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  Thick clouds were inserting themselves across the horizon, threatening black against the gray streaks of foggy sky. Adele could glimpse the top of the sun, over the mountains but hidden by the obscuring gray cover. The illumination cast the slopes in a lonely glow; the last vestiges of light, threatening to fade and leave them in darkness.

  Most of the skiers had gone due to the change in weather, but thanks to the various floodlights set throughout the mountain, a couple of the trails would be open for another half hour.

  Adele guessed the floodlights themselves were brighter than most football stadiums. The snow was illuminated with bright blue beams. Adele’s eyes scanned the blue-lit slope, beneath the floodlights, up toward where she spotted small figures moving about on the intermediate trail.

  One of them, the instructor Hans Vosloo, the killer? Possibly.

  “We go up and get him or wait for him to come back?” Adele said.

  Agent Marshall glanced up at one of the other Germans, an older woman with deep wrinkles in her skin. She murmured something beneath her breath, and Marshall said, “Might be best to go fetch him. If he spots us he might make a bid to escape. Better to get this started now than let the resort start coming around and having looky-loos. We’re not exactly inconspicuous here.”

  Adele nodded in agreement. She glanced again over her shoulder in the direction of the bar and hesitated. For a moment, she thought she spotted a single figure moving up the trail heading in their direction. Her father? She tried to keep her temper in check. She couldn’t be sure from this distance. The person moved with a strange waddling gait, though, suggesting perhaps the Sergeant wasn’t as interested in staying put as Adele would’ve liked.

  Still, she had a task before her that required complete focus. The Italian agents, at direction from Agent Marshall, moved toward the ski lift. The operator waited for instructions, and then, again at Agent Marshall’s command, started up the lift once more. The Italians took the swinging seats ahead, and Adele got into the next row with Agent Marshall. The other German agents embarked the lift behind them.

  The Italians, the Germans, and Adele all moved up the ski slope on the lift, passing beneath the bright, blazing blue stadium lights.

  “Nonlethal,” Agent Marshall called out. “Make sure to relay that to your agents, Michael.”

  One of the Italians shifted, glancing back at Marshall in annoyance, but then he nodded and rattled off something in Italian to his compatriots. Adele checked her own holster, making sure her weapon was tucked securely beneath the buttoned leather strap.

  The cold blistered her skin as they moved higher up the slope at a slight, gentle pace. Certainly not the steepest of the ski trails. Adele regarded the many trees, the rough terrain, moving all the way up toward the peak pointing at the sky.

  She felt a quiver of excitement, supplanted by a shiver of fear. Why fear?

  She shifted and felt her legs dangle beneath her, protruding over the edge of the ski lift. A single metal bar had looped over their heads, providing the only separation between her and a twenty-foot fall into the snow below.

  She licked her lips, and stared up at the figures on the mountainside, trying to locate Hans. Eventually, the Italian agents dismounted, kicking off from the ski lift and jogging a couple of steps to clear the rotating seats. Adele braced herself, looping the metal bar back over head, and then, in tandem with Agent Marshall, also dismounted, jogging as well to avoid the next row of seats swiping past.

  The top housing unit of the ski lift turned and rumbled, emitting the sounds of the engine working the rotating chairs. Adele dusted off her gloves from where they had frosted a bit gripping the metal bar. And then, once the group of German agents had exited the ski lift, they moved toward the skiers in quick motions.

  For a moment, Adele wondered if perhaps they should have brought skis themselves.

  “Hans Vosloo,” Adele cried out, raising her Interpol badge. “We’re looking for a Hans Vosloo—please announce yourself.”

  A few of the tourists glanced over in confusion. One figure in a blue jacket paused, staring out at them from beneath a shaded visor. The man’s hands gripped the ski poles, his feet at an angle, preventing further progress down the mountain.

  Adele pointed him out. “There,” she said to Marshall.

