Left To Hide Read online

  “Fair enough,” said Adele in a clipped tone. “Can we at least speak to search and rescue? See the crime scene? I heard it was in the woods—figure that ought to be remote enough to not raise any eyebrows.”

  Marshall smiled, though it seemed half wince. “Yes, of course. I’ll place the call for the team leader to meet us there. Do you need refreshments? Food? I could order a—”

  “I’m fine,” Adele cut her off. “I’d like to see the crime scene. Do you have a car?”

  Agent Beatrice Marshall nodded again and, without word, turned, pushing open the hotel room door and exiting into the hall, beckoning for Adele to follow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Adele remembered why she chose San Francisco stateside. Some people simply weren’t built for the cold.

  She pulled her hood low past her ears and tugged on the drawstrings of the thick, flannel jacket to further secure her throat. She winced against the faintest of frigid breezes, and resented the quiet crunch of the snow beneath her boots. The trail had been packed down not long before, and Adele was grateful for this. Despite her boots, she suspected trudging through the snow for the two miles it took from where they’d parked would have been an endeavor in misery and frostbite.

  Ahead, Luka Porter—the leader of the volunteer mountain rescue team—guided the two agents along the snowy ski trails.

  “A fresh fall,” he called over his shoulder in German, waving a gloved hand through the air in front.

  “I see ski tracks; are they fresh?” Adele called out. She cleared her throat, swallowing a couple of times and finding not only her lips chapped but her throat dry.

  She missed the Golden State. Grumbling inwardly, but refusing to communicate weakness to her German colleagues, Adele followed Luka into a grove of trees at the end of the packed trail.

  He waved a hand toward the grove. “Found them here,” he said, quietly. A somberness tinged his words. “Ripped to pieces—real nasty work. Lotta blood,” he added. “Probably alive for a good part of the mauling.” He winced, his face pale.

  Adele nodded, scanning the trees. Besides faint ski tracks, which she guessed were from search and rescue crew, there was little in the manner of physical evidence. No footprints had been found according to the report, and the bodies had long since been recovered—at least, what had remained.

  “What’s your theory?” she asked, breathing slowly and allowing her fogged breath to usher toward the prickly tree leaves sheltering the ground in scattered patterns from view of the sun.

  Luka scratched at an ear beneath his thermal hat. “Brown bear, most likely,” he said, knowingly. “They were gone from the Alps for decades, but a couple years ago, some sightings occurred. We’re only”—he glanced over his shoulder and then down at a smart watch on his wrist—“about two miles from the resort they were staying at.”

  “The same one you’re at,” Agent Marshall supplied quietly from Adele’s flank.

  Adele nodded to show she’d heard, but maintained her silence, allowing Luka to fill it.

  “Didn’t see bear tracks,” he added. “But the snow disguised most of that.” He shrugged. “Pity, really—not quite sure what the pair of them were doing out in this grove. My guess; Mr. and Mrs. Beneveti were on a cross-country ski trip, and the bear spotted them—gave chase. They deviated from the main trail and tried to hide in the trees.” He shook his head. “Didn’t end well.”

  “No,” said Adele. “Guess it didn’t. So you think it was a bear?”

  Luka paused, frowning as he turned fully and regarded her. “You’re saying it wasn’t?”

  Agent Marshall cleared her throat and hastily inserted herself between Adele and Luka. She rubbed her gloved hands together and puffed a breath into them as if to warm them. “We can’t discuss the details of the investigation, I’m afraid,” she said. “Is there anything else you found? You saw?”

  Luka’s eyes squinted in thought, but then he said, “No—nothing. Though I hear those folks are rich, powerful types. Pity this happening to them. Just goes to show money can’t buy everything, I guess.”

  “Thank you,” Adele said in a polite tone. Then she moved through the crime scene, slowly, delicately, her eyes higher than the ground. The snow-covered floor provided little in the way of physical evidence. The crime scene photos she’d studied on the plane were far closer to the timeframe of the attack, with less fresh fall. But the trees… the trees were still exposed, visible.

