Left To Die

Adele’s foot tapped a tattoo into the floor outside Executive Foucault’s office. Her thumbs scraped back and forth on the rigid edge of the wooden armrests in the chair facing the DGSI executive’s glass door. Through the opaque glass, lined with long seams of partitions, Adele could just barely make out the shape of the executive leaning against his desk.

Beyond that, she couldn’t see anything. But she knew he was on the phone. Most of the DGSI had been on the phone for the last two hours, after the expedited lab results had come in.

John reclined next to her, the chair serving far too small a fixture for his lanky frame. His long legs extended across the hall, his toes jutting up against the freshly painted wall, and his back hunched uncomfortably in the chair.

“How did you know?” he said. Despite his uncomfortable position, he was now looking at her, casting a sidelong glance down his long Roman nose. He had worn a turtleneck today, which disguised the burn mark across his neck. Adele hadn’t seen him wear anything to disguise the scars before, and vaguely, she wondered what had changed.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she said.

John frowned, confused, and then he turned back to face the glass door. “Would you prefer American Queen?”

“I prefer Adele. Or Agent Sharp. Or, if you’d really like, you could call me ma’am.”

John snorted.

“But I suppose I can let this one pass,” Adele continued. “You were right about your friend at Interpol. They are quick.”

John nodded, shifting uncomfortably again and causing the chair to creak precariously beneath him. “You really do have an ear for accents. A German killer in America and France.” John reached across the small coffee table next to him and pulled the manila folder they’d been copied in on, flipping it open to examine the contents once more. Adele had memorized the thing already when it had first arrived two hours ago—they’d gone directly to Executive Foucault with the results.

In the opposite room, Adele could still hear the chatter of urgent voices in the office.

Every train station, bus stop, airport, and border would be watched for red-haired German citizens trying to flee the country.

But it was too late.

She knew it in her bones. He had been one step ahead the entire time. Last time, in the US, when she’d gotten close, he had fled the next day.

After the debacle the previous night, with his victim escaping, surviving, there was no way he would have stayed in the country. He’d had ample time to get out. He wouldn’t have waited.

Too late. Always just a moment too late…

Adele shook her head firmly. “What’s taking them so long?”

John shrugged, scanning the folder once more. “You know how the BKA is,” he said. “Germans are official folk. Not like your FBI. Not like DGSI either. They have more red tape than both our agencies combined. Especially with Interpol presiding.”

Adele shook her head. “You’d think with Interpol’s help we could get something done.”

John shrugged. “It’s always been difficult tracking criminals across borders.” He sighed, puffing out his chest. “I doubt that’ll change now.”

Adele clenched her teeth. “But he’s killed in the US and France. For all we know he’s killed in Germany too. Everyone should want him caught.”

John shoved the manila folder beneath her nose, flapping it up and down and causing the sides to wiggle like butterfly wings. “He’s not identified. All we know is that the substance in the victim’s veins is from Lion Pharmaceutical in Hamburg.”

“Yes,” said Adele, keeping her tone patient. “But it was an unreleased substance. It didn’t meet approval standards.” Adele kept her gaze fixed on Foucault’s door. “Which means the only people with access to it would be working for the pharmaceutical company. That narrows down our suspects by a lot. How many of them do you think travel frequently to the US and France? How many of them do you think have red hair?”

“Could be a wig,” said John. “Think of that?”

Adele hesitated. She had thought of that. But Robert had seemed so confident in his deduction that the man wouldn’t have displayed red hair if it hadn’t naturally been his. A man of vanity, clinging onto his youth. That had been Robert’s prescription. And her old mentor was rarely wrong. Still, maybe he had lost a step. Time passed; he had aged. Maybe it was a wig.

Secretly, Adele hoped it wasn’t. Not only would red hair make it easier to track the killer down, but it would mean that Robert was right. That he was still one of the best investigators in France.

“One step at a time,” said John. “I don’t want to go to Germany anyway. What do the Germans have that we don’t in France?”

Adele rolled her eyes. This time she did look over at her tall, hunched partner. “We’re not going on a vacation. We need to find a killer; is that a good enough reason to take a sabbatical from your beloved Paris?”

John scratched his jaw, and shrugged with one shoulder. “Not really.”

Adele would’ve continued harassing her teammate in part good humor and part exasperation, but the glass door to Foucault’s office opened, nearly whacking John’s extended legs.

Adele’s partner jerked his feet back, and the door scraped across the thin carpet, revealing an older woman with pursed lips and intelligent eyes.

“The Interpol correspondent,” John whispered to Adele.

“I know; I was here before you.”

This time John rolled his eyes.

Behind the correspondent from Interpol, the executive was on the phone, the receiver pressed to his ear. He yammered away in accented English, but then his eyes flicked toward the open door, and he turned, shielding his mouth and lowering his voice.

The door shut, and the Interpol correspondent stepped over John’s extended legs.

John made no move to pull back a second time, allowing the neatly dressed older woman to primly step over him one leg at a time.

Adele jammed her elbow into her partner’s shoulder, but received only a grunt for her efforts. Renee kept his legs out, smirking after the lady from Interpol.

This wasn’t John’s lab friend. Rather, the woman had been sent to help coordinate between the BKA and the DGSI, serving essentially as moderator, a babysitter between the intelligence agencies of France and Germany.

“Well?” Adele called after the woman as she continued down the hall. The correspondent paused and glanced back.

“Do we have permission to enter Germany?” Adele called again, this time pushing off her chair and standing up. She moved after the agent and kicked John’s leg until he pulled it out of the way.

The Interpol agent glanced from Adele to John’s slouched form and pursed her lips again. Her silver curls were pressed tight to her head by the stems of thick glasses. She was a larger woman, but with a pleasant face. Her intelligent eyes twinkled behind her glasses, and she said, in a careful, precise tone, “I think it is best if you speak with the executive. He’ll fill you in on the details.”

Agent Renee harrumphed and slid lower in his seat, like a child outside the principal’s office.

Adele, though, took another few steps up the hall, her expression pleading. “We can’t wait,” she said. “Each moment that passes is another moment where he could escape. He could try to change his identity. He could leave Germany. We may not be able to find him if we don’t hurry.” Adele realized her voice was rising, and so she took a quick breath, steadying herself before finishing, in an even tone, “For now, he doesn’t know we found the source of his paralytic.”

The Interpol correspondent raised a calming hand. “I’m not in charge of DGSI employees. Like I said, it’s best to speak with the executive. He should be off the phone soon. Good day.”

The correspondent nodded and then turned, hurrying back up the hall and turning a corner out of sight.

Adele stared after the woman, shaking her head side to side. “Well, that was cryptic as hell. Do you think Germany’s going to play nice?” She glanced over at John.

Agent Renee had his eyes closed, his head tilted back against the wall, and he looked like he was trying to sleep.

She growled and resisted the urge to kick him again. Instead, Adele stomped back to her seat and flopped into the chair. It also creaked as John’s had under the sudden jolt of her weight. Vaguely, Adele wondered if perhaps she should stop eating so much cereal. She reached out and patted her stomach, but determined if she was still in healthy enough shape to chase men down stairwells and tackle them, then she was allowed the occasional bowl of Chocapic.

“Could you stop that? It’s annoying.”