Left To Die

“I’m not sure I am,” she said, softly. “Not sure I have a home. But there are worse things, I suppose.”

At this, Robert frowned, and he stepped into the room, studying her slowly.

Adele met his questioning look. “I’m not the one who chose to move around as much as we did. A child doesn’t always have the options they’d like.”

He continued to study her in silence, thinking through his words carefully before speaking. “No,” he said at last, a curt, clear word. “But perhaps it isn’t you don’t have a home. But that you have more than one.” He dusted at his dustless suit. “Perhaps it isn’t a curse, but rather a blessing. There are those who would be lucky to have more than one home.” Robert stepped further into the room and made his way slowly over to the window, peering out into the gray skies. “For me, Paris is my home. I would envy the ability to hold fondness for more than one place.”

Adele smiled at the man, but she didn’t say anything. She knew what he was trying to do. And she appreciated the effort. But words didn’t change the truth of the matter. She had never quite belonged anywhere.

That wasn’t a claim for pity. Rather, it was a position of strength, especially as an investigator, to be an outsider looking in. The outsider always brought a new perspective that locals might not possess. Her life, her upbringing—Germany to France to the US—gave her insight that others didn’t hold. Each place she lived had its own boon, a gift of experience that it bequeathed her. And yet, whenever she contemplated such things, a slow ache often developed in her chest, not quite unlike anxiety. Perhaps it was closer to loneliness.

She thought vaguely of her mother. But then shook her head, dislodging the thought.

“Have we had any hits yet?” she said, quickly, clearing her throat and speaking more firmly. Robert was still staring out the window. He gave the slightest shrug of his suited shoulders. “I have not heard anything.”

“What case are you working on?”

“Nothing new. They have me in an advisory role only.”

The way he said it gave Adele pause. There was an edge to his voice that she didn’t quite understand.

She stared at the back of her mentor’s head, watching him, studying his silhouette framed against the window. “Oh?”

He shrugged again and turned toward her; the droplets stippling the window framed him in a sort of liquid halo.

It’s good to have you back,” said Robert. “I’ll leave you to your work. But you know where I am. My number is the same. If ever you need anything—”

“I know. I really do. And I’m grateful. Extremely grateful.”

He flashed one of his rare smiles, which revealed two missing teeth in the front left side of his mouth. For a man who cared so much about appearances, the missing teeth were often jarring to people. Adele had never quite learned the story behind them, but she knew better than to ask.

As she watched him go, she wondered vaguely what he’d meant by “advisory role.” She knew the agency liked to hire young talent. But the thought that anyone would try to edge Robert, of all people, out of his job was ludicrous.

As he stood in the doorway and hesitated, he turned back, scratched his chin, and, in a thoughtful voice, said, “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you said this murderer, this killer, didn’t choose his victims based on any particular traits. Nothing except for their age.”

Adele nodded, listening intently.

Robert wasn’t looking at her anymore, and instead seemed to be studying the carpet on the floor with a frown creasing his face. “If someone doesn’t kill because of qualities the victims possess, would it be fair to assume he kills because of qualities of his own?”

“I’ve thought similarly,” said Adele.

“This red-haired man; he’s young enough to still have red hair.”

Adele glanced up at her partner, refusing to glance toward his own dark hair. She chuckled softly. “I do think there are methods nowadays that prevent the bane of gray. Plus, it could be a wig.”

Robert stiffened and shook his head slightly, running his hand through his own hair again, but then he relaxed once more and said, “But not red. A killer who is aging wouldn’t dye their hair red, would they? It’s too conspicuous. And if a wig, why choose red?”

Adele looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It does draw the eye… So you think his hair is naturally red? Red enough for him to be young; that’s what you’re saying?”

Robert gave another short jerk of his head. “Young enough to retain the color of his hair, self-obsessed enough to kill people based on qualities he possesses.”

“He fled to France,” Adele continued, speaking softly. Memories, past brainstorming sessions, much like this flitted through her mind. She and Robert often discussed cases, following one’s lead with thoughts of their own, building momentum with back and forth.

A slow prickling chill of exhilaration made itself known as goosebumps across the back of her arms.

She said, “The ages have always been interesting to me. Why would someone flee if they were so obsessed with time? He had a routine; he killed on schedule. Every two weeks. For someone so obsessed with time—and, if like you say, still young, then one might think he’s obsessed with their ages for a reason.”

