Left To Die

“I know.”

Adele could feel Robert’s eyes on her as she poured herself a bowl of cereal and then went to the fridge for the milk. A few moments passed in silence, expanding the space between the two of them, and Adele ate her first bowl of cereal in quiet.

After a moment, she lowered her spoon, tapping the metal quietly against the edge of the plastic. “I’m sorry for leaving like I did last time,” she said, softly. “I just couldn’t stay here. Not after what happened to—”

Robert shook his head, clearing his throat. “No need,” he said, hurriedly. “You don’t need to apologize. You lost your mother. I remember what that was like for me too. It’s painful. Sometimes change is warranted.”

Adele leaned against the cold counter, the ridge pressing into the small of her back. This room was colder than the study had been, but not unpleasant. “What was it you’d said back there in the office?” she said, clearing her throat and changing the subject. “Why are you only in an advisory role? They’re not trying to bully you out of the agency, are they?”

Robert waved his hand airily. “It’s the same with all these places. When I came over from homicide to work for the DGSI, they wanted me in a mentoring capacity. But now that the agency has grown, and they’ve recruited, they’re looking to replace all the old gentlemen of yore. It is what it is. Can’t cry about it.”

Adele shook her head in disgust. “You’ve closed more cases than any of them. You’re the best they have.”

Robert cleared his throat and puffed out his chest, if only a little, beneath his bathrobe. He chuckled. “You flatter me. I am quite good though, aren’t I?” He smirked and glanced away, intentionally striking a profile like a portrait of a gentleman detective from fiction.

Adele chuckled and flicked her spoon toward him, causing a couple of droplets of milk to land on his cheek.

The older man immediately clucked like a hen and hurried over to the sink, wiping his face and frantically checking his bathrobe. “This is silk,” he said, scandalized.

Adele held up her hands in mock surrender, the spoon clutched between her pointer and middle finger. “Sorry. I got carried away. I promise not to flick milk at you anymore.”

Her smile faded somewhat as Robert washed his cheek, and her own thoughts returned to the matters of the day. She could feel her phone in her pocket, pressed against her leg, silent. Far too silent. She had told John to call her the moment the tox reports came in. But it was just too broad. The technicians, even at Interpol, would have to spend days sifting through data and records, trying to locate matches of the substance in Marion’s system. They needed a way to narrow down the search. But how?

“I’m serious about staying here,” said Robert. “Only if you want to. But—”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here for,” said Adele, wincing as she did. She knew that living in this giant mansion on his own was a source of loneliness for Robert. She knew he saw her as the daughter he never had. And, unlike the Sergeant, he was one of the more affectionate people she knew—a rare quality in fathers, in her experience. Robert actually seemed to enjoy things.

And yet, it felt a great burden to be the medicine for someone’s loneliness. Though, with Robert, if there was anyone deserving of her affection, it was him. He’d done her a good turn on far more than one occasion. Still, she was in France to do a job, not to rekindle old friendships…

“Robert,” she said, softly, “remember that case, three years ago, the one you emailed me about?”

Her old mentor frowned, scratching at his jaw. “Which one?”

“The one with that museum, where they tried to spend the night in the bathroom stalls to avoid the security cameras.”

“Ah, yes. A bomb attack. I remember. Foiled.”

Adele nodded. “You said something interesting about that case. I—I wanted to ask you about it, but it was hard to communicate what I meant over an email.”

A lesser man might have said something like, “Phones work too,” or, “My door is always open.” But while Robert definitely felt the hurt that could have spurred such words—she could see it in his eyes—he didn’t say it. Instead, he just watched her, a kind look on his face. “Ah, yes. I think I remember. It was a strange thing in an art museum.”

“It wasn’t the museum so much, but what you said about the man planning to kill the curator, and plant that bomb. He was going to kill fifty people if it had worked, maybe more. A monster. But you’ve never seen those people like that, have you?”

Robert studied her a bit and rubbed his finger across the spine of the book that he still held closed.

“What do you mean?”

Adele sighed, thinking of her time back stateside. Thinking of hunting down this killer, of what had been done to Marion, what had been done to her mother. “You have a compassion for these killers, too. Don’t you?”

