Left To Die

Tomas frowned. “Marion is dead. That’s terrible enough.” He ignored his friends and pressed on, determined. “Did she suffer?” Tomas demanded, glaring at Adele.

Adele resisted the urge to turn toward where Agent Paige was at the bar; she knew her old supervisor was intentionally going out of her way to make this difficult. Now Adele was in an impossible position. If Marion’s friends actually knew what had happened, it would haunt them. But Adele refused to lie. “It was bad. But she’s not suffering anymore. And I promise you, I promise,” she glanced to each of them in turn, locking eyes, “I’ll find who did this. And I’ll make them pay.”

The four friends slumped even lower in their seats. Then, with a great sigh of resignation, Tomas pushed himself up, stepping backward over his stool and retrieving a coat set on the table behind him. He gestured with a small jerk of his head at the others, and they quickly followed his retreat.

It would take Adele a little bit of time to re-acclimate to the way things were done at the DGSI. There were no checkouts for the interview room, no clerk to escort the interviewees out of the station. They were in a bar in the afternoon in Paris. The French agency often afforded more freedom and less red tape. But, as she glanced toward where Sophie Paige hung her head at the bar, holding a drink which she wasn’t sipping, it also allowed the worst sorts too much leeway sometimes.

“Farewell,” Paige called without looking back. Her words seem to propel the four friends even quicker out the door, and Adele could hear the scattered sound of their rapid footsteps as they hastened along the sidewalk outside, and then the sound faded with the dull thump of the shutting door.

Adele glared at the Paige’s back, frowning. Her hands tingled, her fingers tapping incessantly at her upper thigh.

John stepped forward, his elbow brushing against her shoulder. “Do we go now?” he asked, his voice low. “What is this about red hair?”

Adele ignored him, and she hurried forward, shoving past Paige’s partner and surging toward the seated woman at the bar.

“Sophie,” the round, balding man barked in warning.

Adele stormed forward, and Sophie Paige turned slowly, glancing over her shoulder and swiveling in her stool.

Adele found her fists were bunched at her sides, and she quickly unclenched them. It wouldn’t do to get into a fight in a bar the first day on the job.

“Can I ask what you think you’re doing?” Adele snapped.

Agent Paige gave a half smile, presenting the sort of leer that belonged on the mouth of a shark. “You may ask whatever you want. Hells, do what you want. You always have.” Page spoke in French, rapidly, as if she were trying to shake Adele off the scent of a trail.

But Adele’s French was coming back to her, and she replied just as quickly, “Do we need to talk?”

Paige glared. “The time for talking was six years ago, don’t you think? Before you knifed me in the back!”

“I didn’t—”

“Go deal with your case and get out of my face.”

“I never intended for you to get in trouble,” said Adele. “I didn’t know you had been demoted.”

Agent Paige’s left hand tightened around the filled glass, and she spun around sharply, tossing the contents at Adele.

John and Paige’s partner rushed forward, but Adele stood her ground, allowing the alcohol to seep down her face and stain her clothing. It dripped from her chin against the faux floorboards with rhythmic taps.

She could feel all eyes on her, including a couple of the daytime customers and the barkeep behind the counter. She inhaled shakily through her nostrils, smelling the whiskey on her chest.

“You’re a mess,” said Agent Paige. “Clean yourself up.” She grabbed a dirty towel from behind the counter and flung it at Adele. Then, without paying, she shoved off the stool and strode away from the bar, toward the door. Her partner quickly fell into step.

Adele found that her left hand was bunched up against her pants, holding her trousers tight.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said John, his shadow falling over her, cast by the glowing lights in the square fixtures above.

Adele shook her head, causing sticky liquid to slip along her face and continue to drip down her chin. “I knew she was going to be trouble.”

“You weren’t lovers, were you?”

Adele glanced up at John and shook her head, noting his coy smile and the slight wiggle of his eyebrows. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“That would’ve been incredible,” John said, smiling fondly, looking off into the distance. Then he glanced back at Adele and sighed softly. “Come, you should clean yourself up. There are bathrooms in the back; I saw a sign.”

