by Blake Pierce
Her partner shook his head. “Not the company, exactly. But because they’re funded by Lockport, they also sometimes share employees. Trade to another line to fill the gaps.”
Adele stared. “How do you know that?”
“I wasn’t always a helicopter pilot.” John grunted. “I did a stint on an overnight ferry for a couple of years when I was a teenager and lied about my age. My point, though, is that I cross-referenced staff names.”
Adele stared. “Between the two lines? Anything?”
John nodded once. He held up two fingers. “Two names. Peter Granet, the conductor, and Martin Rodin, the bartender. On Tuesday, they were both in Italy on the LuccaRail, then Wednesday they were on the Normandie Express.”
Adele regarded John with a look of surprise. “Good work,” she said.
He gave a half shrug.
“So yesterday they switched rails?” said Adele. “Even if that’s the case, I don’t think Mr. Granet, the conductor, could be involved. He would be at the helm, far from the first-class compartment.”
“Unless he took a break,” John pointed out.
“Perhaps. But in both deaths? It would be noticed, surely…”
“Well then, that leaves us with Mr. Rodin, the bartender in the dining car. In fact, the dining car is directly next to the lounging area, where Ms. Mayfield was found.”
“The bartender you say,” Adele said, perking up suddenly. She felt a flutter of excitement in her chest. “Strange you mention him… I didn’t ask for a name, but my contact in Italy mentioned the bartender on the LuccaRail was overheard in an argument with the first victim.”
John and Adele both shared a look of surprise at this declaration, the tall agent sitting cross-legged, while Adele continued to pace the room, her eyes on her partner.
“So Rodin is our guy?” John asked.
“We can’t be sure. But he’s the only connection between the two trains. And if he had an argument with the first victim back in Italy, before switching trains for the company, maybe he had motive too. Not to mention,” she added, frowning in thought, “he was the bartender, which means he had access to the passengers’ drinks.”
“They’re running a tox report now,” John added.
“Exactly. Two heart attacks. Poison would be the obvious murder weapon. And what better way to poison someone than by handling their favorite drink right before consumption?”
John got to his feet, closing the laptop lid and putting it back in the black satchel he’d brought from the car. “Well, Mr. Rodin is our guy then. The staff is all still held back at the train, so our best bet—”
Before he’d finished, though, another quick knock echoed out on the door, and Officer Allard poked his head in again.
“Ah, pardon me,” he said, quickly. “But I couldn’t help but hearing. You mentioned a Mr. Rodin?”
Adele frowned. “Hang on, were you eavesdropping?”
“Just standing by in case you needed anything,” he said, unperturbed by her hostile tone.
John, though, didn’t seem to care and instead said, “What about Mr. Rodin?”
“Ah, yes. I’d been waiting to tell you until you were finished in here. But about an hour ago, I received a call from Mr. Granet—the conductor.”
Adele frowned now, crossing her arms and facing off across the small, dank room. “And?” she prompted.
“He said Mr. Rodin went missing about an hour ago, after we left the station.”
“Missing?” John said. “Did he mention he was leaving to anyone?”
“Not according to the conductor. He vanished. They don’t know where he is.”
Adele shared a long look with John. “Well,” she said. “It’s looking worse and worse for our friendly barkeep, isn’t it?”
John sighed, rubbing a hand through his slicked hair. “He couldn’t have gotten far, could he? He doesn’t have his own vehicle.”
“Maybe he called a cab,” said Adele. “Or maybe he took another train.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s still at the station. We’d best start looking unless we want Mr. Rodin to get another shot at some unwitting passenger.”
Adele nodded and marched out of the room, speaking over her shoulder, “Let’s check any train that’s left in the last hour. See if any of the nearby taxi companies were dispatched to the area. And barring that, we search the station, from the top to the basement. No stone unturned. Wherever Mr. Rodin is hiding, we need to find him now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adele and John stood before the stationary Normandie Express, glancing at the four other police officers Allard had procured to search for the missing bartender. John’s hand braced against the rail of the small balcony at the front of the locomotive as he eyed the police. “Everyone have a picture of the suspect?” he said, his voice booming in the broad station.
The police all regard Allard, who was flashing a printout of Mr. Rodin’s face.
“No new trains left in the last hour,” John continued, “and a cursory look at the security cameras displayed no one matching Rodin’s description leaving the station. Which means he slipped away undetected, or he’s still here, hiding inside the station.”
The police all nodded in response. Allard then broke them off into groups of two and directed them toward portions of the station for a grid-search pattern. John hopped down from where he’d been standing on the small balcony and approached Adele. “Where do you want to start?” he said.
She thought for a moment. “Maybe the restrooms? Though he might be wanting to blend in.”
“Perhaps,” said John. “Think he’s armed?”
Adele winced. She didn’t want to imagine a shootout in a train station full of commuters. “Let’s hope not,” she murmured.
Then, together, John and Adele moved through the side door which Allard had brought them through and down a tunnel, stepping out into the main portion of the station. This particular train station wasn’t the busiest Adele had ever seen. A few people moved about the platforms, some of them clutching bags or tickets, waiting for their rides to arrive.
