Left To Die

“I suspect you’re going to enjoy this,” she said, grimly. There was a slight squeak of his rubber outfit against the floor as she shifted him into a better position and then reached for her handcuffs, pulling them out and shackling his wrists.

“How long have you been in France?” she demanded once the man was secure. She kept her knee in the small of his back, crouched over him like some gargoyle above a hapless victim. Frustration and fury cycled through her body, carried by pulsing adrenaline and an elevated heartbeat.

She shook him roughly, pulling at the handcuffs until he loosed a painful grunt.

“How long have you been in France?” she repeated, speaking in English now.

The man sighed softly, deflating like a leaking balloon, and then, with a grunt, he said, “Only a week. You can check my tickets on my phone. Please—don’t hurt me.”

He had a British accent. London, by the sound of it.

“A week? How come you’re just now checking into the hotel?”

It took another shake of the man’s cuffed hands, but again he grunted, and, reluctantly, gasped out, “Third hotel. I switch after… After each one.”

“Each what?”

The man whimpered, shaking his head, his red hair shifting back and forth and his rubber suit squeaking against the marble floor. “They’re better in France. You don’t understand. I’m not a bad man. I pay them well, and always follow our safe words, I promise! You’re not going to tell my wife, are you?” At this, the British man’s voice cracked.

Adele muttered in disgust—not so much at the man’s actions but at the outcome of the APB. This wasn’t the killer. Of that, she was nearly certain.

She gently guided the man back to his feet, some of the anger deflating from her at his docile posture. With a sigh, trying to steady her breath and allowing the man to do the same, she guided him back up the stairs.

As she did, her vortex of annoyance and anger began to recede, giving way to another thought… She glanced sidelong at the man, pushing him along in front of her. He had a British accent. A Brit in France.

While this man clearly wasn’t the killer, she’d been operating under the assumption that the killer was from France or the US. That he either fled the US to escape to a foreign country or that he’d been vacationing in the US and returned home to Paris. But, as she shoved the man along, back up the stairs, she realized there was a third option.

What if the killer wasn’t from France or the US? What if he was from a different country entirely? What if he’d been just visiting both the United States and France?

The thought haunted her, niggling at her mind as she returned up the stairs and rejoined John in the suite.

By then, uniformed police officers had arrived for backup. Gendarmerie could also be glimpsed through the windows, far below, waiting outside in their quasi-military vehicles. The police took the prostitute and her client from there. Before leaving with their charges, they conducted a brief interview with John, who seemed to enjoy the whole situation. Adele stood in the doorway, watching her partner answer the final question of the leading police officer. She watched as he sauntered across the room, beaming at her. “That was fun,” he said.

“That’s one word for it.”

John chuckled, and began to slide a piece of paper into his pocket.

Adele glanced at the parchment. “What’s that?”

John smirked, but shrugged with one shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

Adele glanced at the paper, noticing a couple of numbers before he finally slid it completely from view.

She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “You didn’t.” She resisted the urge to reach out and shake the man. “Is that the girl’s number?”

John chuckled again and patted Adele on the shoulder in a gesture he had to know would infuriate her. “My American princess, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“I can’t believe you. I can’t—”

“—you know what I feel like? A drink. You should come. You look tightly wound. I heard Agent Paige was talking about you with Foucault, by the way. She’s not very nice in her report.”

“I don’t—I just—” Adele didn’t know what to say. She glanced toward John’s pocket, then back up at his smirk, and then down to the hand which he was still pressing against her shoulder. There was something condescending about the gesture, but also familiar.

Strangely, this invitation to get drinks seemed to suggest he had warmed to her somewhat. If not for the burn along his neck and up his throat, John would have been quite handsome, with his bold nose and disheveled bangs. It was little surprise, in his position, with his personality, that he would leverage his authority to coerce the number from the prostitute. Adele sincerely hoped it was just a joke, but decided it wasn’t worth pursuing; she had more serious matters to commit her thoughts to.

If Agent Paige was causing trouble back at the office, there was nothing Adele could do about that either. Their history proved that.

She shook her head, mouth slightly agape, and glanced back toward the two black-latex-wearing suite occupants. The tickets on the phone had confirmed the man’s claim—he’d only arrived last week, and he hadn’t come from the States. She sighed softly, breathing through her nose as she surveyed the arresting officers and then turned back to John. “I don’t even—”

“A rough night, I know. You got your hopes up.” For a moment, it almost seemed like John’s voice was sincere. He reached out and began to guide her, tugging insistently at her arm and pulling her toward the elevator. “Come. I’ll show you my favorite spot.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s back at headquarters. I know how much you like the office; you can pretend you’re working.”

“A drink at headquarters?”

John nodded and continued to guide her along with a strong but surprisingly gentle grip. “You need to unwind as much as I do.”

Adele loosed a sigh, lifted her eyes skyward as if in silent prayer. But at last, she nodded, numbly. What else was there to say? The killer had evaded her once more. The APB had been useless. Perhaps a drink was exactly what she needed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Adele could feel the exhaustion from the last couple of days taking its toll. The thought of her morning run tomorrow filled her with dread, but she hadn’t missed one in years and she wasn’t about to start in Paris. Still, as John drove his SUV wildly up the nighttime streets, darting beneath the vibrant light posts lining the sidewalks, she couldn’t help but feel the last vestiges of her energy being spent on an emotion eerily similar to unease.

“I thought we were going to get drinks,” she murmured from the passenger seat. Her cheek was pressed against the cool window, and her hair cushioned the side of her face. She stared out the front windshield, her eyes tracking the buildings ahead of them.

“We are. Back at headquarters.”

“You said that. Sounds awful. Why not just go to some bar—”

“Just hang on. I’m about to show you.”

“You sure they won’t tow my car?”

John kept his long arms out, holding the steering wheel, but still managed to evoke a shrug from a shoulder followed by a slight tilt of his head.

“Even if they did, so what. It’s a government car. They’ll have to give it back. You’re too tired to drive.”

Adele sighed again, closing her eyes, if only for a moment, like someone on a diet inhaling the scent of chocolate cake. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think you were worried about me.”

John tutted quietly and said, “I thought you were a good detective. I’m worried about my own ass. Follow the clues, American Princess.”

They pulled into the parking lot outside the DGSI headquarters, nodding at the night guards as John flashed a badge and Adele handed hers to John so he could poke it out the window.

One of the guards nodded in familiarity to Renee, a gesture which the tall man returned. Adele was reminded of her own relationship with Doug, one of the security guards on the third floor.

John parked beneath the dark overpass, the concrete lot illuminated only by rectangular incandescent lights in the enclosed space’s ceiling.