by Blake Pierce
Her father hadn’t been one to mince words. But they were beginning to see eye to eye more and more. What they saw neither much agreed with, but at the very least, they were beginning to understand how to relate. Or so she hoped.
Then again, the Sergeant had withheld evidence in her mother’s case, and Adele was still having a hard time looking at him the same way she had before. Still, he had loved Elise once upon a time and despite how things had ended between them, Adele knew he’d taken her murder very poorly. He deserved to know.
“He saw the killer? And did he catch the killer?” Still no expression.
“He tried, but failed to snag the bastard.”
“Adele,” her father said, sharply. “Language.”
She rolled her eyes. Some things never changed. “Fine. He failed to catch the killer. John had to save a victim.” She said this part with pursed lips, her voice tight. She had already been over it with Renee, and didn’t feel like getting into it with her father as well.
For his part, the Sergeant’s calm façade was cracking a bit. His eyebrows bunched lower, but even more so, a quiet storm brewed in his gaze. They were darker than she remembered, and his pupils almost seemed dilated. He was breathing in shallow puffs, and she noticed one of his hands had clutched the edge of his shirt, pulling on the white fabric.
“He saw his face, briefly, and got a look at his physique. He’s going to try to work with a composite artist,” Adele said, speaking as matter-of-factly as she could muster. Inwardly, her own stomach twisted and turned. She remembered her conversation with Renee, the flash of anger. Then the subsequent regret at how poorly she’d treated him. Clouding it all, though, had been the cold certainty: the killer was still out there, laughing in the dark. She cleared her throat, closing her eyes to steady herself for a moment, then continued, “It doesn’t look promising. And either way, I think the killer was spooked. Whatever he was up to, ducking out of cover, he’s going to stay in hiding for a lot longer this time.”
The Sergeant crossed his arms and growled, “Why did he let him get away?”
“Like I said, he had to choose between saving a victim and catching the killer.”
A sudden jolt of rage displayed across the Sergeant’s face, twisting his expression and causing a growling, barking sound to explode from his lips as he snarled, “Catching the killer would save lives.”
Adele shrugged sympathetically. “I know.”
Her father seemed to lose some steam now, and he collapsed in the couch facing the window, leaning back, his walrus mustache facing the ceiling fan.
“What do you mean you think he’s gone?”
“I mean, John saw him. Not well, and in the dark, but the bast—er, killer would be stupid to try anything else.”
“If you caught him once, you can do it again, can’t you?”
Adele winced and shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s going to be that easy. Look how long we’ve been searching so far, and only now did we stumble upon anything at all.”
Her father exhaled through his nose. “Well, he will have to remember then, won’t he. Whatever he saw. Your friend—this John. He has to remember.”
“It was dark. He only caught a glimpse. I don’t know what’s going to come of it.”
The Sergeant shook his head, frowning. “Anything else I should know?”
Adele sighed. “Nothing I can think of. Things got a little bit quiet after that. It was only a week or so ago. I had to see if I could follow up on any leads, but nothing came of it.” Adele paused, then said, “One of the cafeteria workers on the first floor at DGSI vanished about a week and a half ago. But her family says it’s not uncommon for her to go off traveling with some out of town boyfriend for the fun of it. We’re looking into it, but other than that, things have been calm.”
“A cafeteria worker vanished? Not retaliation for seeing his face, is it?”
“No body,” Adele said, wincing. “Like I said, they’re keeping an eye out.”
“Dammit,” said the Sergeant. He sat in silence for a moment, his head still reclined, still pressed into the couch.
Through the window, Adele watched as traffic moved through the streets of Paris. She breathed slowly through her nose, steadying her nerves by focusing on the exhalation.
She wasn’t sure what else to do. “I have a spare pillow and some blankets in the cupboard in the hall. You’re welcome to it. Stay as long as you like,” she said, not because she really meant it—but because she knew her father, like her, would want to spend as little time as possible in the same cramped space as they could manage.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her father. It was that she didn’t know how to express it. And either he suffered the same difficulty, or had never learned how to kindle affection in the first place.
Either way, now that she’d said it, she wasn’t sure what to add. “I have some cereal in the cupboards,” she continued, hesitantly. “And I also—”
Before she could finish, her phone began to ring, chirping from her pocket with quick, punctuated sounds like a twittering bird.
“Sorry,” she said with a wince. Quickly, she answered, turning a shoulder to her father’s seated form. “Yeah?”
The voice on the other end replied, “Adele…” It was John, and Adele went suddenly stiff. She hadn’t left things with her old partner in a particularly healthy place.
“Yeah?” she said; the word had worked the first time, and she saw no reason to change it.
“Foucault wants us both in. A new case.”
Adele swallowed, trying to compose herself. For a moment, she had hoped John was calling for personal reasons.
“All right,” she said, “when?”
“Right now. Urgent.”
“I’m with—with my dad.”
“Germany?”
“No, he’s here. He just got in.”
“You want me to tell the Executive—?”
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “I’m on my way.”
