Left To Run

by Blake Pierce

  “Yes. Just that way.”

  He tipped his hat politely. “You’re sure this is okay?” he asked. “I’m happy to speak with the landlord. I can come by later. Maybe when you’re not here if you’d prefer.”

  Shiloah thought about it for a moment. She knew what her mother would say. But she also knew what her friends would think of her. Coming to live in another country was anything but the action of someone who made decisions out of fear. She set her feet and jutted her chin, summoning courage in her chest. “No, I’m fine. Thank you for coming. The bathroom is the first on the right. It should be clean. I’ve only just arrived.”

  “Oh?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at her. “To Paris? I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but you speak with a bit of an accent.”

  She shook her head. “No, that’s not offensive at all. I just moved from the United States; Illinois. A few days ago.”

  The man gave a little chuckle. “Oh, in that case, a special welcome to you. Say, if you’d like I could tell you some of the best places to visit in Paris. It’s a wonderful city, this.”

  Shiloah found herself relaxing, and she moved over and shut the door behind her. She hesitated, but decided not to lock it. Then she gestured toward the bathroom again, and he moved on, whistling quietly beneath his breath.

  She regarded him for minute from the doorway as he set down his toolbox and opened the cabinet beneath the sink; he began adjusting some of the plastic couplings. Not only was he handsome, but he was built especially well too. She found her eyes lingering, moving up and down; then, just as quickly, she felt her cheeks warm, and she quickly decided to move away. “I’ll be in my room. Let me know if you need anything.”

  He didn’t say anything and returned to whistling beneath his breath while he worked. It was a very pretty song.

  Returning to her room, Shiloah sat down at her desk chair listening to the quiet clatter and tap of metal tools against porcelain. The sound of whistling seemed to echo in rhythm with the tools. For the next few minutes, she listened quietly, but then glanced down at her phone as another buzz caught her attention.

  It was a new message from the moderator of the expat community. Shiloah frowned. It said something about being careful. There was a killer in Paris targeting American women.

  Shiloah paused for a moment. The sounds from the bathroom continued, still ushered out by a quiet whistling. She felt a cold shiver as she reread the message. The killer is targeting Americans. She swallowed, and then moved from her bedroom.

  “Excuse me,” she said, hesitantly. “Perhaps it might be better if you do talk to the landlord. Maybe you could come back tomorrow. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I just want to make sure…”

  She trailed off as she approached the bathroom door. The quiet tapping of the tools and the whistling had a soothing effect, but as she entered the doorway of the bathroom, her comments faltered in her throat.

  The bathroom was empty. She could still hear the whistling, and the toolbox sat open on the floor. It didn’t have any tools in it, though. In fact, as she stared into the case, she realized it wasn’t a toolbox at all. Her eyes narrowed as she peered down, and she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing.

  “What in the…” she began, and then her eyes flitted to the sink. There, resting on the porcelain counter, was a small recording device. The sounds of whistling and tapping continued to emit from the small, black speakers.

  “Freddie?” She began to turn, the slow blossom of fear now numbing her chest and causing prickles to rise across her spine. Before she could turn fully, though, she felt hands suddenly grab her from behind and hold her neck.

  She felt a hot flash of pain across her throat.

  And then, she felt nothing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Adele sat by her desk, facing Robert across the small office space. She fiddled with her nameplate, and every few seconds she refreshed her computer. Her email browser was open, and tech had instructions to send any new information directly to her. Adele had decided Agent Paige wasn’t an ideal middleman for leads in the case.

  Adele continued to click impatiently, watching her inbox refresh. But still, no news on the social media front. The account info had been approved by Foucault, but it was taking some time to get what they needed. In France, there was no call for judge’s warrants. But there was still a reasonable expectation of privacy and all sorts of red tape that often had commercial implications.

  Adele continued to hit the refresh button in near-perfect synchronization with the old clock Robert had on his wall.

