by Blake Pierce
He exited the car, striding toward the offices.
He stepped through the doors, and immediately was confronted by a small man with a quivering upper lip and a twitchy nature. The man was standing in front of the door, and on the door was a label which read, Coordinateur de l’Assemblée Gregor Fontaine.
“Gate called ahead. DGSI?” Mr. Fontaine asked, his lip still quivering.
John nodded, scratching at the stretch of scar beneath his chin. “Yes, I’m here on a case.”
“We had DGSI here before. This time do you promise not to scream at my employees?”
John was reminded of Foucault’s confrontation with Adele. He hadn’t heard much. “It’s actually about that,” John said. “Can you tell me what happened? Who, exactly, are you talking about?”
The small man shook his head, frowning. He glanced toward the glass window, which looked out onto the factory floor. John saw old machines and conveyor belts, and employees moving throughout. He saw one man in particular; a pale, bearded fellow, carrying a clipboard. This guy kept glancing nervously toward the glass.
Just another person he would have to add to the list of suspects. Guilty until proven innocent.
John decided the overseer would be on the list too. No one could be overlooked.
“Oh, I don’t remember her name,” said the overseer. “A loud woman. Obnoxious. Wouldn’t obey protocol. Scared some of my employees.”
John nodded solemnly. “She is very loud and annoying, I agree.”
The overseer looked at him to see if John was joking, but couldn’t seem to detect anything. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, his foot still tapping nervously against the tiles, “regardless, I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
“Who was she talking to when she had this altercation?” John asked.
The overseer waved his hand through the window. “As luck would have it, it was the operator. Andrew Maldonado. She started yelling at him.”
John cleared his throat. “Did she talk to anyone else?”
At this, the overseer hesitated, examining John with a note of suspicion. “She did,” he said slowly. “With me and the gate guard. But that was it. She was asking about another employee of ours, but he retired.”
“And how many people were on staff the day she was here?”
“Bare bones that day. It was still early, if I remember correctly. A hard experience to forget, mind you.” His eyes narrowed again. “The afternoon shift is when we have most employees come in. No sense in everyone here until the machines are running. Regardless, a couple of the truckers, myself, the operator over there, and maybe four other employees.”
John counted in his head, including the gate guard. Less than ten. Less than ten people who could have possibly interacted with Adele that day. Ten names wasn’t too many. How hard could it be to narrow a list of ten?
John sighed, glancing toward the nervous, twitchy overseer. If Adele was a bloodhound, and could sniff out guilt and deceit, John was more of a battering ram. It didn’t much matter to him to figure things out through guile, or cleverness, or paying attention. Rather, he liked to lower his head, barrel forward, and see who was too stupid to get out of the way.
And right now, the overseer was worried. The small man kept glancing at the window to the factory floor, and then back to John.
“I’m going to need you to tell me what you were doing ten years ago.”
The overseer blinked.
“I’m serious.”
The overseer shook his head, stammered a bit, then said, “I have no clue. How would I know? When?”
“March 2009,” said John, without missing a beat. “What were you doing?”
The man spluttered, shaking his head, swallowing, and then spluttering some more. “How should I know?” he said at last. “That’s ten years!”
“I know. And I still need you to tell me. Receipts, pictures, family photos, airplane tickets… Anything. You need to give me proof of where you were ten years ago in March.”
The man gasped. “When in March?”
John thought back to the case notes. Thought back to the day when Elise Romei was murdered. “The first week,” he said. “Give me a broad alibi.”
The man seemed ready to protest further. Before he could, though, John said, “You, those truck drivers who were here the same time as the loud agent, and anyone on the factory floor.” Then he added, “The gate guard too. All of you need to convince me you were in the clear ten years ago.” John nodded once. “In addition, I need you to provide me an alibi for last week. Seven days ago. All of you.”
“Last week I was working! Clear of what?” the small man demanded.
“Murder,” John said simply. “And if I’m not convinced—if you don’t take this seriously, I’ll have teams of federal agents uprooting your lives for the next decade. Understand?”
The overseer looked ready to roll his eyes, but then paused, studying John’s expression to see if he was joking again. John didn’t change anything about his countenance—he knew he was as serious as the grave.
At last, the overseer sighed. “I’ll see what I can find, and I’ll send out a memo. Is that all?”
John shook his head. “I’d like to speak with some of the other factory workers. Get their account of each other and of you…”
“Of me?”
John nodded, patting the small man on the shoulder before turning to the glass partition which led to the factory floor. “Yes,” he replied over his shoulder. “To see if they think you’re capable of murder. Good day.”
Then John moved toward the glass partition separating the entry of the factory from the assembly floor. He spotted the indicated pale fellow with the dark beard stepping around a conveyor belt, a clipboard in his hand. A Mr. Maldonado, according to the overseer. John frowned, mirroring the expression of the overseer behind him, who was studying his every movement, watching as John stepped through the sliding doors.
Was it just his imagination, or was the man with the clipboard trying to hide his face?
“Excuse me,” John called out, waving a large hand in the direction of Mr. Maldonado.
But Andrew Maldonado paused on the opposite side of the conveyor belt, glancing shiftily about. For a moment, John thought he might bolt, but he didn’t run, and instead, with slow, furtive movements, began to meander toward the back of the factory floor, disappearing behind a large, metal machine.
“Hang on,” John called, “Mr. Maldonado, DGSI—I need to speak with you!”
But the man picked up his pace. Not running, still. And now, out of sight, the only indication of his speed was the quick tapping sound of footsteps against the concrete floor.
