Читать книгу Left To Die - Блейк Пирс - Страница 6

Speed limits often felt like suggestions when new leads developed in a case. Still, Adele did her best not to rankle San Francisco’s finest—especially not this early in the day. The closer she got to the heart of the city, the more the traffic slowed.

She tapped her fingers against the wheel in frustration, berating the drivers around her silently in her head. As she glared out of the tinted window of her Ford sedan, Adele couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Angus was right. Maybe she was married to the job.

A three-day vacation—that’s what they’d promised her. Yet, here she was, rushing into work the moment they snapped their fingers and whistled. Just like a good little girl.

Adele clenched her teeth, pushing the thought from her mind. It wouldn’t do to dwell on such things. Especially not with what was at stake.

Who had he killed? Would they be able to find new evidence?

“I’m coming for you, you bastard,” she murmured. “I’ll get you this time.” Adele had spent years trying to shed the accent developed over a life lived overseas. But when she got upset or angry, traces of her heritage would peek through, making themselves known in the lilt of her words. “Damn it,” she muttered, slowing her speech, flattening the vowels. “Damn it,” she repeated, more precise, more careful. No emotion. No accent. “Damn it,” a final time. Hours like this, in front of a mirror, had all but chased the reminders of her past from her speech.

She nodded in satisfaction, then glanced over and realized the woman in the lane next to her had her window down and was staring at Adele, her plucked eyebrows high on her fat-injected forehead.

Sheepishly, Adele rolled up her own window. She flashed a smile and a wave, then stared resolutely ahead for the rest of the slow, snail’s pace of a drive. She made one more stop just before reaching the office—pulling through a Starbucks drive-through and grabbing a large black, no sugar.

She reached the private lot for the San Francisco field office a half hour later. The two layers of security hadn’t caused trouble once she flashed her ID. She adjusted her jacket and doubled-checked the buttons as she hurried into the east branch through the elevator from the car park.

Another row of metal detectors and men in suits with bored expressions, who smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes, eventually gave way to a long, beige hallway.

“Agent Sharp,” said one of the older men, tipping an imaginary cap in her direction from where he squatted on a three-legged stool between the metal detectors.

“Hey, Doug,” she greeted him with a wave. She smiled at the man, admiring the neat press of his collar and the shine of his shoes. “Looking sharp as always.”

He chuckled, a low, rasping sound. Doug had been a field worker about twenty years ago, but had taken some shrapnel on his last assignment which had confined him to the office. His inability to make rank, however, had nothing to do with shrapnel and everything to do with a complete disdain for office politics. Some in the office thought the elevators needed a “Beware of Doug!” sign. He rarely played nice with others, yet had taken a fondness to Adele that had nothing to do with her gender or her looks. She extended the black, sugarless coffee on top of the X-ray machine, leaving the steaming liquid next to the security officer’s scarred hand—two fingers were missing, also courtesy of the car bomb that had claimed his career.

“Just how I like it?”

“Thick and bitter with a little bit of caffeine,” Adele said, stepping through the security checkpoint and retrieving her briefcase on the other side.

“Just like you, Doug,” said one of the other men with a snorting laugh.

“Shut your mouth, slick,” retorted the guard. His expression soured, but he turned so the other man couldn’t see and winked at Adele, a twinkle in his gaze.

She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m enabling you. Caffeine is a killer—mark my words. Give it fifteen years and the FDA is bound to—”

“Yada, yada,” Doug said, and then he tipped the coffee, downing half the cup in two gulps. “Feel free to enable me all you want. Anyway, don’t let us old fogeys keep you, sport. You got the shimmer.”

She turned to leave with a farewell wave, but then paused, heel half raised. “The shimmer?”

“In the eyes. Something’s brewing, right? No—don’t tell me. Might bump my head.”

“Not enough clearance. I get you. But you’re right. Something is up. I’ll see you fellas around—Doug, Steve.” She nodded to both men in turn and then hastened up the beige hallway, her shoes tapping against the marble floor and squeaking every few steps.

She took a turn past an old-fashioned water cooler and some potted plants, then hurried along a row of tight cubicles. The familiar sound of polite murmuring as folks went about their business, answering calls, printing, faxing, clicking away at their keyboards—all of it filled her with a nauseating sense of dread. There were those in the Bureau who wanted her behind a desk. The thought alone terrified her more than any bullet or case.

She reached an opaque glass door set behind a large, rectangular pillar, which nearly completely obscured the door from view. She swallowed, her hand reaching for the handle. For a moment, she paused, listening, gathering her thoughts. Who was this latest victim? Why had he taken a month-long break from his killing? She’d done good work, but he’d slipped through her fingers before. The bosses had to realize that, right?