She hung up and glanced at her father, flinching. If he’d been listening at all, he didn’t show it. His head was still tilted, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his arms splayed out across the top of the couch, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath the thin fabric of his white T-shirt.
“Work,” she said, hesitantly.
At first, he didn’t seem to be aware he was being addressed.
“Dad, I’ve gotta go in to work.”
He looked over now, his eyes cloudy, some of the darkness she’d seen before having faded, as if to be replaced by a sudden stupor. He murmured something softly, then shook his head.
“I’ll try to get back as soon as possible,” she said, wincing. “Feel free to order food or raid the fridge. Whatever you want.”
Her father looked at her for a moment, his eyes sad in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. The normally rigid and rough man before her looked raw, exposed, as if a veneer had suddenly been stripped away. She saw a naked look of grief in his eyes, for a moment, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay near it.
At last though, he shook his head and sighed. “You know… you got closer than I ever could,” he said, and for a faint moment a smile even crossed his normally dour expression. “As Yogi Berra said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Adele blinked. She wasn’t sure what a cartoon bear had to do with it… Was she remembering that name right? No matter. But despite her father’s words, his eyes still held another trait… something deeper, darker, lurking behind his gaze. “Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Duty calls.”
She shook her head hesitantly, then muttered another apology, hating that she was leaving her father only a half hour after he’d arrived. She sighed, waited to see if he’d say anything else, and when no words were forthcoming, she quickly marched to where she’d left her keys and wallet, snagged them, gave one last, “See you in a bit,” and then, grateful f
or the excuse, she hurried out the apartment door, shutting and locking it behind her. A new case would provide a distraction. And right now that’s exactly what she needed.
CHAPTER THREE
Adele took the elevator from the bottom floor of the DGSI headquarters in that strange, pink building outside the old café. The headquarters was a relatively new structure as was the agency itself.
As the elevator doors dinged, passengers got on and off, carrying with them—from the adjoining corridors—the smell of fresh coats of paint, where workers were still completing the building over a contract that seemed like it might take twenty years thanks to a combination of slow workers and ridiculous security protocols hampering the painters’ workdays and personnel.
Not every part of the DGSI, though, was so guarded. Adele thought briefly of the basement. John Renee liked to keep his own speakeasy down there, a hidden bachelor pad. She’d been invited into the sacred space more than once, but not recently. Recently, things between them had been less than ideal.
She took the elevator to the second floor first, adjusting the sleeves of her suit and smoothing a lock of blonde hair behind an ear. Adele bid a quick farewell to the two other passengers still waiting in the elevator, and then stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. She moved rapidly toward Robert Henry’s spacious office which overlooked a portion of the parking lot and a view of the distant city.
Renee had said the meeting with Foucault was urgent, but Adele still couldn’t shake thoughts of her old mentor. What could it hurt just to check in quickly? Just to see his smiling face, to see how he was doing?
As she neared Robert’s door, though, she noted it was closed. Adele frowned, glancing up and down the hall. She tapped delicately on the door. No answer.
She knocked a bit louder, then tried the handle. Locked.
“Robert?” she called.
A head poked out from the doorway across the hall, and a woman with short hair frowned. “He’s sick,” she said. “Didn’t come in today. Please keep it down.”
Adele winced in apology and then turned, moving dejectedly back to the elevator. Robert had been coming in to work over the last week as much as possible. If he hadn’t come in today, his health must have declined again.
She gave a shuddering little breath that rattled her throat before boarding the elevator again. She made a mental note to visit Robert as soon as possible.
Adele took the elevator one floor up, to the third level, and the doors dinged open, revealing another carpeted hall. Adele walked briskly toward a bench which faced an opaque door.
For a moment, she stopped. Normally, John Renee would wait for her outside the Executive’s door. It had been a ritual of sorts. They would often enter the room together, facing the wrath of the Executive with backup.
But now she could hear voices from inside, and the opaque glass door was half ajar, suggesting John had already entered ahead of her.
Adele stepped away from the bench in the carpeted hall and pushed her fingers against the opaque glass. She hesitated, listening through the glass at the slow growl of Agent Renee’s voice. For a moment, she felt a flash of recollection, how things had been left the last they’d spoken. How poorly she’d treated him and yet how angry she’d felt. Now, some of the anger had numbed, but the sheer pain, the grief of the situation, ten years in the making, wouldn’t allow her to settle. Would John be angry to see her? Would he ignore her? How could she patch things up? Did she even want to?
She pushed against the glass at last and moved into the Executive’s office. As she entered, she was struck by how it smelled.
Normally, Foucault’s office would exude the aroma of an ashtray inside a dumpster full of cigarettes. He often opened the window when he smoked, but it didn’t help things much.
Now, though, she could barely detect the scent of ash. Perhaps a faint bit had leached into the carpet and walls from years of abuse. But mostly, the odor she detected now was a surprisingly pleasant one, seemingly emanating from flickering red candles in rose cup glass containers placed around the desk.
Rather than smoking, as often was the case, Executive Foucault instead seemed to be chewing on something. Adele glanced at the desk and noted a pile of nicotine gum packs, with a thick, balled up circlet of wrappers forming somewhere near his open computer.
