. This one was the oldest of them all, the firstborn of a long forgotten history. No steel beams there. People needed to remember. He enjoyed his task of jarring their memories.
He glanced across to the duffel bag on his floor and, eyes still on the road, leaned over, tucking the knotted rope back out of sight into the bag itself, then zipping it up the rest of the way. He patted the bag and returned his attention to the road, his gaze flicking from building to building, stripping them down in his mind like a lecherous man regarding a cavalcade of flesh. Yet to him, peering beneath the skirts of mortal kind carried nothing in comparison to peering into the hearts of structures—behemoths of age and architecture that told stories for centuries.