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

The lawyer was speaking quickly now, muttering beneath hisbreath. “Don’t listen to her, Gregor, you can’t trust them. You need me here,and Agent,” he said, raising his voice, “all of this is highly irregular. Is ittrue you questioned my client before I arrived?”

Adele ignored him, her gaze fixated on Mr. Lavigne. “You’rea historian, yes?”

At the word, the man perked up a bit. He cougheddelicately. “I know my area,” he said. “Architecture of religious persuasion inthe eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,” he said. “Parts of my interest branchinto the twentieth century as well.” Was it her imagination, or had his chestpuffed a bit as he said this?

Adele swallowed, shaking her head. “I need your help then.I need you to help me find out where the killer is going to hit next.”

“Agent,” the lawyer began to speak, “this is all on therecord. I hope you know, just by turning off the camera, it doesn’t mean—”

“You can leave,” Gregor said quickly.

Adele blinked in surprise. The lawyer looked like he’d beenshot. He turned sharply. “Gregor,” he said, quietly, “listen to me. You can’ttrust them.”

But Mr. Lavigne shrugged one shoulder. His chains rattled. “Isit important he isn’t here?” he asked to Adele.

She cleared her throat, glanced at the yellow legal pad,then back at Mr. Lavigne. “I just need your help,” she said, simply.

Gregor Lavigne studied her for a moment.

“Your historical expertise,” she pressed.

He frowned. “Don’t flatter me.”

She winced, but nodded apologetically.

Gregor made a shooing motion with his cuffed hands. “I’mfine, Arthur. I’m going to be okay. Just stand outside, I’ll call if I needyou.”

The small, diminutive lawyer seemed to want to protestfurther, but then, at an iron look in his client’s gaze, he sighed, shrugged,and slowly got to his feet, shaking his head. His wild, jutting hair was darkbeneath the lights. He hefted his briefcase, and, muttering, brushed pastAdele, moving out into the hall. Another thud, and a click.

Cameras still off.

They were alone.

For a moment, Adele and the suspected killer just studiedeach other across the table.

“You had nothing to do with this?” she asked, softly,staring at him. “Is that your story?”

“You have my word,” he said. “As a devout Catholic.”

Adele considered this. Her father took his faith seriously.Swearing on the Bible was just as close to swearing on his own mother. Mostreligious people, at least to the degree Mr. Lavigne was religious, took theirfaith seriously. An oath on it wasn’t taken lightly. But that didn’t mean he couldn’tbe lying through his teeth, playing her emotions and instincts. And yet,somehow, she shared the same sense as Agent Paige. They had missed a step. Mr.Lavigne wasn’t the killer. Which meant she had to find out who was.

Now, standing alone in the room with the suspect, shenodded resolutely, making up her mind, and she marched across the line of sightof the deadened camera.

“All right, here,” she said, stiffly. “You know about thoseproperties from ten years ago, the ones sold by the church. Is that right?”

“The ones Becker was after? So he is the one who putyou on me?”

“Just answer the question. You know about the churchproperties?”

“You already know I do. We bid on them.”

“You lowballed.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Agent? I can justcall the lawyer back in if you want.”

“No, I’m sorry. Look, I need you to tell me about theseaddresses.” Adele pulled her phone out, scrolling to Becker’s cursivehandwriting and placing the device in front of Mr. Lavigne. She waited,smelling sweat, and feeling her own legs beginning to ache from her rigid posture.She shifted back and forth, waiting, watching.

“All of them?” he muttered. She flicked to the next screen,and then to the third page. She zoomed in on the highlighted names, allowingMr. Lavigne to read the addresses.

“What about them?” He looked up at last, frowning. “Thechurch properties. Right? Is that what you’re curious about?”

“I already knew they were church properties. I’mspecifically wondering what sorts of church properties?”

“That’s all? Easy. Cloisters and convents mostly. A churchor two thrown in there.”

Adele frowned. Cloisters and convents? This lined up withwhat she’d learned at Becker’s. “So refuges? For nuns and the like?”

“Exactly. Well, for the most part.”

“What you mean for the most part?”

“I—now mind you, I have done my research. Most of them wereyour usual run-of-the-mill cloisters. Most of them were staffed by perfectlyrespectable and lovely women of God. You have to understand this.”

“Why do I sense a but coming?”

“I’m not sure I like your tone. You come in here with my rosary,dangling it about as if it didn’t matter. Using my faith in a way to leverageme.” Mr. Lavigne was shaking his head, clearly frustrated. “I wish you wouldjudge my faith by its claims and content, rather than its abusers. Anyone canwear a title.”

“Claims and content aren’t my area. I’m specificallylooking for a murderer. He’s killed three women already.”

“I just want you to understand, most of these convents,these cloisters, were run by good people with good intentions.” He paused and glancedoff, his expression carrying a glint of shame. “Not all of them though,” hesaid, softly.

For a moment, Adele forgot to breathe. “What do you mean?”

He winced, shaking his head. “I actually don’t know if Iremember the exact one. It’s on that list, I think it was an early listing.But,” he coughed delicately, “there were stories, rumors making the rounds. Itwas an older convent, but a special place.”

Adele’s eyes flicked back to her phone. “What about it?”

“It was where they would send special cases,” he murmuredsoftly. He looked up now. “I’ll admit, even in the twentieth century, theirmethods were archaic.”

Adele shivered. “Methods for what?”

“Like I said, not all of it is salvageable history. I havea couple of diary entries back home, in fact. Pictures of the place that wouldhelp me remember exactly what street it was on. But, vaguely, I do rememberthis particular cloister was run by folk intent on curing demonic oppression.”

“Come again?”

“Demons, Agent Sharp. Many have them. For some, they’resimply memories. For others,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re darker, andmore real. Many in my church