  She spotted no cuts or breaks along the trees—or near the small branches at the base of the saplings. She didn’t know much about bears. But she did know it was strange for the trees themselves to be untouched if a two-ton ball of muscle and fur had come barreling in here hunting two fleeing skiers.

  No. The crime scene photos suggested a hatchet, or an axe. Rusted, perhaps—blunt. But human—definitely human. Whoever the killer was, though, had to know his or her way around the area. The ski trail was known, but not obvious. Whoever had killed the Benevetis had been waiting for them, watching.

  Now, it was up to Adele to discover why.

  “See anything?” Agent Marshall asked.

  Adele glanced back and gave the faintest shake of her head. “Nothing new. When did you say that new resort was opening?”

  “Tomorrow,” Marshall said, tone clipped, her eyes darting to Luka and back to Adele.

  “Millionaires, politicians, and murder,” Adele said with a humorless smile. “Sounds like the start to a movie.”

  And following another scan of the trees and snowbound floor, Adele and the two Germans turned and began their long hike back up the trail toward the resort. Vaguely, Adele could only hope John and Robert’s case was faring better back in France. She hoped the Swiss couple hadn’t met the same horrible fate as the Benevetis.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Second gate so far,” John muttered in French. “What are they guarding in here, hein? A pile of gold?” He glared through the front of the faintly tinted windshield as the automatic gates opened before the DGSI vehicle, and his partner guided their car up the path.

  “It is a very exclusive resort,” said Robert, patiently. “They take their security seriously.”

  John glanced at the much smaller man, raising an eyebrow. “Friends of yours?”

  Robert guided the vehicle along the quiet path toward the resort in the distance. The French resort was impressive in its sheer size. Few other nations could compete with the acres and acres of ski trails and lifts—nor the small villages interconnected by cable cars lounging through the air, or the ski trails moving along the mountains.

  On all sides, the trail they currently used was lined with ornamentation—including sculptures and quaint glass and wood gazebos beneath ancient, towering trees. A couple of guards—with their weapons hidden out of sight—smiled politely from beneath blue berets and nodded as the approaching vehicle rolled by. One of the guards cast a longer look toward the DGSI car. Likely, he hadn’t seen a regular sedan in months of wealthy tourists in flashy coupes.

  “Bonjour!” the soldier called out, tipping his flat cap. Even the guard was sipping a cup of vin chaud, and looked to have quickly lowered a cigarette into an ashtray as they’d approached.

  John could spot a military man from a mile away. And the last six guards they’d spotted all had the look. Ex-military private security didn’t come cheap. Then again, nothing in this gated resort looked cheap.

  Robert cleared his throat. “Not everyone who has means is related,” he said.

  “Means? You mean stinking rich, oui?”

  Robert frowned a bit, his hands clasping the steering wheel in the perfect ten and two position, his eyes glued dutifully on the road ahead. His hair was slicked back and, when he spoke, occasionally John glimpsed two missing teeth in the front of the older agent’s mouth.

  He still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the small man. Robert’s old partner, Adele, had a fondness for him, and the investigator was a bit of a legend around the DGSI, but h
alf the time it was nearly impossible for John to discern what the other Frenchman was thinking.

  “Where do we park?” John asked as they pulled into a roundabout beneath old stone pillars set across from four wide glass sliding doors at the top of a gently curving marble stairway.

  “We don’t,” Robert said, primly.

  He pulled off his driving gloves and turned off the engine. Then he switched to a couple of mittens he had in the backseat, daintily pulling them on. John watched all this with mild amusement.

  “Nice mittens,” he said.

  “Thank you. And, thank you.” The second thank-you was directed toward the valet who had hurried up and opened the door for Robert.

  “Mr. Henry!” the valet called. “It is good to see you!”

  Robert refused to look at John as he returned the greeting and stiffly exited the vehicle, handing his keys to the valet. The young man in the red cap and crimson outfit smiled politely at John as a second helper hurried over and opened the door for the tall DGSI agent.