From the room, she could hear a quiet murmur of voices—one of them soft, even-toned, the other fuzzy and diluted through the glass.

She turned the handle, tapped a courtesy knock with the hand carrying her briefcase, and then pushed into the room.

Three figures waited for her. One sat by the window, a balding man with a long nose, down which he peered into the street below. Another man, taller than average with a strong jaw and a pen behind one ear, sat by a desk, eyeing a large fifty-two-inch TV screen over a conference table.

The other woman in the room was also sitting, but on the edge of the table, her suit pants stained just over the pocket. All three of them, including the face on the TV, reacted to Adele’s entrance.

“Sharp,” said the tall man with a nod. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sam,” she said, returning the gesture of greeting. “What did I miss? And who’s the pixels?”

“Sharp,” said the woman seated at the table, turning slightly so she faced the door. Lee Grant was one of Adele’s few friends in the department, and though she kept her tone professional, there was a weight of concern behind her glance. “How was your flight?”

Adele shrugged. “Long, boring. Sleazy lawyer in business.”

Grant rolled her eyes. “The usual then?”

Adele chuckled softly. “About the sum of it.”

“Well,” said Agent Lee, “we were waiting for you to get started. The pixels, as you put it, belong to DGSI exec Thierry Foucault. I believe you two have a history.”

Adele’s eyebrows invaded the personal space of her hairline, and she circled the table, setting her briefcase down and turning for a better look at the screen. A hawk-faced man with thick eyebrows and even thicker cheekbones glared out from the screen, his eyes flicking around the room. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said, slowly, racking her brain for any memory of the man’s face.

“The young lady—this is Sharp?” said the face on the screen, still giving the appearance of scowling, though Adele was starting to suspect this had more to do with the arrangement of his features than of his current mood.

Adele tilted her head in a nod.

“I was still at the embassy when you worked for DGSI.” The speakers crackled for a moment, and Adele leaned in, straining to hear. The sound cleared a moment later as Foucault continued. “Four years? Five? A pity you left. France can always use talent like yours.”

Adele had no doubt her file sat in front of the executive, but she kept her smile polite. “It was four. I learned a lot in my position in Paris. I doubt the FBI would have recruited me without the experience.”

“This is the way of it, no?” said Foucault, smirking through the screen. “France creates the things most valued by America, hmm. It is no matter… I—I did wonder,” he said, slowly, his eyes flicking down for a moment, confirming Adele’s suspicion about the file. “Why was it you left, eh? Not the weather, I hope.”

Lee glanced toward Adele, then quickly interjected, “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss it,” she said. “We ought to focus on the task at hand.”

But the man on the screen was already wagging his finger. “No, no. It is important DGSI knows who it is we work with. France is no jilted lover—it is important we know who we take back, hmm?”

Adele tried to conceal her frown. What did he mean take back? Agent Lee tried to interject again, but Adele cut her boss off.

“It’s really quite simple,” said Adele, hiding her frown behind pressed lips and an impassive stare. “I tracked a killer in France, and he didn’t turn out to be who I thought he was. I felt like it was time for a change.” Bleeding. Bleeding. Always bleeding. Adele shivered as her dream flashed through her mind, but she stowed the thought with a swallow and a proud tilt of her chin. She shrugged toward the screen, feeling her suit jacket slide across her shoulders.

Of course, she wasn’t mentioning the months of PTSD after tracking the killer and discovering he wasn’t the culprit behind her mother’s torturous murder. Nor did she feel it appropriate to mention the American forensic psychologist whom she’d traveled to the States with, hoping to set down roots. Chances were, Foucault had all of it in his little file, but as far as she was concerned, it was nobody’s business but hers.

“Does that settle it then?” said Agent Lee, glaring at the screen. She pushed off of the conference table and strode past the man with the hooked nose still standing quietly by the window.

“There is nothing to be settled,” said the screen.

“Not yet, no,” Grant replied, still frowning. “But it might be in everyone’s best interests to let the bygones pass and discuss the events of last night.”

Adele felt a flash of gratitude for her superior. Lee Grant wasn’t just named after two generals on opposing sides in the American Civil War, but she commanded an authority that any agent would willingly follow into battle. Lee’s eyes often narrowed in such a way that they became little more than stormy slits in her naturally tan complexion. The child of an American and a Cuban immigrant, Lee was one of the few people in the office who understood Adele’s roots, especially given the less-than-six-year age gap between them.

