He breathed a shuddering sigh of pleasure and, through hooded eyes, watched the scenery, the flitting buildings on either side, ignoring the cars, ignoring the traffic. To him, the people might as well have not existed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Round eyes in round hands…my longing for you has grown…Squares in circles once…My heart is cast in stone…
Adele rested her forehead against the cool glass facing the street below. The hotel room behind her smelled of soap and steam wafting in from the open door of the bathroom. Her third shower that night. She glanced into the glass of the window, looking down at the reflection of the red, digital clock near the bed. The numbers were just visible in the glass, reversed, and it took her a moment to discern. 3 a.m. On the dot.
Her head shifted again, moving smoothly against the chill window as she peered once more out into the Italian streets. They were just outside of Rome. Buildings had stories to tell too; at least she hoped to convince herself of this. Not all victims could be measured with a pulse. She wondered vaguely, her mind flitting to the previous crime scenes. Old structures boasting columns and art and stained glass windows. Structures across eras, across religions.
The victims themselves were victims of circumstance, she was near certain.
The higher-ups, Ms. Jayne included, seemed to believe tourism was the target. An industry. But this felt too personal. Personal to the killer, to the author of the riddle.
Hearts cast in stone…
She pushed off the glass, wincing for a moment as she turned to face her room. The hotel room was dark and, besides the moistness moving in from the open bathroom door, it seemed as if the air itself wanted to flee her wrath—she felt no breeze, no wind, no air-conditioning.
She wondered at the riddle. The words “round” and “circle” were repeated. Important. But in what way? Hearts cast in stone sounded like statuary, perhaps? Maybe statues of people. The statue of David? Could it be that simple? Unlikely. Uniforms had been sent to the most likely locations. Countries had been called. But it was like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. She didn’t have the key—not yet.
She found her hand curled at her side, half gripping the hem of her old, frayed nighttime T-shirt but also balling into a fist.
Pay attention to your body. Something Robert often said to field ops in training. Pay attention to your body. Your lips lie, your body doesn’t.
Why the curled hand then? Frustration? Of course frustration.
She stomped over to the mini-fridge, ripped open the door, casting her legs in a yellow light, and cursed, finding the thing empty. Someone had forgotten to restock the fridge. Damn it.
Not just frustrated though, she thought. Scared. Scared too. The closing of the fingers over the vulnerable palm could be an aggressive tell, but also defensive, like hugging your body or crossing your legs.
She was fearful.
Fearful of what?
The riddle slipped from her mind now, replaced by other images, other thoughts. Bleeding, bleeding, always bleeding.
She let out a small, scared hiccup. She wanted to scream as the pictures danced across her vision, darting over her gaze with defiling intent.
She shouldn’t be in Italy. Killer be damned.
Her mother’s murderer was in Paris. That was where she belonged. She shouldn’t have come. Why was she fleeing? Why was she hiding?
She forced her hand to unclench, releasing the hem of her shirt, and, somehow, it almost felt like relinquishing the hand of a parent, letting go of one’s security, one’s lifeline.
But Adele was no longer a child. Paris was a question for another time. She forced the riddle back into focus, forcing her thoughts away from her mother’s crime scene, away from the copycat killer.
She marched to the door, swung it open, and strode down the hall. She reached Leoni’s door. He had a fridge too, no doubt.
She knocked firmly.
A few seconds passed.
She knocked, harder this time, for a moment forgetting the little red numbers she’d spotted on that digital clock. Forgetting everything that supposedly mattered.
Halfway through a third attempt at knocking, the door cracked open.
She blinked—Agent Leoni was dressed in his suit. Had he slept in it? No—not a wrinkle. His eyes were a bit baggy as she stared at him and she saw his laptop open on a small circular table by the kitchenette in his room.
She winced. “Hey,” she said.
“Agent Sharp?” He dipped his head politely.
“Working?” she asked.
He smiled, an expression that didn’t seem forced. Ever the polite professional. Staying up into all hours, by the looks of things.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the computer and nodded once. “Trying to learn what I can about the locations—connecting points. Did you know the Apollonia was once called Gylax?”
“No,” she said.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“You should sleep.”
“Thank you for your concern. I’ll get to it.”
Adele looked away from his open computer toward his mini-fridge. “Is your…” She cleared her throat. “Is your fridge stocked?”
Suddenly, she felt a flush of embarrassment as the reality of her situation dawned on her. She’d come to her fellow agent’s room, in the middle of the night no less, on a quest to raid his overpriced stores of alcohol.
Leoni blinked, then smiled. “Minus one particularly bitter gin, yes. Would you like to share?”
“Please,” said Adele.
Leoni stepped aside, ushering her in, and Adele moved over to the fridge. She swung it open, scanned the stocked contents, and snared one of the miniature clear bottles. She noticed now, just out of sight behind his computer, Leoni had a similar bottle already opened and half empty.
Adele felt the cool glass beneath her fingers, as she plucked a bottle from the crisscrossing wire shelf and placed it in her pocket. She glanced toward Leoni and nodded in gratitude, but, for the moment, left the fridge door open.
Leoni was an investigator for a reason. He seemed to read her mind, and chuckled as he moved back over toward his computer. “Help yourself to as much as you want,” he said.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said.
“Don’t be silly.”
Adele grabbed another couple of bottles, listening as they clinked where she slid them into her pocket. At last, she closed the fridge door and moved past Leoni in his chair, looking over his shoulder to where he was scrolling through information about the Sistine Chapel.
The writing was dense, and the sentences long. After a couple of paragraphs, Adele found that her head hurt.
Leoni, though, seemed to consume the information without trouble. His eyes were baggy, and yet he attentively stared at the screen, reading and rereading sections. Perhaps even committing them to memory, if prior experience was anything to go by.
“Thanks,” Adele murmured.
“Stay if you like,” Leoni said. “I’ll be up for a bit longer anyway.”
For a moment, Adele felt a flutter of anticipation. She chided herself inwardly, though. Leoni clearly didn’t mean anything sensual. He was just trying to be a good partner. Then again, she’d proven to herself she was bad at reading men. John was the obvious example. Still, she had come for a different type of companionship.