  John scratched at the scar along the underside of his chin, then with more than a little discomfort, he exited the vehicle.

  Robert adjusted his sleeves. He’d insisted on wearing a suit and a pea-coat for warmth. John, on the other hand, wore two hoodies, one on top of the other. Robert had offered to buy him a jacket, twice, on the drive up to the Alps, but John had refused. Mostly, though he hadn’t told Robert, because of sheer enjoyment at the look of discomfort on the older agent’s face every time he saw the hem of one of John’s sweaters poking out beneath the other.

  “Luggage?” asked the valet who had opened John’s door.

  The tall Frenchman grunted, stretching his leg as he exited the car. “Old guy has some. I don’t.”

  The valet gave John a strange look, but nodded to show he’d understood before hurrying to the trunk and grabbing Robert’s three separate suitcases.

  John watched in wry humor as the attendant carried the suitcases up the marble steps one at a time. John wasn’t sure what Robert had needed so desperately that it took three suitcases. John was relatively confident he’d never packed a single suitcase in his life. They would only be here a few days—what he couldn’t buy in a gift shop, he could likely borrow from lost and found. All fancy hotels had them.

  John eyed the sliding doors with the severest of distrust as Robert walked stiff-legged up the marble steps and waited for the attendant—still lugging the investigator’s final suitcase—to pause, lower the suitcase, and open the door with a smile, before entering into the resort’s atrium.

  For a moment, in the cold, Robert paused, grimacing and coughing.

  John called out, “Are you all right?”

  But Robert simply waved him away and moved into the hotel.

  John followed after Robert, bunching his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stalking up the marble steps. On either side, jutting turret-shaped towers framed the stone, glass, and log building. Even John, who had never developed a taste for the finer things, paused to admire the architecture. He also noted three windows, tinted blue, which would serve as a perfect lookout spot for a sniper.

  Useful information given their circumstances? Perhaps not. But John could little afford to put his instincts behind him. They’d served well on more than one occasion.

  “We need to speak to the manager,” Robert said, quietly, as John joined him in the expensive atrium. Marble, glass, ornamental lights, and tastefully arranged plants and art gave the resort entrance an impressive feel.

  John grunted. “Where’s the manager?” he asked the attendant who was now lodging Robert’s three suitcases onto a trolley.

  “Ah, excusez moi?” said the attendant, hesitantly. “Manager Pires is most likely indisposed at the moment. But I’m sure there are clerks who would be more than happy to—”

  “Surely, there’s some way we can change your mind, hmm?” said Robert, a purr to his voice. He extended a hand, and John glimpsed a hundred-euro note secreted in the old investigator’s palm.

  The attendant cleared his throat, glanced at the note, and his eyes flicked toward the low, marble counter circling the far wall of the atrium. “I, I don’t think I can arrange that,” he began, hesitantly.

  “Come,” Robert wheedled. “I’m certain we can reach an arrangement, monsieur.”

  The attendant still looked reluctant. John’s patience had worn thin at this point. While Robert tried a third time, in quiet, cajoling murmurs, John turned, faced the atrium, and, at the top of his voice, the tall scar-faced French agent shouted, “DGSI! We’re here to speak with the manager. Now!”

  The attendant wilted, and seemed to want to shrink into the floor and disappear. Robert sighed with resignation in his partner’s direction, but reluctantly stowed his money and crossed his arms over his neatly pressed suit and jacket.

  “Well?” John shouted, louder now. “The manager?”

  “I’m sure, if we’re patient, and just wait—” Robert tried to say, but before he could finish, there was a flurry of movement from through a doorway behind the long counter. A few customers and a couple of clerks were looking in John’s direction, but pretending not to.

  Through the doorway, a woman in a neat red uniform appeared, walking quickly toward where the agents stood. She took in Robert, in his neat suit and combed hair, and then her gaze flicked to John and his two hoodies and disheveled appearance. At John’s appearance, her eyes slid along the atrium toward where two security personnel were standing near the doors. She hesitated, but then addressed the DGSI agents.