As she moved along with John, walking briskly to keep up with his long stride, she glanced at the faces of the passengers. A large woman sat on a bench, munching on a sesame bun. A red-haired man leaned against a glass partition advertising a perfume. A family of five gathered around a ticket collector who was standing in front of the compartment to a more modest train when compared to the Normandie Express.
Adele and John passed a small restaurant, with a few customers sitting out on faux patio seating. She scanned the customers, but didn’t spot Mr. Rodin.
Her eyes did land on a small pile of books near one of the customers. Her own mind shifted, thinking back to red leather seating in front of a small fireplace. She considered her old friend Robert Henry, and his penchant for books and all things literature. As she thought of him, she closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she’d been able to contact him back at DGSI. She’d need to make another effort soon. Days were passing quickly, where Robert was concerned, and while his health still seemed a bit improved, eventually, if the doctors were to be believed, his case was terminal.
Adele sighed, ripping her gaze away from the small stack of books likely purchased from one of the station stores.
They continued on, still in silence, moving toward a cafe at the back of the station. Adele spotted two of Allard’s officers also meandering in the same direction. She watched as one of the officers drew near the cafe, peered through the glass window, and then went stiff.
The officer nudged her partner and pointed. The second officer frowned, his hand darting to his hip holster.
“John,” Adele said, slowly. “I think they found something.”
John followed her glance and just then, Adele heard shouting. The first officer who’d looked through the glass raised her voice and shouted, “Martin Rodin, hands where I can see them!”
Two firearms leapt into the police officers’ hands, now pointin
g through the reflective glass. Adele cursed and broke into a sprint, with John racing behind her. Adele watched, still racing, as the two officers entered the small cafe.
She gritted her teeth, darting around a family of five, while John bellowed, “Move out of my way!”
She reached the cafe’s glass windows a few moments later, her own hand pressed against her holster. Through the smudged glass, she spotted a single customer sitting at a round table, his hands jutting into the air, while the two officers pointed their weapons at his head, shouting instructions.
Adele jostled into the cafe, pushing the glass door with her shoulder and, breathing heavily, coming to a halt inside the room. He was stammering, while the first officer shouted, “Get on the ground! On the ground!”
“What is this?” the man gasped. He had ferret-like features, with an angled face that all seemed to come to a point at the end of a large noise. “Please,” he said, “I was just here to speak to a friend—a friend!”
The cafe attendant was leaning over a counter, past the cash register, and shouting, “What are you doing to him! He didn’t do anything!”
Adele moved quickly over. She glanced toward the attendant. “Do you know this man?”
The middle-aged woman, who was wearing a green uniform and pinstriped apron, nodded quickly. “Martin. He’s a friend. He said he was being sequestered nearby and came by to say hello! What is this?”
Adele looked back toward where Martin was still trying to protest, flustered. She paused, though, watching as one of his hands darted into his pocket. Her eyes narrowed. And then suddenly, Rodin’s hand reemerged. He yelled and pulled out a pepper spray, spraying it into the eyes of the two officers.
“Run, Martin!” shouted the woman behind the counter.
Rodin actually paused long enough to blow the older lady a kiss before leaping over the table, slamming his shoulder into John and sprinting out the door.
Adele’s stomach twisted as she watched, her own cry of protest dying on her lips as John reeled back, sent tumbling over the nearest table. The woman behind the counter screamed. “Don’t touch him! He didn’t do anything!”
Meanwhile, the two officers were gasping, thankfully—in Adele’s opinion—refraining from firing while blinded. They choked and gagged, their faces covered in pepper spray, their hands wiping through the air.
Adele cursed, running to John’s side and dragging him up. As she passed the area where Rodin had been standing, her own eyes began to tear up and she looked hastily away, blinking rapidly and waving at the air before her nose.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “John, are you all right?”
Her partner growled, extricating himself from the toppled table and wiping a hand across his eyes.
“Make sure the officers are fine,” John snapped, his eyes zeroing in on Martin Rodin’s retreating form like a shark spotting a trout. He pushed off the table and broke into a sprint, racing out the door in pursuit of the bartender.
CHAPTER NINE
John’s feet pounded the concrete as he slammed through the glass door of the small cafe, his burning eyes fixed on the retreating form of the ferret-faced Mr. Rodin. John cursed, reaching up and wiping in frustration at his eyes. Behind him, as the door slipped shut, he heard Adele, concerned, calling out to the woman behind the counter. “Water, please! I need water for their eyes.”
John, though, had his own eyes fixed on a different task.
He raced across the platform, chasing after Mr. Rodin where the bartender ducked behind a newspaper stand.
John called out, “Stop! Rodin—stop running!”
The man glanced back, his angled features rearranged into an expression of fright. He squeaked at the sight of the tall Frenchman barreling down on him and then twisted, turning to race in the direction of the tracks.
John glimpsed a train pulling into the station from the opposite, open-air entrance. The large locomotive hissed and scraped as it whined against the tracks, attempting to bring its girth to a halt. Rodin, for his part yelped and, desperately dodging a row of luggage piled next to the train, vaulted over a suitcase and landed on the very lip of the barrier between the tracks and the passengers.
