Left To Die

But Agent Paige or not…

The killer had red hair.

Twenty-five. Twenty-four. No more.

CHAPTER NINE

Adele could feel the radiating glare singeing a hole in the side of her cheek the moment she stepped into Genna’s, the old, hole-in-the-wall bar behind the college. Adele scanned the crowded room, her gaze flicking across the many low stools arranged around circular tables. The furniture was scattered over what looked like a dance floor converted into a seating area for an elevated stage at the back.

Adele could still feel Sophie Paige’s glare piercing the cramped space from the other side of the dingy room.

Adele refused to look over at first. She kept her chin high and maneuvered with surefooted motions through the scattering of tables and cheap aluminum chairs.

John lumbered along next to her, his mood sour once more thanks to the three red lights they’d hit on the way to the interview Marion’s friends.

“They come here often?” Adele asked out of the side of her mouth, keeping her eyes rigidly ahead.

John grunted.

“You said they were here when Marion died. Is that verified?”

The especially tall agent grunted again, but then sighed through his nose as if realizing this response wouldn’t curb the tide of queries. His voice creaked with rust as he said, “They come here after work.”

“And how come we’re interviewing them here?”

John raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his smaller partner. “Agent Paige said it would keep them at ease. You would prefer we haul them off to interrogation rooms, hmm? How very American of you.”

Adele shook her head, glancing back toward where the small group was seated on the far side of the bar.

It reminded her of her old college days, though the thought soured her mood somewhat. Friends required roots. And roots required one to stay in the same spot for more than a passing second. Adele had never been particularly good at putting down roots. She’d never been taught how. Building friendships had been a thing of the past once she’d left university. Agent Lee, back at headquarters, was, perhaps, the one friend she had; it had been easy befriending a fellow workaholic.

Still, as Adele finally allowed herself a glance across the bar—the atmosphere askew in the daytime, with most stools and booths empty and the stage serving only as a seat for a couple of customers—she found herself examining a group of four young, attractive Parisians.

Agent Paige and her partner stood against thick red curtains covering a window and blocking out the sunlight. Sophie’s arms were crossed over her chest, creating pressure wrinkles in her otherwise neat gray suit. She had tucked her lip beneath her teeth in a sort of impatient, disapproving gesture.

The four Parisian friends were all glancing nervously at each other, their hands fidgeting against curled knuckles or twitching fingers. Two men and two women. None of them could have been much older than twenty-five. One of the men, a square-jawed, blond-haired fellow with piercing blue eyes, was tapping a tattoo into the aluminum table, his fingers wiggling wildly. Across from him, a girl with dark hair and dark eyes had clasped her hands together as if she were praying, her thumbs pressed against her lips and her eyes staring at the ridges of her knuckles.

All four of the friends held bleak, somber expressions.

Adele switched her gaze to the babysitters standing by the curtains. Sophie Paige was still glaring. She met Adele’s look and communicated nothing, still glowering, still crossing her arms. Her eyebrows, though, inched upward, if only slightly. Her mouth pressed just a little bit more tightly, her lips forming an even—if such a thing were possible—thinner line.

Adele nodded stiffly, offering a greeting to the woman. Perhaps things had improved since they’d last left them. It was often said that time could heal all wounds.

Even as the thought crossed Adele’s mind, Agent Paige frowned at Adele, her eyebrows narrowing over her watchful gaze. She turned to her partner and muttered something beneath her breath, which sent the short, round man into a fit of giggling, his dark cheeks wobbling with mirth.

Then again, perhaps time’s ministrations were overstated.

“What’s the history between you two?” John said, quietly.

Adele had paused, one foot on the single step that led to the raised back portion of the room.

The barkeep leaned against the counter, a bored expression on her face. She’d been unlucky enough to draw the short straw to tend bar during early hours. Adele felt for the girl, and nodded sympathetically in greeting. The girl nodded back and then turned to start adjusting some ornately styled bottles on the lowest shelf above the sink, causing auburn liquid to slosh around.

“It’s none of your business,” said Adele, growling, still hesitating on the step.

“Ah, so there is history,” said John. He clicked his tongue. “I thought so.”

Adele ducked her head, hiding her mouth. She lowered her voice even further, practically whispering. “Don’t give me that. You knew we had history.”

John smiled lazily and leaned against a metal railing as if waiting for Adele to continue leading the way. “I had an idea. You just confirmed it. Tell me; did you take credit for a collar? Steal glory on a case that you both worked together?”

Adele’s brow furrowed at this, and she quickly shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

She wasn’t sure why this particular accusation bothered her so much. The idea that John would think she was the type to take credit for someone else’s success particularly burned. She had made her way on her own merit. No one else had given her a leg up.

“Then what?” said John, still leaning against the railing. He glanced toward where the other agents were waiting and flicked up a finger as if to say, one moment. He’d been speaking quietly at first, but the more attention they seemed to draw from the customers, the louder he seemed to speak.

“Keep it down,” Adele snapped. “Nothing. Nothing important.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Unimportant matters often breed grudges over half a decade, hmm? Which, I might add, can be seen written across both your faces.”

“Well, at least you can read; I wasn’t sure. Now, could we get on with it? We’re here to solve the case.”

Adele shoved roughly past John, stepping up onto the raised portion of the room which led into a railed off corner where Marion’s friends were waiting with their federal babysitters.

“Hello,” said Adele, quickly, formally, nodding at each of the four seated men and women in turn.

They looked up, questions burdening their eyes.

She cleared her throat, trying not to glance toward Agent Paige. The woman didn’t intimidate her, but she did make it uncomfortable. “My name is Adele Sharp. I’m working with the DGSI on Marion’s case. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“You are DGSI?” said the blond, square-jawed fellow. “Was this a terrorist?”

The other man in the group, a dark-skinned young man with high cheekbones, shook his head. “I knew it was terrorists. Didn’t I say; I told you, no one would want to hurt her. She was too kind. It had to have been some sort of—”

“Quiet, Antoni,” snapped the dark-haired girl who was clutching her hands as if she were praying. “She didn’t say it was a terrorist. Why do you always think—”

“—it was, though, wasn’t it?” said Antoni, glancing up toward Adele. “It’s okay. You can tell us.”

Adele sighed and placed one hand on the cold metal table, leaning in toward the four friends who were now all watching her.

Instead of answering them, though, Adele resigned herself to the unpleasant task at hand, and glanced over the friends’ heads. “Sophie,” Adele said, nodding to her old supervisor with a curt jerk of her head.

At the reluctant greeting, Agent Paige’s expression only further soured. “We’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour,” she said, frowning. Agent Paige spoke in a quick, clipped way, the sort of voice oft-burdened by impatience.

The unmet greeting hung in the air between them, stretching the atmosphere and breeding an uncomfortable tension which descended on the group in the daytime bar.

Adele kept her back stiff, her shoulders squared, as she nodded a greeting to Sophie’s round, balding partner, which he returned with an equally stiff, uncomfortable motion.