  Marshall stepped forward, also flashing credentials. “BKA,” she called. “Mr. Vosloo, you’re wanted for questioning in regard to—”

  Before she could finish, the man in the blue jacket turned and propelled himself sharply down the hill, racing along the ski slope away from the agents. Adele cursed and saw a couple of the Italians reach for their weapons, but at a gesture from their leader, they went still.

  “Dammit,” Marshall said, “what now?”

  Adele glanced toward the other skiers. For a moment, she thought to grab their equipment and race after the man. But then she glanced back toward the ski lift, and, with a slight flush to her cheeks, she shrugged and said, “I guess we go back down.”

  Inwardly, she was thinking how stupid it was. They hadn’t left any agents at the bottom of the trail. Certainly they should have predicted this. Still, it wasn’t normally in her job description to collar criminals on the side of a ski slope. She filed this information away for further use.

  Adele didn’t wait for the other agents before getting into one of the rotating ski chairs, and she tapped her fingers wildly against the metal bar as it descended slowly. She could see the blue figure darting past a couple of trees on the edge of the ski slope, playing it dangerous, but also gaining maximum speed. She watched as he skidded to a halt at the bottom of the slope, kicking up a cloud of ice and snow.

  She looked over her shoulder, back to see Agent Marshall and the other agents reluctantly clambering back on the ski lift.

  Adele felt another flash of embarrassment. She was glad her father wasn’t here to witness this. How stupid could they be? He had run. Bolted. Did that mean he was guilty? Had they found their killer?

  Adele tapped her fingers even more rapidly against the metal bar, feeling the quiet squish of her gloves against the firm safety feature. At last, the ski lift deposited her back at the bottom of the valley. Adele peeled off, jogging away from the lift, her hand already moving toward her weapon, but then she pulled up short. A scene confronted her.

  Hans Vosloo, in his blue coat, lay unconscious on the ground.

  Above him, rubbing his knuckles, her father stood, smiling down at the man he’d apparently punched.

  “Dad,” Adele said, incredulous.

  Her father glanced over and smirked. “I think I caught him,” he said. “Er…I mean, he slipped.”

  Adele glared at her father as he continued to rub his fingers. “You should wear gloves,” she snapped as she hurried over toward the fallen form of Hans. She withdrew her cuffs, still glaring at her father, and secured Mr. Vosloo’s hands behind his back. “You should get out of here,” she said quietly, beneath her breath. “Before they start asking questions about you.”

  Her father seemed hesitant, as if unsure. “Are you upset?” he asked.

  Adele just waved her hand, shooing him away. “Please, just go. You can’t be here.”

  Her father frowned now and seemed to want to make more of it. Again, she was struck at how hard it was to get him to comply with the most basic of instructions. But before her father could speak, Agent Marshall called out behind them, and Adele turned, waving a hand. “I’ve got him,” she said.

  She glanced up, relieved to see her father finally stepping away and moving nonchalantly back in the direction of the trail leading away from the ski slopes.

  Adele determinedly looked away from him, hoping to avoid drawing attention. She wasn’t sure if any of the other agents had spotted what had transpired, but she hoped that in the flurry of snow, the embarrassment of the situation, and their desire to see the man caught, they wouldn’t question their good fortune.

  With the help of a couple of the Italians, A
dele managed to lift Hans to his feet. The man was slowly starting to come to and muttered something beneath his breath. She ignored him and began to shove him along, moving him back toward the hotel.

  “Do we have a conference room set up?” she asked, glancing at Marshall.

  “I’ll call ahead,” said the younger agent. “It will be arranged.”

  Adele felt the prickle across her skin beginning to fade. Embarrassment, anger, and frustration left her in quiet gusts with each swallowed breath. They had found their man.

  “Please,” she heard him mutter, regaining his senses. “Please, this is all a mistake.”