Robert hesitated, staring at the plastic bowl in Adele’s hand. He shifted against the cherry wood cabinet, and then winced and quickly jerked away lest he stain his expensive bathrobe. He stood, straight postured, chin high, but eyes thoughtful. “I remember,” he said, his voice fading in thought. “I believe I do. I know how to use email; there is that. Perhaps the internet isn’t so bad after all. But I remember because it was a strange thing to happen in a museum. There were some paintings there that sold for hundreds of millions before being donated. Beautiful paintings. Statues and art encapsulating human history.” He trailed off, a vacant look in his eyes as he stared through the skylight into the dark skies above.

Adele said, “I’ve never appreciated art that much, but what little appreciation I have comes from how you talk about it.”

Robert didn’t seem to hear her, and he continued, leaving where he left off as if he hadn’t even stopped. “That museum held so much beauty, but when I hear about plans to kill people, be it the victim or the killer, all I feel is sadness.” He shook his head. “It’s easy to think of people as monsters. And perhaps some of them are. But they didn’t have to be. It’s like a vandalized Mona Lisa. It’s like seeing Notre Dame burning. Human beings are far more valuable than any piece of art. We are walking, breathing, thinking, loving, hoping masterpieces who flit about on the surface of this world. Think about how large the universe is. Each of us could have had our own planet, alone, standing in solitude as the rarest of things. Think about how diamonds are treated, as if they are the most valuable thing in the world. People guard them jealously. We build safes and hire security and carry guns to protect them. Imagine if people thought of others, other humans, with the same sense of value…”

Adele tried to track what he was saying, but whenever he started to philosophize it oftentimes went over her head. It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand, but more so that she didn’t think in such terms. Sometimes he would quote famous authors or wax poetic, and while there was a beauty to it, Adele was far more of a realist. Still, she held her silence and listened, waiting.

“The thing is,” Robert said, softly, “these killers could have been so much more. And the people they kill are so valuable. It’s like seeing a book burning or a painting destroyed for the sake of destruction. It saddens me.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if that answers your question.” His eyes seemed to refocus, and he noticed her expression. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to prattle on like that.”

But Adele quickly shook her head. “No; that’s beautiful. I was just thinking about something myself.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. But I do need to get some sleep. I’ve managed to whittle it down to only three to four hours a night.” He chuckled and shrugged.

“Thank you, but I should probably—”

Before she could finish, the phone in her pocket started to vibrate. Adele frowned and whipped out her device, pressing it to her ear. “Yes?” Adele listened, her eyes widening with each passing moment. “Tonight? In the park? You’re sure it was him?”

Another pause.

“I’ll be right there.”

Adele turned and began hurrying rapidly away from the kitchen and through the study, back toward the atrium. “What is it?” Robert called after her.

“The killer,” she shouted over her shoulder, pausing only for a moment. “He attacked someone in the park, and they survived. I need to get back to the hotel. I’ll talk to you later; have a good night!”

Adele sprinted out the front of the mansion and ran breakneck down the street, hurrying back in the direction of her hotel where she’d parked the car.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Her wheels jumped the curb, jolting Adele forward in her seat and causing her shoulder to slam into the edge of the steering wheel. She cursed, wishing she’d taken the time to buckle; but without correcting the parking, Adele flung open the borrowed car’s door and sprinted between the two gendarmerie vehicles flanking the entry of the park with flashing lights.

In the distance, she could see men milling about beneath the trees, guns saddled against their shoulders. The gendarmerie were technically a military branch, but they would often serve in keeping order among the citizenry.

Elsewhere, she spotted regular police officers searching through the park, flashlights at the ready, leashed hounds with black and brown fur leading the way.

The nighttime park, normally a quiet affair, echoed with barking, shouting, and urgent cries.

Adele frantically scanned the vehicles in front of the park, and she spotted the ambulance.

She sprinted toward the vehicle and managed to glimpse a limp foot on a stretcher just as the back door slammed shut with a metallic clang!

“I need to speak with him!” she shouted, hurrying over to the ambulance. She flashed her temporary DGSI credentials and brushed past one of the gendarmerie who reached out a hand to intercept her.

“Who’s in charge here?” Adele demanded, avoiding the insistent hand. “I need to speak with the victim!”

Before she could reach the ambulance, though, two police officers inserted themselves between her and the vehicle. One of them glared at her, his eyes stony beneath his blue and black hat. The other one held out both hands in a pleading gesture, and kept repeating, “You can’t; he’s unconscious. You can’t.”

Adele thought to push past the two of them, but then reconsidered and hesitated. “Are you in charge?” she asked, directing the question toward the scowling man.