“Fled,” said her old mentor. “You seem certain of that word.”

Adele paused, considering it, her mind racing. Robert often had a way of bringing out the best in her. He would phrase things in such a way that made sense, and would help spark her own deductive process. He watched her, a strange look on his face, not unlike the proud smile of a father toward his child. At last, though, Adele nodded, her teeth set. “I was closer than I thought. I almost caught him. That has to be it. I didn’t think I was making any headway back in the States. But he’s obsessed with time. A young man, at least young enough to have his normal hair color, who is obsessed with the passage of time. He would have loathed the idea of wasting time. It would have eaten at his core to have wasted the time it took to flee the US and come to France. He killed as soon as he could, and that means he had to have left the US because he needed to flee. Because he thought that was the only option.”

Robert was nodding now, his lips pursed, his serious face even more solemn with plucked eyebrows curved over his dark eyes.

“That’s the only explanation,” said Adele. “Barring some personal issue, which I doubt would make someone like this flee, the only thing that explains the interruption of this pattern, this trip to France, is that I was getting closer than I thought. Something I did, something I said, someone I talked to, had him spooked.”

“He was scared. Perhaps you need to give yourself more credit.”

Adele shrugged, tilting her head until she was staring up at the ceiling once more. “Thank you,” she said, softly, but her voice trailed off as her thoughts took over, carrying her into a series of considerations that flitted through her mind.

She tried to think back: when would she have spooked this killer? She thought of the interviews she had, the people she spoke to. She thought of the houses they had warrants for, searching. Dead ends, all of them. No one red-haired. No one mentioning anything about a red-haired killer.

Yet, somehow, the knowledge alone that she was getting close was enough to revitalize her, if only a little. She glanced back toward the door and Robert was gone.

He often did this, leaving without so much as a farewell. Robert was the sort who hated goodbyes. Adele, over the years, had grown numb to them. But perhaps she wouldn’t have to this time.

She glanced around the room and looked out toward the skies beyond. The rain was slowing somewhat, and the sound of tapping against the windows was starting to fade. The DGSI was quite like she remembered. There was more freedom in operations than back with the FBI; there was often harder sentiment toward agency overreach from the locals. But also, the agency had resources; they were a smaller nation, with less to keep track of, and so they had resources and time like she wasn’t always accustomed to.

She shook her head slowly, scratching absentmindedly at the back of her knuckles. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to come back here. France wasn’t far from being her home. She had spent most of her teen years and her time at university in this country.

Still, something else was niggling at her thoughts.

She lowered her feet off the desk and got up, frowning. She wanted to check the status of the APB, to see if any reports of been filed. Red-haired tourists couldn’t be that common. Especially those who had arrived sometime within the last month. But, if it was true she was getting close, and if it was true that this was a man obsessed with the passage of time, obsessed with age, and his victims, then he was also the sort of man who would try to make up for lost time. In the past, he had killed once every two weeks.

Now, though, Adele shook her head, clenching her teeth. Now—she could feel it—he wouldn’t wait so long this time. He would kill and kill soon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Adele strolled along the boulevard that led to Marion’s tall apartment building. He had stalked her here. She had died within screaming distance. Adele glanced up at the safety lights—now off during the day—lining the sidewalk.

She sighed softly, her shoes patting with wet little slaps against the sodden concrete. The streets were still mostly empty as it was a workday, mid-afternoon. The rain also served to rapidly usher pedestrians and drivers quickly on their way. Adele preferred the solitude. She needed to think, to clear her mind. There had to be some clue she was missing. Something she’d read, or spotted, something that would just make sense if she could focus. Adele smiled as a couple of sparrows chattered at each other in the safety of a small decorative tree. The trees were stationed every ten feet or so and had been part of an effort by the French government to bring green back to Paris.

Adele stepped under the trees and winced as cold droplets of water fell from the leaves and tapped against her neck.

She paused at the corner of the street, glancing to her right. Marion’s apartment rested within sight now—tall, brown, boasting curving black railings every twenty feet beneath windows—and she could trace the path the girl must have taken the very last time she’d come this way.

Adele turned, heading back toward Marion’s apartment, preparing to trace the girl’s steps once more. But then she hesitated. She recognized the street.

She turned to the left now, scanning the mailboxes, the benches, and the bus stops lining the gray curb.