“Well,” said Foucault, his voice echoing slightly through the TV speakers. “Do we wait for more, or may we begin?”

Grant glanced at the fellow by the window, who had yet to breach his silence. “I don’t see any point in prolonging any further.”

“Very sorry, very sorry, Executive Foucault,” said the man with the hooked nose at last. He turned away from the glass and leaned his hands against the conference table, staring at the large screen. “Special Agent Sharp has been working this case stateside as Agent Lee mentioned before—we thought it best she was here.”

Adele didn’t recognize this man, but he had the suit and the attitude of a diplomat, or some sort of low-level supervisor who only came out of the woodwork when agencies needed to play nice.

“As for formal introductions: this is SAC Lee Grant,” said the suit, indicating Adele’s boss. “She’s overseeing the investigation. You obviously know Agent Sharp. And Sam Green works for tech.” The tall man with the pen tucked behind his ear who was seated behind everyone gave a polite little wave, but remained silent.

Foucault nodded politely at each in turn. Then he said, “A pity we could not meet in better circumstances. I have more information since last we spoke. The missing girl is named Marion Lucas. Twenty-four years of age. We are still waiting on some tests, but it is with relative certainty that I can inform you the body we found yesterday matches the pictures provided by Marion’s mother.”

“You mentioned on the call something about shallow cuts,” said Agent Lee, trailing off and allowing the silence to fill the space between her and the TV.

For the first time, Foucault’s lips formed a thin, grim line. “I’ll have someone in the office send the report along.” He gave the smallest shake of his head, causing a strand of slicked hair to fall over his eyes, which he brushed back with one hand, sighing with the motion. “I’ve got to warn you. It isn’t pretty.”

Adele cleared her throat. “You’re sure she was twenty-four?”

Everyone turned toward Adele as if surprised she would interject. An unspoken rhythm governed conversations like these, where a sort of hierarchy dictated the pace of the conversation and permission to speak. But the last thing on Adele’s mind right now was office etiquette.

“Yes,” Foucault replied. “Verified only hours ago.”

Adele shook her head, adjusting her sleeves as she often did when upset or angry. “The killer—did anyone see him?”

“Like I said, we’ll send the report over. It’s important we all—”

“Did you find the body?”

Foucault frowned at Adele. “Yes. He left it where he killed her. Beneath an underpass near the Pont d’Arcole.”

Agent Lee raised a well-manicured eyebrow, her hand absentmindedly passing over the stain on her pocket. Often, Lee would spend full days at the office. She was a notorious insomniac who spent most of her time either working or thinking about work. She cleared her throat now, shooting a questioning glance toward her subordinate.

“A bridge,” Adele explained. “In Paris. Cause of death?” This question she lobbed back toward the screen.

“Exsanguination.” The same grim line creased Foucault’s mouth. “Small cuts, up and down the body. Missing her shoes and shirt. We believe he took those with him. Cuts between the webbing of her toes, along her arms, her cheeks, her breasts. It will all be included in the report.”

Adele could hear her own breathing. The air in the office felt very cold all of a sudden and bumps stood up along her skin. “He let her bleed out.” She turned sharply toward Agent Lee. “The same MO as the Benjamin Killer.”

“The body was found by a couple of tourists,” Foucault added.

Adele gritted her teeth, shaking her head wildly. “I don’t get it. Why’s he in France all of a sudden?”

“It’s been a month,” Agent Lee replied. “Maybe you were getting close.”

“But I wasn’t!” Adele looked at the screen and shook her head. “We don’t have a clue who it is.”

Grant stood framed against the window, standing next to the hook-nosed suit, glancing between Adele and Foucault. Grant said, “Maybe you got closer than you think. Maybe he got spooked some other way. Whatever the case, he could have fled the States for Paris.”

“But to kill in another country? So soon after leaving? Most murderers need time to acclimate. He wouldn’t be comfortable in his surroundings yet. Why strike so soon?”

Lee Grant tapped her teeth with her fingers. The still unnamed suit by the window glanced between the women, keeping quiet like a spectator at a tennis match.

“It isn’t always hard to acclimate,” said Grant. “Vacationers can be ruthless. Remember the incident at the resort down in Tijuana?”

Adele wrinkled her nose. “We don’t know it’s a vacationer, though. What if… What if he’s from Paris?” she said, slowly, savoring the thought. “What if he was in the US on vacation?”

Grant pursed her lips, pressing her back against the tall window. “Interesting thought. Maybe. Either way, traveling to Paris gave him the impetus he needed to strike again.”

“If that’s his mindset, then he’ll only get worse,” said Adele.