  Robert had a taste for old-fashioned things. He liked philosophy books and art and tea. A lot of his tastes were predictable, but others weren’t. He also enjoyed woodwork; this particular clock he’d bought from a carpenter in the heart of France. It never told the time properly, but it was quite beautiful to look at and, Adele had discovered over the last few hours sitting in the office, it was also very loud.

  Tick, tick, tick. Tap. Tick, tick, tick. Tap.

  The second hand would move, and eventually Adele’s fingers would follow, refreshing her email.

  She sighed in frustration again as her inbox remained empty, culminating in grayed out words. Vaguely, Adele thought of her mother, allowing her absent-minded thoughts to meander where they would. Would she have time to further look into her mother’s case? The words still haunted her. Funny that. Especially given where you worked…

  Adele thought about Agent Paige. It wasn’t unusual for DGSI operatives to have connections with all sorts. In Agent Paige’s circumstance, her boyfriend, whom she’d been seeing while also married, had been investigated for the murder of a prostitute. And while he’d been cleared of charges, that didn’t mean all agency connections were aboveboard.

  What if the man who had killed her mother had ties to the police force? Or even the DGSI itself? But the more Adele thought about it, the more she considered the greater possibility: the killer had been bullshitting her. He’d been a murderer. Why did she trust what he had to say?

  Adele sighed heavily again and tapped the refresh button a few times.

  Again, no new information.

  She suppressed a surge of curse words bubbling to her lips. The thought of swearing made her consider her father. Adele traced the edge of her desk. Perhaps she should call the Sergeant. Maybe she’d even have time to visit him in Germany. She hadn’t talked to him since the investigation had started. But the last time they’d spoken, her father hadn’t seemed to like the idea of her investigating her mother’s case. His exact words had been, “Stop wasting your time hunting ghosts. You’ll only lose yourself.”

  But Adele couldn’t let it go. She wouldn’t.

  She refreshed again.

  A line of black text appeared at the top of the inbox.

  Adele felt her heart jolt. Further thoughts of her parents were chased from her mind, ushered away by the ticking hand of the woodwork clock. Quickly, she clicked on the email and scanned the contents.

  She read them again and called out, “Robert, are you seeing this?”

  Her mentor also sat before his computer, pretending to study the screen—and while he had attempted to earlier in the day, Adele knew for the last few hours he’d been secretly reading the paper files he’d had printed and squirreled away in his desk drawer.

  His eyes flicked up from where he was looking into the desk drawer. Robert cleared his throat and flashed a toothy smile, revealing the two gaps in his pearly whites. “Yes,” he said instantly. “I mean, I am if you are. What exactly are we seeing?”

  Adele sighed, got up, moved over to his computer, and noticed he wasn’t logged in. She logged in for him, typing the password he used for everything for the last decade: 1234. And then she clicked on the email from the tech department.

  “They found a link between the victims in the user info,” she said.

  Robert gazed up at her, adjusting his mustache with quick and furtive gestures of
his left hand. “Users? Were they drug addicts?”

  Adult studied him for a moment, raising an eyebrow.

  He held up his hands. “Just joking,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Users from the online forum Yankees in Paris—the expat community.”

  Robert nodded. “What connection?”

  Adele pointed, directing his attention toward the attached folder below the main body of the email. She opened the folder and said, “See? Looks like both victims were speaking to the same man.”

  Some of the confusion on Robert’s expression faded. The idea of a common connection between victims wasn’t foreign to him. The internet talk and the technology frustrated him, but when it came to old-fashioned detective work, there was none better.

  “They had a contact in common?” he asked. “Is this his name? Sam?”

  Adele shook her head. “That’s the agent who sent the email. No, here, see? In these messages they had on their accounts. It’s a Gabriel Waters…” She paused. “Gabriel Waters,” she repeated. “That name hasn’t come up, has it?”