Agent Renee was in the room as well, sitting across from the Executive’s desk, shaking his head and muttering. As Adele entered, John fell quiet, as if sensing her, and turned, glancing in her direction. The tall, handsome agent had dark, slicked back hair and a strong nose. A twisting set of burn marks moved up like creeping ivy from his chest to the underside of his neck, then to his chin.
She felt a flutter of happiness at the sight of her old partner. She cleared her throat and dipped her head in a quick greeting. “Hello,” she said. She’d intended for the word to come out more warmly than it had. John’s expression didn’t change, but he seemed to note the accidental coolness of her tone. “Good morning, Agent Sharp,” he said, brusquely.
“Take a seat, Sharp,” Foucault called from behind his desk. He popped another stick of nicotine gum in his mouth and gestured impatiently toward one of the chairs near where John sat.
“I’ll make this quick,” Foucault continued. The Executive of the DGSI had a hawklike nose and a dark brow. He was shorter than John and his voice came stained with the cigarette smoke normally found hovering throughout the poorly ventilated room.
Now, though, while the smoke was gone, replaced by flickering cherry candles, the strain in Foucault’s voice only seemed to have increased. He also seemed to be perpetually glowering and reached up, rubbing at his temples.
“Is… is everything all right, sir?” Adele said.
“Fine,” he snapped back. He followed her gaze, glancing to the stacks of gum packs and the candles. He sighed and waved airily. “Sorry. Just trying to kick a habit. New leaf and all. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
Adele settled in the seat next to John, all too aware he wasn’t paying much attention to her. Was he intentionally neglecting her? Had they left things that rough after all?
She shot a look toward where the long frame of the tall agent reclined in his seat. He looked as bored as ever to have been dragged into a meeting. Normally, though, the boredom was a bit of a joke between them. She would often tease him about being unprofessional, and he’d respond by calling her American Princess or something equally condescending.
It was a playful banter that had seen Adele through some of the tougher days on the job. Now, though, he’d referred to her as Agent Sharp on entry, and his boredom seemed self-contained, shared only with himself.
Foucault’s irritation did little to stem the tide of frustration rising in Adele’s own chest, so she bit her tongue and waited.
“Two bodies, two countries,” Foucault said, curtly, speaking around a wad of gum the size of a walnut. “Both of them having died of what appears to be a heart attack on two different trains.”
“Trains?” said John.
“Trains.”
“What type of trains?” Adele asked.
“The ones that go choo-choo and sit on rails,” Foucault said, a bit testily. Then, realizing he was being unfair, he said, “Cross-country passenger trains. The most recent death was on the Normandie Express. It goes through France, Germany, and a couple other countries, I’m told.”
Adele nodded. “And these deaths, the MO was similar?”
Foucault paused for a second, brows knitted. “We’re not certain the deaths are murders, actually.”
This time, Adele and John did share a look, despite themselves. But just as quickly, their inquisitive glances rebounded back in Foucault’s direction.
Adele said, “How did they die then?”
“Heart attacks,” Foucault repeated. “Or so it seems. Granted, neither of the victims had a history of heart problems, and one of the victims was quite young. As I’ve said, two days, two deaths, two trains, two count
ries…” He made a rolling motion with a finger as if to say you fill in the blanks.
“So we’re called in just to check it out?”
“First death was in Italy, the second in Northern France,” Foucault said. “Check it out is right. We’re not sure it’s cause for much alarm, and local authorities think it could be a coincidence… But,” he paused significantly, his dark eyebrows stretching their confines, “the transportation companies have powerful friends and they want us to hurry this along. We want this case investigated and sealed as quickly as possible… It’s most likely nothing.”
“But,” said John and Adele at the same time. This time they didn’t share a look.
“But.” Foucault nodded. “Just in case, we’re sending you two down to where the second train is being held at the station. Make sure. Make it quick. Report back—hear me?”
Adele nodded hesitantly. It sounded routine—throwaway even. And yet, there was something, despite his new twitchy disposition, in the way Foucault was talking that made Adele nervous. He was using the right words, downplaying the murder angle, and yet something about the way he glanced at them, the way he emphasized the two deaths in two countries… Something told Adele there was more to this one than met the eye. She felt a shiver of foreboding stretch down her spine.
“Is that all, sir?” she prompted.
Foucault’s eyes flashed for a moment, and he studied her. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again just as quickly and shrugged. “All I know for certain. Rest is up to you.” He popped another stick of gum into his mouth, pulling at his collar and muttering, “It’s damn hot in here. Out, out! Hurry along.” He made twin shooing motions toward John and Adele, bringing the meeting to a close.
CHAPTER FOUR
The painter winced as he dragged the razor across his face, rocking slightly back and forth and swaying in time with the brass jazz pulsing through the bathroom. He hummed to himself as he swayed, stripped completely nude as he examined himself in the mirror. His clothing was folded and placed neatly on top of the toilet lid, a metallic mask resting on the pile just over two black gloves.