He pressed gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward the back of the bar, but Adele shrugged off the helping hand and stomped away, her legs stiff, her arms straight at her sides.

She couldn’t let past grudges affect this case. Sophie Paige still worked for the DGSI. That couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t mean Adele would let the older woman and their shared history ruin the investigation.

Adele stormed into the bar’s bathroom and stared at herself over the mirror, her eyebrows flicking down in a furrow at the sight of her drenched collar and jacket.

She wiped the alcohol from her face, trying to rid herself of the odor of whiskey. She used foam soap on her chin, scraping the smell away.

As she did, she mulled over the next step. She still had a new clue. The killer had red hair. And he had recently come from the US. How many redheaded tourists could have arrived in the last week? Not many. She would’ve bet it wasn’t many at all.

They would have to place an APB. Perhaps get in touch with the airports. The DGSI had access to more files than much of the FBI. Interpol often shared their own intel. If the Patriot Act in the US was an agency, it would look eerily similar to the DGSI.

The amount of freedom it afforded could create the worst sorts of law enforcement out of people like Agent Paige. Though, perhaps that was just Adele’s bias showing.

She twisted the metal knob to the faucet and rinsed off her hands. Adele glanced back up into the mirror, meeting her own gaze. Clearly, the killer was smart. There was no rhyme or reason behind the victims he chose. Their nationalities were different, their genders were sometimes different; only their ages seemed to matter. What did it mean? Why was he so obsessed? Adele had gotten close. Back in Indiana, she was nearly certain she had gotten close… But how close? They’d had no concrete suspects. He’d escaped that time. Now, though, she wouldn’t let him escape again.

She flung droplets of water from her hands back into the sink, shaking her fingers, then turned sharply and stormed back out of the bathroom, drying her hands off on her already stained shirt. No time for those dinky little air dryers.

The red-haired bastard couldn’t be far. If she had to bet on it, she would guess he was still in the city.

Adele now moved toward the exit to the bar, gesturing at John to follow.

“Are you okay?” he said, a kernel of sympathy in his tone for the first time.

She nodded fiercely and gestured again. “Come. We have work to do. I have an idea.”

CHAPTER TEN

Raindrops rattled the windows in staccato, ushering frigid gloom into the temporary office they’d given Adele back at the DGSI headquarters. She leaned in her chair, staring at the ceiling, studying the fresh paint that glazed the concrete. A small black radiator, of the electronic variety, whirred softly behind her. The office was still unfinished and the heating units were a temporary measure. In the back of the room, a few outlets extended naked wires like the tentacles of some tiny ocean creatures. Back at headquarters in San Francisco, Adele hadn’t been given her own office. There were too many agents for that to be considered fair. But again, an agency like the DGSI, which was only a decade old, pulled out all the stops to tempt new recruits. And, like Robert had said, the recent wave of terrorist attacks in Europe, despite all the political implications, had increased the budget for most intelligence agencies.

“How do you fair, my sweet?”

Adele turned slowly, glancing toward the door, her gaze tracing from the figure’s polished shoes, up his well-maintained, pressed pants, and lingered on his manicured fingernails. Then she smiled softly and met her old mentor’s gaze.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” said Adele. She leaned back in her chair, pressing her head against the cold wall, still listening to the rain in the background. “Can’t say that we’ve done much.”

Robert ran his hands through his ever-thickening hair, and the early wrinkles around his eyes creased as he squinted in her direction, adopting a look of concern. “You put an APB out?”

She nodded. “John did. Red-haired tourists. Can’t imagine there’s too many of those; at least not in the city.”

Robert stood straight in the doorway, his posture perfect. Most folks would’ve leaned against the doorframe, or come into the room and relaxed in one of the chairs across the desk from Adele. But Robert stayed where he was, upright, dignified, a bit pompous. He peered down at her, and the short man cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “How is it being back home?”

Adele crossed her legs, pressing her heels on top of the desk. She sighed, ushering a breath in his direction, exhaling the stress and frustration clogging her lungs.