John doubled his speed, shouting, “Don’t be stupid!”
Martin Rodin gave another wild look over his shoulder in John’s direction. For a moment, he turned, squeaking, his hand pulling out his small device of pepper spray again.
John’s eyes narrowed and his own hand darted to his weapon at his hip. He didn’t call out this time, instead favoring to conserve his breath for a lunging sprint across the luggage, bounding over it like a panther, steely muscle and focused fury in Martin Rodin’s direction.
The barkeep seemed to make up his mind at the last moment though. With another squeak, he spun around, slamming the spray back in his pocket, and then, with what sounded like an audible gulp, he leapt from the platform just as John reached him.
At the same time, the train pulled into the station fully, coming very close to crushing Rodin.
John cursed, jerking back, careful to avoid the ten tons of steel and metal. The machine chugged past, squealing to a final halt and then resting as a metal barrier. John breathed heavily, staring at where Rodin had managed to just barely reach the other side and desperately clamber his way up and onto the platform there.
Rodin turned around, staring at John through a gap in two of the train cars.
John cursed, glancing up and down, but the train was equally extensive in both directions. Passengers began boarding and disembarking, pouring out into the station and further blocking Rodin from view.
The bartender breathed heavily for a moment, reaching up to wipe a glaze of sweat from his angled features and then paused long enough to give John a coy wink through the small gap between the two train cars.
John’s eyes narrowed. And Martin blew a kiss, beginning to turn to dart away again.
Anger began to rise in Renee’s chest. He clenched his teeth, narrowing his eyes like a bull at the sight of a red handkerchief. So that’s how Martin wanted to play it, was it?
John had seen enough. Going around the train wasn’t an option—he’d lose the bastard.
So instead, John, propelled by a rising wave of fury, sprinted directly toward the train. Rodin paused, half turned, frowning and glancing back. He watched as John took three sprinting steps with his massive legs and then flung himself at the side of the train.
Rodin’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared.
“Yeah, that’s right,” John muttered beneath his breath. The metal was hot near the wheels and cool toward the top. He pushed off the lower portion of the train coupling, using it to launch his lengthy body upward. His hands snared the slanted aluminum room of the nearest passenger car. His body slipped and his shirt rose, allowing his bare abdomen to press against the cold glass. He realized three women were inside the train car, staring out at him and not quite looking away despite his glare.
John grunted, struggling, and then, kicking, pulled himself onto the roof of the train.
He heard a curse that came from Rodin’s direction and didn’t hesitate to move. John sprinted across the roof and, spotting Martin now darting toward the nearest exit, he began sprinting along the roof of the train, his massive feet pounding into the metal.
John gasped, his arms swinging like pistons, his legs flashing beneath him. He eyed Rodin’s progress out of the corner of his eye, gasping doggedly. And then, as Martin tried to merge into the crowd, angling toward one of the turnstiles, John leapt with a howl.
He dove off the top of the train, colliding with the fleeing bartender.
The two of them struck the ground in a tangle of limbs, both of them gasping and scrambling for supremacy. John was twice the size of the smaller Mr. Rodin, though, and it didn’t take long to struggle on top and then grip the man by the collar, hoisting him to his feet.
“No you don’t,” he snapped, reaching out and ripping the pepper spray out of Rodin�
�s trembling hand.
The bartender slumped now, in John’s grip, stuttering and gasping, saying, “I—it was an accident. I didn’t—sorry—please don’t…”
John snorted and gave a little shake until Rodin quieted. He tested his weight on his ankles, grateful to find his lunge off the roof of the train car hadn’t caused any damage. Then he gave Rodin another little shake. “Think that was a smart move, do you?” he asked.
Martin’s head hung, and he looked glumly over at John’s still watering eyes. John sighed at how miserable the man looked and eased his grip—if only a little. He growled and began to tug at Martin. In the distance, between the trains, he could see where Adele had emerged from the cafeteria and was now watching the two of them, her mouth open, her eyes wide.
John felt a flash of delight she’d witnessed the snare. Just as quickly, though, he hid his expression. He’d hoped things could be smoothed over between them. But she hadn’t even been waiting for him outside Foucault’s office. He’d seen her enter the building, but then for some reason got off on the second floor. As if perhaps she was trying to avoid him. Then, when she’d entered the Executive’s office, her tone had been cool as ice.
Clearly, she still hadn’t forgiven him for letting her mother’s killer escape.
John sighed at the thought, feeling a twinge of regret. Some things, though, were outside his ability to fix. He looked between the trains at Adele, wishing for a moment that he could just talk to her. Like they used to. Could go back to when things were good between them.
But maybe that would never happen again. Besides, did he really blame her? He’d let her mother’s killer escape. He’d thought he’d been doing the right thing at the time, saving the victim. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If it meant Adele hated him… was it worth it?
John shook his head, muttering to himself and then pushing Martin Rodin along. He kept a firm grip on Martin’s collar and began leading him back around the train, toward one of the crossing bridges. In a growling voice, over the sound of Mr. Rodin’s protests, John said, “You have some explaining to do.”
