Left To Die

He glanced at the wall where his diploma from the police academy hung above newspaper clippings of the cases he’d been involved in. A hot flash of shame scoured his chest and he looked away in disgust, stomping into the kitchen.

Glowering, he turned on the hot water and began washing out his soup pot. On the counter, he spotted the canned soup Sharp had brought him. For a moment, as he eyed the can of soup, his movements became less agitated, and his internal monologue quieted.

“What?” he demanded of the soup can. He wagged a thick finger at the offending tin of creamed broccoli. He looked away and began washing the pot with large, agitated gestures, causing soapy water to splash against the inside of the metal sink.

Perhaps he was too hard on his daughter… But if he wasn’t hard, she’d end up like everyone else in her generation: lazy good-for-nothings, mooching off the government and their parents.

Joseph hesitated… Still, it had been nice she’d visited. Maybe he should give her a call…

He glanced toward the old-fashioned phone dangling from its cradle on the wall, but then he shook his head and redoubled his cleaning efforts. No. Compassion was all well and good, but emotions got in the way of a good investigator. He wouldn’t curse his daughter like that.

Once upon a time, he’d let his emotions get the best of him. He’d married a French girl—turned down a promotion to do it. Thirty years on the force and stuck as desk sergeant.

He rinsed off the pot and meticulously balanced it on the empty dry rack.

No; he wouldn’t condemn his daughter to his same fate. She never admitted it, but he knew she was ambitious. He would push her, because she needed it. Because comfort bred complacency.

He nodded to himself, pursing his lips as he turned back toward the TV. Enough screen for the day; where had he placed that book? He glanced around the kitchen and patted at his back pocket.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Joseph frowned and turned. Had his daughter returned?

“Sharp?” he called out through the house, the glow of the internal lights offset, now, by the darkness creeping in through the shuttered windows.

No answer.

The doorbell rang a second time.

“Darn it,” he muttered with the same fervor a sailor might use to spew language that would have turned a priest’s cheeks rosy. Joseph Sharp didn’t believe in swearing, but the emotions behind the words? Outside his control.

And anything Sergeant Sharp couldn’t control was best ignored or destroyed.

The doorbell rang a third time and he picked up his pace, hurrying to the front door, shouting through the house. “Keep your shirt on! I’m coming. Darn it, Sharp—you know how I hate it when—”

He pulled open the door.

No one was there.

“Sharp?” he murmured, frowning and peering out into the night. His only greeting was the flicker of streetlights in the night and the ashy smell of a neighbor’s grill. He leaned forward, glancing to the side of the porch and down the patio steps. “Sharp—is that you?”

But he spotted no one. He glanced up the street, but the only car parked was the old green Nissan owned by the lady in 22C with that annoying, yip-yap mongrel.

The cool evening air gusted through the open door, sweeping toward Joseph Sharp and sending the hairs standing on the backs of his arms. Muttering darkly to himself, he began to close the door.

But just then, he heard a noise behind him. A creak of a floorboard. Sharp would have known not to ring the bell. She always knocked.

The Sergeant whirled around.

A man in a dark hood stood in his hallway, staring at him.

“Hello,” the man said in German with a polite smile.

“Who in the double hells are—”

“Good evening,” the man said.

Then his arm swung, there was a flash of metal, and something sharp jammed into Joseph’s neck with an ominous shnick. He cried out in pain and tried to defend himself, reaching up with surprising speed and ripping the needle from his neck. Already, the plunger had been half pressed, though. Joseph cried out, smashing the needle against the wall, feeling glass bite into his hand.

The hooded man snarled. “That was my last one!”

Darkness pressed in. He felt light-headed, his movements sluggish. Joseph tried to reach up, grabbing at the hooded man, but his arm moved far, far too slowly.

The hooded man surveyed the Sergeant for a moment, clicking his tongue as the larger man slid down the wall. “Half a dose might not be enough, hmm? You’re a big boy, aren’t you?”

Vaguely, Joseph could hear the sound of his door closing, followed by the quiet click of a lock.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Adele glanced into the passenger’s seat at the printed page for the hundredth time in as many seconds. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her heart pounding in tandem with the wild churning of her thoughts.

Porter Schmidt. The name at the top of the printed sheet. No photo—the waste department hadn’t had any. The operator couldn’t even describe what Schmidt looked like; apparently he worked remotely.