  Robert slipped a peek into the drawer beneath his desk. Then, with a resigned grunt, he pulled the manila folders out and began rifling through. He ignored Adele’s pointed look and finally he settled on opening a file and scanning the contents.

  At last, he shook his head. “No one by that name.”

  Adele continued to scan the information over Robert’s shoulder, leaning against his chair and furrowing her brow. “He’s also an American expat. See, look, here are the messages.”

  Robert followed her finger, and after a few moments reading, he whistled. The screenshots from the messenger account painted a damning picture. “Dear Lord,” Robert said. “He just sent that, on the Internet? Doesn’t he have any shame?”

  Adult chuckled. “Starting out, it was just friendly chatting, but down here,” she pointed to the end of the message chain and winced. “At least they pixelated it.”

  Robert leaned in, peering at the photo, and then his eyebrows shot up. “Is that—is that a man’s…” He turned to Adele now, scandalized. “People actually upload private photos of themselves onto the Internet? Don’t they know others can see this?”

  Adele patted her old mentor on the shoulder, moving back to her computer. “My dear, dear innocent friend. What you can find on the web would shock you. Whatever the case, this Gabriel Waters knew both our victims. And he sent explicit photos before they died.”

  Robert continued to stare at the screenshots on the computer.

  Adele said, “They also sent his address.” She reached her own computer and double-checked the email had also made it to her phone.

  Robert eyed her across the room. “Are you going to take her?”

  Adele adjusted her sleeves as she pulled on her jacket. “Suppose I should, shouldn’t I? It’s what I would want her to do.”

  Robert said nothing, but just tilted his head toward the door.

  Adele breathed heavily, but then threw her hands up. “I guess I’ll try to take the high road, you know? Damn low road is mighty appealing.”

  “Stay safe,” said Robert.

  “Same to you.”

  “Adele,” said Robert, calling out from where he now leaned back in his chair behind the large desk.

  She glanced back and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “If he tries to… show you anything, don’t hesitate to shoot him, understand?”

  Adele paused, and then her eyes widened as a small spurt of laughter escaped her lips. “If he flashes me, I’m sure Foucault will see it as a justified shooting. Not to mention Ms. Jayne.”

  “Damn right,” said Robert.

  Still chuckling, Adele moved away from the door and disappeared down the hall, heading toward Sophie Paige’s office to retrieve her partner and go question Gabriel Waters.

  She wasn’t sure what she dreaded more. The car ride with Paige or the thought of confronting someone connected to the murders of two young women.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The car ride to Mr. Waters’s home proceeded in absolute silence. Neither Adele nor Agent Paige uttered a word for the duration of the winding journey through the tightly wound avenues and streets of Paris, passing the Disney Store and Pomme de Pain. Gabriel lived about thirty-five minutes from the DGSI headquarters, and the further they went, the thicker the clusters of buildings became. Large trees jutted from the sidewalks. The buildings were like one great block of apartments, all in a row, with little division between, spanning the entire boulevard. Delivery trucks and public buses lined the sidewalk as well, parked or idle. A single restaurant Adele didn’t recognize, made entirely of glass on all sides, was situated across from various business set on the opposite side of the street, facing the tenements.

  At last, Agent Paige pulled the vehicle to a halt outside a blocky gray apartment set in the arrondissement near the Champs-Elysées. She parallel parked between two vehicles next to an advertisement pillar across from a gated hedgerow, hidden between two chains of buildings.

  At the end of the arrondissement, in one of Paris’s many hidden gardens, Adele glimpsed a couple of children playing on a pink bicycle, pulling each other around and around the cobblestones between the hedges under the watchful eye of their mother, who stood in the doorway of a terrace.

  The street was busy, but otherwise, Gabriel Waters’s apartment complex seemed quiet enough. Adele studied the address on her phone and then looked back up at the building.

  “This is it,” she said. “Says here he works in maintenance.”

  Agent Paige unbuckled her seatbelt and turned off the engine. She had insisted on driving and Adele had decided it wasn’t worth contesting the point.

