Читать книгу Left To Run - Блейк Пирс - Страница 8

Removed from the center of Paris, in the northwestern suburbs of the Ile-de-France region of the capital, Adele kept her eyes forward as the car pulled up to the fourth floor of the DGSI parking structure. The afternoon drive had proceeded in complete silence; now, Agent Paige brusquely exited the vehicle, calling something over her shoulder about meeting with Foucault. She left Adele alone to meander her way through security to her old mentor’s office.

Stepping into Robert’s office was a relief.

Adele could feel her shoulders sagging as if a weight were lifted as she stepped through the door with a quiet knock on the frame. The day’s travel weighed heavy, but her spirits lifted as she scanned the familiar room. The walls still carried the same framed pictures of old race cars and beneath them shelves of dusty books with cracked leather covers. Two desks now sat in the room. The second desk had been placed by the window with an upright leather swivel chair behind it. On the desk a small, golden nameplate read, Adele Sharp.

Hearing a man clear his throat, she redirected her attention to the first desk and its occupant.

Robert Henry was already standing. He often stood when a woman entered the room. The short man was straight-backed with a long, curling mustache oiled and dyed black. He wore a fine-fitting suit, which Adele guessed had been tailored specifically for him. Robert came from wealth; he didn’t need the job at the DGSI, but he enjoyed it. Perhaps this was the reason he had one of the best records at the department. Robert had once played soccer for a semi-professional team in Italy, but had returned to France when he’d been recruited by the French government long before DGSI existed.

The small French man examined Adele for a moment, but his eyes twinkled, betraying the smile which hid behind his lips.

“Hello,” said Adele, unable to resist a smile of her own.

Robert Henry smirked now, flashing a row of pearly whites missing two teeth. Adele had heard many stories to how he’d lost the teeth, each of them more far-fetched than the other.

They held eye contact across the room, watching each other for a moment.

Then Adele said, “You use too many emojis.” Some of her bad temper from earlier began to fade in the face of her old mentor and friend.

Robert sniffed. “I consider it an art form.”

“Mhmm,” said Adele. “Weren’t you the one who told me the advent of cartoons was the death of culture?”

Robert set his shoulders and with a prim wiggle of his chin replied, “A genteel man knows how to admit when he’s wrong.”

Adele’s smirk turned to a good-natured grin. Robert Henry had been like a father to her for many years. Her own father wasn’t a fan of affection, but Robert was the sort who went out of his way to make sure Adele felt welcomed and comforted. Robert owned a mansion, but he lived in it alone, and often welcomed the opportunity to have guests. Adele would be staying at his house for her time in France.

“Took you a while,” said Robert, glancing at his watch. The glistening silver timepiece looked like the sort of item that might’ve belonged on a banker’s wrist. Robert adjusted his cuff links and nestled the watch beneath the edge of his perfectly pressed sleeve.

Adele leaned her suitcase against the doorframe, placing her laptop bag on the floor. “Whoever scheduled my flight gave me a three-hour layover in London,” she said. “Then it took some time getting the car—we had to walk to the other side of the airport. Someone more petty might think she did it on purpose just to frustrate me.”

Robert frowned. “She? Who did Foucault pair you with?”

Instead of answering, Adele strode across the room and extended her hands, embracing the smaller man. She wasn’t particularly tall, but Robert was still three inches shorter. She hugged her old mentor, and felt a warmth through her chest. He was smaller than she remembered, though. Almost… frail. Though Robert dyed his hair and his mustache, Adele couldn’t shake the notion he was aging. She separated from her old friend and smiled again. “We’ll be working out of your office, I hear,” she said.

Robert patted her on the shoulder in a comforting way. “Yes—that’s yours.” He nodded to the desk with the name plate.

“You put it by the window. I appreciate that.”

“I remember how you liked the view last time you were here,” said Robert with a shrug. He lowered his hand and moved back to his own desk chair, emitting a quiet groan as he lowered himself, settling with a soft sigh.

“You all right?” asked Adele.

Robert nodded, waving away any further questions with a dismissive gesture. “Yes, of course. The old bones just don’t move like they used to. I’m afraid I won’t be in the field with you.”

Adele gave a noncommittal nod. “Figured you wouldn’t be. We just need someone to keep track of things back here, anyhow.”

Robert was no longer smiling. His gaze seemed heavy all of a sudden.

“You’re not sick, are you?” Adele blurted out. She wasn’t sure where the question came from, but it ushered forth before she could stop it.

Robert smiled and shook his head. “No, not that I’m aware of. But,” he tapped his fingers against his desk, and then glanced at the computer screen across from him, “I’m learning how to use it better. Email is hard. But I figured, well, for your sake…” He trailed off, glancing at her.

