Left to Vanish (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Eight) by Blake Pierce (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📗

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Comparedto the small, makeshift office space out of the trailer in the abandoned lot, theFrench firm Becker and Associates was practically a cathedral.

Adele gazed up at the tall, arching stone entrances. Twosteeples pointed at the sky, and her gaze drifted down the stone, toward a setof buzzers within an alcove next to stone slab steps.

She stepped off the sidewalk, a faint pounding in her chestat the odd arrangement of the firm’s office space.

These were the folks who had sold the property to Etienne.

Something connected all three houses. Ruins. That’s whatMr. Durand had said. The land had been cleared of ruins before building ahouse. Did the ruins matter?

Was it a coincidence? All of this seemed coincidental atthis point. Why were the victims all in their fifties? Why were all of themwealthy? Why did they all own summer homes in southern France? Where was thekiller? Did he live in the area? In France? Or was she just grasping at strawslike Agent Paige insisted?

Adele felt a flicker of frustration. She wasn’t sure whereshe had turned wrong. With a bounce in her step, coming more from frustrationthan eagerness, she took the stone slabs and pressed a finger, jamming into thebuzzer and the small stony alcove beneath the arching doorway.

She waited a moment, standing outside the cathedral turnedoffice building, tapping her foot impatiently on the stone steps. After acouple of moments, a voice croaked out over the intercom, “Becker andAssociates. Second floor. Come in.”

The doors buzzed, and Adele opened them, stepping in, reminded,briefly, of her days in a German school. She strode up a dark hall, which didn’tlook much like the external façade of the building. Inside, it more resembledan office space; an elevator occupied the far end of the hall. Adele ignoredthis, though, and the rows of doors with name plaques on them to her left, andinstead made her way toward the stairwell to the right. Second floor.

She took the stairs, quickly, breathing slowly in and out,trying to focus and failing, but still trying to suppress the gnawing sense ofunease in her stomach.

Adele hastened up the final few steps with rapid footfalls.She approached twin double doors at the end of the hall, next to where theelevator would have stopped. Golden letters against glass read the name of theFrench firm. Becker and Associates.

What was she hoping to find?

She wasn’t sure. But for now, she was kicking over stonesand seeing what the light revealed. And so, gritting her teeth, she pushed intothe office, shouldering through the double doors.

Inside, the office was clean. The windows overlooking thestreet below were pristine, and the tables, with stacks of real estatemagazines and legal brochures, were settled next to rows of comfortable leatherchairs facing a small counter. Behind the counter, two women were chattingquietly to each other, and both of them paused, looking up at Adele as sheentered.

One of the women, a very pretty, middle-aged lady, clearedher throat and folded her hands over the counter. “Can I help you?” she said.

“I’m here to speak with someone in charge.”

“I see.” The woman spoke like an impatient substituteteacher. She attempted a smile, but the look didn’t suit her lips. “Do you havean appointment?” she said, with crisp, clear tones, enunciating the words as ifafraid Adele might not be able to understand.

“I do not. My name is Agent Sharp, and I’m with DGSI.” Sheflashed her credentials, and as she did, the demeanor of both the secretariesshifted.

The woman who’d been frowning now adopted a more pleasant,nervous expression. She cleared her throat, glancing every so often toward thedoor behind the counter. “I’m afraid Mr. Becker isn’t entertaining guests rightnow.”

“I’m not a guest. I’m here on an investigation. I’d like tospeak with him.”

“I’m not sure he’s able. I believe he’s in a meeting…”

Adele sighed. She’d been through the rigmarole before.Always the underlings preventing entry, and always the agent having to find away to strong-arm or bluff their way through those doors.

It was a familiar dance, and a frustrating one. Already,she could feel the constraints of time coming in, like cold fingers wrappingaround her neck. She didn’t have time to dawdle, arguing with a secretary.

She didn’t want to bully, nor did she want to bluff. Soinstead, she looked at the woman, then looked past her at the door, andshrugged. She moved around the counter and headed toward the door withoutanother word.

“Excuse me, excuse me, you can’t be back here!”

Adele ignored the protests, moving even more rapidly towardthe door, her feet clicking against the varnished floorboards. “Mr. Becker,”she said, raising her voice. “Police!”

She heard some more protests from the two ladies, andagain, fully ignored the distraction. She’d come too far for that. She was awoman on a mission.

Adele tapped her fingers against the door, raising hervoice even louder. Her eyes settled on a plaque, centering the oak frame insilver letters, which read Mr. Pierre Becker.

“Mr. Becker,” she said, even louder now, “I need to speakwith you, sir!”

“He’s very busy,” protested the voice behind her.

“Sir,” Adele called, rapping her fingers against the frameagain. “I’d like to speak with you about—”

The door opened slowly, with a creaking groan against hinges.

Even before the door had fully opened, she heard the patterof feet, of someone retreating back into the room, and then mutteredconversation from the other end.

Adele waited as the door slowly sprung open, carried bymomentum, and she spotted a man wearing slippers, his white hair jutting everywhich way, with an old, corded black phone pressed to his cheek. He wasmuttering quickly into the device and shaking his head every couple of moments,saying things like, “No, of course not. Double that. You have to double that. Iwon’t sign. No, you’re supposed to represent me. I mean it. All right, I’ll seeyou at home for dinner. I love you too.”

The man with the wild white hair clicked the old-fashionedphone back into its cradle.

He inhaled slowly, still facing an ornate desk, behindwhich an even more intricately carved chair had been pushed aside, facing oneof the large windows. There was no computer in sight, nor cell phone.

The older gentleman finally inhaled, his