Foucault had been sitting quietly, listening for the last couple of minutes. But at this last comment, he broke his peace. “Exactly. And this is the topic of the day, Agent Sharp.”

This time, it was Adele’s turn to tilt an eyebrow in the direction of her supervisor. Agent Lee sighed. “I wanted to tell you in person. I know you had three days off—I know what the last month must have been like. I’m sure it’s been hard on you and Angus.” Her lips curved in a sympathetic way. “But you know everything about this bastard, Adele. He’s going to kill again. You know it, and so do I.”

“What are you asking?”

“They need you in Paris,” said Grant. “I’ve already discussed it with the department supervisors.”

Adele was already shaking her head though, and turned her back on the screen, pacing the room before rounding on Foucault once more. Except now, she was watching Lee, framing her friend against the backdrop of the glowing screen.

“No one knows this guy better than you, Adele,” said Grant. “The DGSI wants you on the ground. You have ties to both agencies, and with your dual citizenship—”

“Triple,” Adele said, softly.

“Come again?”

“Triple citizenship. I’m German, too.”

Grant nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. Triple citizenship. You’re uniquely positioned, Adele.”

“Are you telling me?”

Agent Lee immediately shook her head, causing her chestnut hair, which she always wore in a simple ponytail, to swish back and forth. “No. It’s your call. But if you agree, you’ll have to go now. There’s no time to wait. You’ll have to take your vacation some other time.”

As static crackled the room, coming from the direction of the TV, Foucault’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Christ, Sam,” snapped Adele. “We’re the goddamn FBI. Think we could have a clean call?”

The tall tech—who’d remained seated throughout all of this, quiet and watching—was already hurrying over, fiddling with buttons on the TV.

After a moment, the static faded. Foucault tested the mic and then, peering across the room, his eyes slightly off-center—though Adele suspected on his screen, he was staring straight at her—he said, “Well, Agent Sharp? France will have you back. Will you come to Paris?”

“No,” said Adele. Immediately, she felt a jolt of worry. The words had come unbidden to her lips, summoned from deep within her, the residue of past decisions bubbling to the surface.

She couldn’t go to France. Not now. Not so soon after…

She glanced around the room, realizing all eyes were on her. The lights above felt bright all of a sudden, her own breathing sounded loud to her ears. She reached up one hand, rubbing at an elbow but refusing to stare at the ground, though everything in her wanted to avert her gaze.

Christ, Sharp, you’d really throw away a career just to avoid… Avoid what, exactly? Lee Grant said nothing, studying her subordinate with a compassionate expression. Foucault and the diplomat were frowning, but Adele glanced away, locking eyes with Lee.

Of everyone in the room, Agent Lee had her back. But still, refusing a request like this from the higher-ups didn’t come without consequences.

Adele set her jaw and straightened her posture. “I—I can’t go back. Not yet…” Why not, Cara? Come home.

Adele shivered and shook her head even more adamantly. “No. I just can’t…I…” She trailed off, images from her dreams flashing through her mind. Memories of a childhood, of a life once lived, played like shadow puppets across her mind. She thought of Doug in security. Perhaps that was to be her fate: relegated to a metal detector with her own sign, Beware of Sharp: refuses to play nice.

Career was one thing… But this… This was too close to home. She inhaled slowly, trying to clear her mind. It didn’t have to be like last time, did it? Her mother’s case was cold. She wouldn’t absorb herself in it. Not again. This was about the Benjamin Killer. This was about this girl, Marion, and whoever the next victim would be.

Could she really say no? What was she staying for anyway? It wasn’t like Angus had stayed. Why should she?

“Think about it,” said Foucault, studying her. “I’ll send the case file and the doctor’s report. Perhaps you’ll have insight we missed, hmm?”

Adele nodded. She could read a report. Where was the harm in that? Just one lousy report.

“Fine,” said Adele. “Sam, can you forward it to me?”

One small, measly little case file. Perhaps there’d be a clue, after all. Adele puffed her cheeks, then blew softly, exhaling in an effort to steady her nerves.

Why was he killing based on age alone? What did it all mean? Bleeding, bleeding, ever bleeding…

Another crime scene, another killer, another murder. All of it flashed through Adele’s mind, leaving cold prickles across her skin as she stared resolutely out the tall glass windows. When would the Benjamin Killer stop? It was like a countdown—a challenge.

He wouldn’t stop on his own. It was the wrong question. The real question echoed, unvoiced in Adele’s brain: when would someone catch him?

She could feel the eyes in the room staring at her, watching, accusing, waiting…