Adele felt a flush of gratitude. She knew how much Robert despised technology. Despite the number of emojis he used in his texting, he’d been stubborn on the advent of computers. Still, she had demanded Interpol allow Robert to be a part of her team. That was the deal she’d made with Ms. Jayne when hashing out the contract.

At the time, she’d heard whispers and rumors that the DGSI was trying to edge Robert out of his position—a mandatory retirement. She felt a flash of frustration. The thought of anyone taking Robert’s job was unconscionable. They’d built DGSI’s homicide division, in part, with his efforts. He had made a name at other agencies long before the DGSI had even formed, which had attracted many new recruits. Adele respected most of the agents who worked for France’s intelligence agencies, but there were none she respected more than Robert. He was clever in an intuitive sort of way, and he was rarely wrong. The last case in Paris, he’d insisted the killer had natural red hair, and he’d noted the vanity of it. She hadn’t been sure, but in the end, it had proven an accurate deduction.

Still, she remembered her interactions with Executive Foucault. The frown on his face when she requested Robert’s help. The agency was trying to whittle back personnel. Now, though, with his help on the Interpol attaché, she’d tied Foucault’s hands.

“I need you,” she said, simply. “You’re the best at what you do.”

Robert shook his head, sighing as he did. “I don’t know if that’s true, dear,” he said, his voice creaking all of a sudden.

“It is. Don’t worry about the computers; you’ll figure it out. I’m sure. We just need someone to touch base with, to coordinate from back here. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

Robert nodded again, his expression still glum. “I’m old, Adele. I know I might not look it.” He ran his hand through his clearly dyed hair. “But this agency, this place, I think it’s for the younger folk now.”

Adele’s brow dipped. “Why are you saying these things?”

Robert waved a hand. “It’s not important. I’m grateful. Likely, if you hadn’t asked for me, I would’ve been out of the agency within the week.”

Now Adele’s frown turned to a scowl. “You heard that? Did someone say they were trying to get rid of you?”

Robert just shook his head. “I am an investigator. I’m not meant to be stuck behind a desk. Sometimes you just know these things.”

“You’re thinking too much. You’re invaluable—trust me. And besides, if you go, then I go.”

Robert smiled at this comment and tapped his fingers together. “Fair enough. Computers aren’t my forte, but I’ll try my best. But you still haven’t said, who did the executive pair you with? John?” His eyebrows flicked up ever so slightly. A small glimmer of a smile edged the corner of his lips, but Adele shook her head, quieting his expression.

“Agent Paige,” she said with the gravity of a judge’s gavel.

Robert stared at her.

She shrugged.

He continued to stare.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she said.

“Sophie Paige?”

Adele glanced back out the door, checking that the hall was clear, then nodded. “Looks like. She was about as happy as I was.”

“Doesn’t Foucault know your history?” said Robert, his voice rising.

“It’s fine,” Adele replied in a hushing voice. “I don’t know what the executive does or doesn’t know. But it is what it is.”

“And what about John?” Robert demanded.

Adele waved a hand airily, as if the thought hadn’t really crossed her mind. “You mean Agent Renee? Well, I think he’s working another case. That’s what Paige said.”

Robert’s manicured eyebrows hung low over his eyes like dark clouds threatening a storm. “Paige,” he said with a grunt. “Now I know why Foucault didn’t tell me.”

Adele hesitated. There was something in his tone she couldn’t quite place. “What do you mean?”

Robert was still frowning at his fingers, though, and Adele had to repeat the question. His eyes darted up at last. “Oh, I mean, nothing, or—except, he knows how I feel about you. And Paige hasn’t exactly been the warmest towards you since the incident.”

Adele paused, studying her old mentor. She knew Robert would take her side. But there’d been something more to his tone. Something behind his frown that she didn’t quite understand. “Have you had words with Paige since I left?” she asked, slowly.

“Words? No.” He trailed off as if preparing to add more, but then he seemed to decide against it and gave a quick shake of his head, latching his fingers together and folding his thumbs on top of each other. “No, nothing like that. I’m sure both of you can be professional though, yes?”

Adele shrugged. “I can if she can.”

“Magnifique,” he said. “I hope you slept on the plane, though. Foucault wanted to meet the moment you landed.”

Adele nodded, her lips pressed firmly together. “Agent Paige is already in his office,” she said. “We’re to start right away?”

Her old mentor nodded as he pushed out of his chair and moved with stiff motions around the edge of his desk. “Leave your suitcase here,” he said. “I’ll send someone to take it to my home. Come now.”

Robert took her by the arm, looping her hand through the crook of his elbow, and escorted her to the elevator. Robert was old-fashioned, and there were some who thought of him as pompous. But to Adele, his behavior only summoned a fond amusement.