  She pushed him along, guiding him firmly but carefully up the trail and back toward the hotel.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The interrogation room was much nicer than any she’d used before. The conference room had a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the forests and mountains around them. It was situated in the top of the tower at the edge of the eastern portion of the hotel. The protruding glass ceiling had walls of glass with no tint whatsoever as if, perhaps, they were out in the open—an illusion ruined only by the faintest smudges along the translucent surface. The table itself was designed for meetings of boardrooms and the like, and spanned the entire length of the room. The chairs were much more comfortable than anything Adele was accustomed to. Leather, stitched seamlessly.

  Adele reclined in her seat, staring across the long table toward where the handcuffed man tried to find a comfortable purchase. His hands were cuffed still, but had been allowed in front as in these chairs there was no way to wrap his arms behind him.

  Adele cleared her throat, staring at the man. “Your name?” she said.

  Darkness had fallen now, and the thin veil of moonlight was seeping through the towering windows around them, illuminating the back of the man’s head in a halo. Now that his visor had been removed and his hood thrown back, she realized he was quite handsome in a sun-kissed, overly tanned kind of way. The sort of good looks that came from just a little bit too much effort.

  She studied the ski instructor.

  At her side, Agent Marshall also clasped her hands, a single notepad in front of her, her pencil pressed to it with the name of the suspect at the top, and a couple of notes describing his demeanor and personality.

  Adele tried not to glance at the parchment, but instead focused on the ski instructor. Her eyes glanced down to his blue jacket, which he’d requested they open due to the heating inside. He had a tight shirt, suggesting a strong chest and muscular arms.

  For a moment, she wondered if she should be impressed her father had managed to knock this guy out.

  “Your name?” she repeated.

  The man shifted uncomfortably. “Shouldn’t I have counsel?”

  “You’re not arrested for anything yet. We just want to talk. Your name came up—we were hoping you could clear up some questions.”

  “Questions, yes? I have one, perhaps. Why did you hit me?”

  Adele felt a flush of embarrassment, and she pulled at the collar of her shirt. “I did not hit you. I’m afraid that was an overzealous guest at the hotel.”

  Hans frowned. “Was glaubst du wer du bist? I’m not accustomed to being hit by guests.”

  Adele shrugged. “As it is, he wasn’t one of ours. I’m sorry that happened. But why did you run?”

  Mr. Vosloo slouched, rubbing at his handcuffed wrists. “You still haven’t said what you wanted with me,” he said, sullenly.

  Adele glanced to the conference room door and then back at Hans. “We’re investigating the disappearance and murder of two couples. The Benevetis here, and the Haneses in France. Both in the Alps, both at resorts where you worked, both within the timeframe where you moved from one resort to the other.

  Hans’s cheeks reddened even more. He muttered a series of expletives beneath his breath, which would’ve made Adele’s father bristle. For her part, she just stared at him, waiting. Clearly he was nervous, uncomfortable. Angry?

  “Was auch immer. I knew this would occur,” he said. “I knew it!”

  He tried to jab a finger at her, but only managed to give himself a painful jerk across his wrists. Instead, he settled to pointing both his fingers in her direction. “Polizei always does this,” he said. “You settle for the obvious thing. And you capture innocent folk.”

  “Innocent?” said Adele. “So you’re innocent. Did you know the Hanes family? The Benevetis?”

  The man sighed. “Look, natürlich I knew the Benevetis. I’ve been at this place a long time; they would sometimes receive lessons from me.” His face flushed a bit more, and he cleared his throat. And, a bit too quickly, added, “Mrs. Beneveti had some private lessons not long ago.”

  He didn’t add anything and was glancing his fingers as if hoping they wouldn’t comment on this last part. Adele thought for a moment, but switched tack. “And the Hanes family, in France? You’re an instructor at their resort too.”

  He shook his head firmly. “Never met them. I would tell you if I did. I told you I met the Benevetis. Why would I lie about the others—Heinz?”

  “Hanes.” Adele crossed her arms, trying to gauge the man. He seemed honest in an oily, unctuous sort of way. “Of course, having ties to only one of the victims isn’t nearly as alarming as both. But as I said, you’re one of the only employees who has moved back and forth between both resorts.”