  “Hello,” she said, pressing her lips together. “May I help you? I’m Maria, assistant to Manager Pires. I’m afraid he’s not available right now. How might I be of assistance?”

  “Excuse me, mademoiselle,” said Robert, stepping forward and taking Maria gently by the hand. He held her hand in greeting and gave a slight bow of his head. “We are in need of some information—if you’d be gracious enough to bless us with your time, we’d be eternally grateful.”

  John watched the strange exchange, feeling an itch somewhere in the vicinity of his collar. He’d been told in the past he had a face like a lazy pit bull when he was impatient. The person who’d said it had ended up in the hospital with a broken nose and bruised eye. Yet, in this moment, John bit his tongue and waited for Robert to take his shot.

  The assistant manager Maria looked taken aback, even flustered by Robert’s demeanor. When she acknowledged the wealthy investigator, though, she almost seemed to ease up. Some of the distrust and worry she had displayed at the sight of John faded.

  “You say you’re with the DGSI?” she asked, politely, still extending her hand and allowing Robert to gently guide her toward the clerk counter.

  “Yes, dear child,” said Robert. “A delicate matter, I’m sure.”

  John remained forgotten as the two moved arm-in-arm to the back of the atrium. The expensive, polished floors winked up at glinting lights in ornamented brackets throughout the ceiling.

  “Yes,” the manager said, quietly, her eyes darting to a couple of customers checking in at the front. Their many bags and luggage rested on a dolly, pushed by another crimson-uniformed attendant. Robert’s own bags now awaited them by the elevator, the attendant patiently standing with his arms crossed by the three pieces of luggage.

  John hefted his own small laptop bag—where he’d stowed a shirt and a change of boxers—and stomped after his smaller partner. Anyone who looked his way received a glare and a half. He managed to catch up with the smaller investigator and his captive audience with two long strides.

  He reached the counter with them, hearing Robert finish a sentence with, “… Perhaps somewhere more private?”

  Maria leaned one arm on the counter, giving a significant look to the clerk at the computer hidden behind the marble partition. The clerk nodded in greeting, then hurried away, moving to the opposite side of the long divider.

  For her part, Maria dropped her voice and quie
tly said, “Mr. and Mrs. Hanes have been coming here as long as I can remember. Once a year.”

  “Ah,” said Robert. “But you are so young! It couldn’t have been too long, no?”

  Maria tittered a bit and John felt his stomach turn. “I’ve been working here nearly fifteen years,” she said. “Started as a waitress and worked my way up. We only serve the most prestigious clientele. As I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Robert smiled and patted her on the shoulder, looking her deep in the eyes with his warm gaze. “Yes, yes,” he said, “very impressive. I wish you all the more blessing on your hard work. Fifteen years is an impressive commitment. I hope they reward your loyalty?”

  Maria hesitated, her nose wrinkling. But she coughed and smoothed the front of her pristine uniform with her free hand. “I have no complaints. The Swiss couple, though—this is why you’re here?”

  Robert nodded once, his eyes fixed on Maria as if there were no one else in the room. His every nod and smile, every gesture, responded to Maria’s words or posture, mirroring back her excitement, interest, curiosity all in rapid synchronicity. To John, it was like witnessing a chess match of body language, which the assistant manager didn’t even realize she was a part of.

  John knew, though, from the little time he’d spent with Robert, that the older investigator wasn’t a manipulator. He knew how to react, to respond, but he also meant the things he said; he had an annoying knack of caring about everyone they interacted with.

  “Bigwigs in oil,” Maria was saying, softly. “Though,” she frowned, “I don’t know if I was supposed to say that.”

  “No—do not worry. You’re being honest. I can tell you’re an honest person, oui,” said Robert, nodding. “It’s in the eyes, yes. And their room, where did they stay?”

  Maria cleared her throat. “They had their own chalet on permanent reserve. Fifteen years now; probably more. Search and rescue has been looking for them, but found nothing.”