  The bad blood between them, instead of slowly dissuading over time, seemed only to be getting worse. Now, though, Adele felt a flicker of fear. She thought of the last time she had chased down a criminal with a new partner. That time, the suspect had dove off the motel balcony into the pool. Bullets had been fired—they’d been lucky no one had died.

  Adele shifted and looked at Agent Paige. “Do you have my back?” Adele asked, quietly.

  Paige watched the younger agent for a moment, but then said, “Do you have mine?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Paige shrugged. “Follow protocol and we’ll both be fine. This,” she said, glancing at her phone, “Gabriel Waters is an American. Maybe you should take lead.”

  Adele wasn’t sure if her partner was offering her an olive branch or shoving her in front of an oncoming bus. Still, at least they were talking. That was some measure of improvement. Adele and Agent Paige both exited the vehicle, slowly closing the doors to avoid making noise.

  Adele examined the large gray section of the long row of crowded buildings. The painted concrete had chipped in places and the side-alley garden grass was overgrown around the terrace steps. A pile of mail rested before the front door, yet to be collected. “Think he’s home?” asked Paige, her hand going beneath her jacket and resting on her holster.

  Adele shrugged and continued toward the side of the alley. She peered around the hedge, toward the windows. The window in the middle of the alley above the cobblestones was open, allowing a quiet breeze to waft in.

  “I think he is,” she said.

  They took the concrete steps up to the patio, and in a quiet voice, Paige asked, “Does he have a family?” For the first time, there was a note of concern to her tone. The older agent looked uncertainly across the sidewalk in the direction of the hedge-garden, toward the two children playing on the bike beyond the black gate. She hesitated, then said, “Give me one moment.”

  Before Adele could protest, Paige moved off the steps and hurried, with long strides, up the wide avenue, through the pedestrians, towards Mr. Waters’s apparent neighbors.

  Adele hesitated, uncomfortably standing silent on the front steps, glancing at the buzzers. As far as Agent Paige’s talk about protocol, abandoning her partner in front of a
suspect’s home hardly fit the bill. Adele watched as her partner talked with the mother on the overlook terrace, and waited as the woman quickly ushered her children up the steps and into the apartment. Adele couldn’t hear above the sound of traffic, but it seemed as if the mother were thanking Paige before shutting the door. Adele continued to watch as her partner returned, the concern in her eyes having faded. Behind her, the windows were being shut and curtains drawn.

  “Didn’t know it was habit to inform the locals,” said Adele, her eyes fixed on her partner.

  “Just buzz the door,” Paige snapped.

  “No,” Adele said, “in answer to your earlier question. He doesn’t have a family. And he lives on the ground floor.” Then she turned and unsnapped the holster to her weapon but didn’t draw it. Gabriel Waters was only guilty of sending lewd pictures and texting terrible pickup lines so far. The fact he had a connection with two women was concerning, but not damning.

  “Ready?”

  In response, Paige impatiently reached past and buzzed Gabriel’s number. A pause, then a staticky voice. “Yes?”

  “DGSI!” Paige shouted. “Open up!”

  Adele thought she heard a quiet static-polluted curse over the intercom, followed by the sound of thumping footsteps. A pause, then a buzz. The door clicked open.

  Adele’s eyebrows rose slightly as she stepped into the apartment with Paige in tow, the sound of traffic fading a bit.

  The green door to their immediate left opened a second later; Gabriel Waters glared out. “What?” he demanded.

  The man had features that would have been handsome if accompanied by even the barest form of personal hygiene. But the stubble on his face made it down his neck and up his cheeks. His hair stuck out at odd angles and he had a bit of a paunch. There were beer bottles scattered around the couch behind him, and the TV was blaring. A bag of chips rested on top of a pile of fitness DVDs.

  Agent Paige frowned at the man from the apartment hallway. “Are you Mr. Waters?”