  At this, he jutted his chin out over the collar of his blue jacket. “Yes? That’s because I’m the best instructor around. No, really. I once was on the Olympic team, you know.”

  Agent Marshall flipped through her small notepad, paused, then said, “He’s right. He trained with them, at least.”

  “Damn right I trained with them. For years,” he said, proudly. “A lot of clients at these places come because of me. So of course they want me to go from resort to resort. I’m a tourist trap.” He smirked at this.

  Adele cleared her throat. “All right, you still haven’t explained why you ran.”

  His good looks seemed strained under the pressure. He rearranged his features, though, and smiled, trying to flash his teeth in a disarming way. “Like I said, there was just a miscommunication.”

  “No miscommunication,” she said. “You ran. Why? Stop wasting my time.”

  He studied her a moment longer, then glanced at Marshall as if looking for a way out. But the young German agent was still scribbling notes.

  He seemed off-put by her lack of attention. At last, he shook his head. “Look,” he said. “This doesn’t have to get out. It has nothing to do with their disappearance. But sometimes, sometimes…” he added, emphasizing the word, staring Adele straight in the eye, no lick of shame about him, “me and lonely wives in the slopes have our own sorts of therapy and instructional sessions. If you catch my drift.”

  “Good one,” Agent Marshall chuckled. “Drift.” She nodded to herself, smiling, and then continued to take notes.

  Adele frowned. “You’re telling me you sleep with some of the wealthy women?”

  He shrugged. “Not a crime. They’re lonely; I’m horny.”

  Adele stared at him. “Charming.”

  He smirked. “I never said it was. I’m just saying I knew you would jump to the wrong conclusions. Because—”

  “Because you slept with Mrs. Beneveti,” said Adele, “is that right?”

  He stared at her. “You knew?”

  She shook her head. “I do now. Why not just tell us that there? What did you think it accomplished by running?”

  He glared at her. “I’m a man of passion.”

  Adele groaned but then covered it as a cough. “All right; so you’re telling me you slept with the murdered wife. Did her husband know?”

  He shook his head. “I’m very discreet.”

  “Yeah, you seem like it. All right, well, we’ll check out your story. Is there anyone else I can verify with?”

  He glared at her. “I’m not going to tell you who I’ve spent nights with.�
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  Adele snorted. “Even if it gives you your freedom and avoids a couple of decades in prison?”

  He looked at her again, his mouth half agape as he glanced at Marshall, as if looking for backup. Again, he received none as the young agent continued to scribble. He let out a sigh, which turned into a whimper toward the end. Finally, he began to list names, various clients over the years, that he’d slept with.

  “I’ll let you take those down,” Adele said, patting Agent Marshall on the shoulder and then rising and moving toward the conference room door.

  She felt a flash of disgust as she moved away. Another dead end. The man seemed sleazy, but trustworthy. Trustworthy enough to defend his own self-interest at least. He didn’t seem the sort to kill two couples in brutal fashion. He’d be too busy admiring the reflection of his teeth in the metal ski lift seats.

  No, Adele decided, this wasn’t their man. Besides, he was wearing a blue jacket. She glanced at the phone where Robert had sent the video evidence. They’d found red fibers at the crime scene.

  She shook her head and turned away, moving from the conference room and leaving Agent Marshall to collect the names of the various conquests Hans Vosloo claimed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Adele moved with slow steps out of the makeshift interrogation room. She heard the door swish behind her, moving on well-greased hinges. Everything in this resort was well maintained. Even the tiles beneath her feet glinted, as if polished this morning. Adele glared at the ground, hands bunched at her sides as she stalked up the long hall, moving toward the stairs at the far end of the corridor. She passed a side room labeled Rest Room A, and she spotted someone sitting in front of the TV.

  She peered through the opaque glass, looking at the images shift across the television set. This only soured her mood further as she recognized the news. She leaned in closer and read the German scroll across the bottom of the screen.