They waited for the quiet ding of the elevator and stepped into the compartment. For the briefest moment, Adele’s finger hovered over the button for the second floor—John’s office would be there. Was he in? No—now wasn’t the time. There wasn’t a gap of three weeks between kills like the last time. Three days. That’s all that had passed between the killings. A rapid, startling pace. A pace that might only get worse.

Adele pressed the button for the top floor and, with Robert next to her still holding her elbow, she waited as the elevator carried them up and toward the office of the executive.

***

Paige sat by the window, a familiar comfort in the way she reclined in the office chair. Executive Foucault himself peered out from beneath a hawk-like brow, gnawing on one corner of his lip and shaking his head.

Adele and Robert stood, waiting, watching. Foucault’s eyes fixed on his computer screen and his expression only darkened. “This is it?” he asked, glancing up. “Nothing new?” His eyes darted to Agent Paige, whose own gaze bounced to Adele as if redirecting the executive’s ire.

Adele hesitated. Sunlight streamed through the open window of the executive’s large office—the gusting air ushered out some of the scent of cigarette smoke, but the odor still clung to the walls.

“I just arrived,” Adele said, hesitantly, unsure if she was being blamed for something. “I was planning to settle at Robert’s…” She trailed off at the look on Foucault’s face and then cleared her throat. “Honestly, I slept on the plane. We can start this afternoon. I’d like to see the crime scene of the second victim.”

Foucault nodded, waving a hand. “Yes,” he said, his thick eyebrows narrowed over his dark eyes. “That would be best. We don’t have time to wait on this one, hmm? No.” He nodded toward Paige. “You two have worked together before, yes?”

Paige continued to sit in silence by the window. She nodded once. Adele also nodded.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Robert intervened, clearing his throat. “A strange one, this,” he said, quietly.

Adele kept her eyes fixed on Foucault, but nodded in agreement.

Robert grunted as the attention in the room shifted from Adele to him. “The victims must have known the killer,” he said. “A friend? Maybe a family member?”

Adele turned her face slightly, rolling her head against her shoulders. “Maybe. Or maybe the killer snuck up on them. A landlord? With a key?”

Robert hesitated for a moment and silence reigned once more. At last, he said, “What do you make of the missing kidney?”

“You’ve been over the files?”

“Second report isn’t in yet.” Robert paused, inclining an eyebrow toward Foucault in question.

The executive nodded. “They’re working on it, but it’s taking some time. Full report should be in soon.”

Robert nodded and this time addressed Foucault, moving across the room to peer through the open window into the street below. A small, pink-painted cafe occupied the street across from the DGSI.

“I did read the first report,” he said. “Only the kidney missing. Why do you think that is?”

Paige and Foucault both stayed silent. But Adele glanced across the room toward her mentor, watching the way the afternoon sunlight illuminated the side of his face and cast shadows against the carpeted floor.

“Trophy collecting?” she said.

“Perhaps,” said Robert. “Makes sense.”

“What else?”

Robert shrugged and his gaze snapped to Foucault behind his desk.

The executive’s frown deepened. “That’s what you’re paid to find out,” he said. His eyes darted between the three agents and he reached out, patting the side of his computer. “We need more information, and you don’t have much time to provide it.”

Adele noted the quick way in which we became you. She paused, then said, quietly, “I’ve been thinking about the victims. Both of them expats, yes? Growing up, I had some experience with that community—not much, as my mother was local. But some American friends at school whose parents relocated for work.” She paused. “They’re a vulnerable community. Isolated a lot of times—barriers in language and culture. Perhaps the killer is using this to get close to them. Exploiting loneliness or a pressure to please the host country.”

Foucault took this with a nod and shrug. “Explore all possibilities,” he said. “Just,” he paused, “don’t make it personal.” He turned from Adele. “Agent Henry, you’ll be staying here, I presume?” Foucault’s gaze flicked to the smaller man.

Robert rubbed his mustache. “I’ll leave the field work to the youngsters, I think.”

Foucault returned his attention to Adele. “Second crime scene?” he said. “It’s still under our supervision.”

“I’m ready to start if she isn’t too tired,” Paige said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the room. The comment seemed innocent enough, but something about it raised Adele’s hackles.

Now that the attention was once again on her, Adele inhaled softly.

Americans in France, expats—she felt a kinship with them; a camaraderie. Adele knew what it was to move from country to country, to reestablish roots, to build a life once more.

But these lives had been built only to end with bloodstains on the floor of their apartments. No physical evidence. No sign of a struggle. No sign of breaking or entering.

Now wasn’t the time for rest.

“I’m ready when you are,” said Adele, already turning toward the door.