John frowned, his temper rising as he maneuvered around the conveyor belt as well, ducking beneath the swinging arm of some metal gearbox attached to one of the larger machines.
He hadn’t realized how much was equipment was required to pack small candy bars.
He gritted his teeth as he glimpsed Mr. Maldonado disappearing around a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves, laden with Styrofoam boxes and packaged containers. John picked up the pace, his lengthy stride closing the distance between him and the fleeing factory worker. Mr. Maldonado glanced over his shoulder, still seemingly hiding his face with the edge of his clipboard.
“Excuse me!” John called, allowing a growl to creep into his tone. “Stop!”
Another couple of factory workers were glancing in their direction. At last, as John moved around the shelf, he found Mr. Maldonado backed up against a wall, with two shelves on either side. For a moment, Mr. Maldonado reached down, a hand gripping the black handle of a forklift. John’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen this sort of desperate look before. For a second, he thought perhaps Mr. Maldonado might try to swivel the forklift around, using it like a battering ram or a defensive weapon. John’s own fingers slipped to his hip.
But the pale, bearded fellow squeaked, and then held up his hands. The clipboard jutted toward the gray cei
ling above, and in the distance, the whir of the machines and conveyor belts drowned out the first of Mr. Maldonado’s words.
John lifted his own hand from his weapon and put it to his ear. “What was that?”
Maldonado raised his voice, breathing heavily. “Why are you chasing me? You’re not going to yell at me too, are you?”
John blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a fed, yes?” the disgruntled factory worker said, frowning now. His hands were still raised, but they began to dip.
“You seem mighty nervous to talk to me,” John said, allowing the growl to return to his voice.
Mr. Maldonado gave a quick shake of his head. “I’ve had a bad experience talking to you guys. The last time I got yelled at. My hours were reduced. Lost half my pay.”
John felt a jolt of sympathy all of a sudden. He winced. But then he steadied himself. Suspects were often good at coming up with stories on the fly. Compassion was all well and good, but it didn’t often help to uncover the truth. “That’s why you’re running?”
The factory worker sniffed, rubbing equally pale fingers against his pallid cheek. “I wasn’t running.”
“Fine, walking briskly,” John said, waving a hand toward the shelf they had circled around. He spotted the small, twitchy form of the overseer emerge behind the shelves as well. The small man had another factory worker next to him, this guy nearly twice the size of the overseer. He was also carrying a wrench.
John glared between the two of them. They just stood at the edge of the shelves, watching. Andrew Maldonado growled now, returning John’s frown, and muttered, “Great. They’re going to think I’m causing trouble again. Can’t you guys leave me alone? I haven’t done anything.”
John shook his head. “Why was my partner yelling at you the last time she was here?”
Andrew Maldonado waved his clipboard, his hands now dropping to his sides once more; they hovered just above his thighs, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to lower his hands. But when John made no sound, he relaxed a bit more until the clipboard pressed against his thigh, smoothing the front of his gray work pants.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She was upset about one of our products. Some old candy. Not even the most popular one.”
“Carambars,” John said.
Mr. Maldonado nodded. “Exactly. I’m not sure what she was upset about. She just started yelling at me.”
John’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m telling the truth,” Maldonado insisted, whispering, glancing over John’s shoulder toward where the overseer and his goon waited, watching. Whether they were here for John’s sake or Andrew’s, Agent Renee couldn’t tell. He knew the blue-collar sorts, especially factory workers. They didn’t trust the government. They didn’t trust anyone outside. Talking to the feds, about anything, was often considered a cardinal sin. Obviously, this wasn’t the place to interview people. He needed to compile that list, but he needed information.
“Look,” John said, a little more sympathy creeping into his voice, “I’ll get out of your hair. We don’t have to talk here.”
“We don’t have to talk anywhere. I don’t know what you want. She was just upset about one of the delivery trucks. I don’t even know. She was talking about something ten years ago, but then talking about something as if it were happening last month.” The man shrugged helplessly. “I think she thought I was being intentionally stupid.”
John tried not to grin at this. He knew Adele had a way of demanding excellence from people who had a difficult time even fastening their pants on the right way. Adele was a bloodhound, determined, a pursuer of excellence. But sometimes, for the average folk, this seemed more like condescension.
John ventured, “Look, the agent you were speaking to has a personal interest in this case. Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”
Maldonado opened his mouth and rubbed his chin, his bushy beard bristling beneath his hand. Before he could reply, though, the overseer called out, “Andrew, your shift is still on. I’m afraid you’ve spent enough time away. They’re waiting for you.”
“Coming, sorry, boss!”
He gave an apologetic shrug toward John and muttered, “Look, I can’t tell you much,” he said, quickly, in a quiet whisper as he stepped around John, moving back toward where the overseer waited. “But after she yelled at me, a lot of people were talking. Like a lot. Everyone in the factory heard about it. But especially the people who were here that day. Everyone seemed to want to know what was happening. Some people had a little bit too much interest. If you know what I mean.”
John stared. “I’m not sure I do.”
Mr. Maldonado shrugged. “Look, I’m not here to do your job for you. I’m just saying, if you want to get to the bottom of this, you might want to check into the people who were here at the time of that interaction. I don’t know anything else.”
He brushed past John, his shoulder grazing against the taller, larger man. John frowned as Maldonado retreated back toward where the overseer was waiting. He couldn’t get a read on the man. He could tell Andrew was scared. Was that because of John, because of Adele, or because of the overseer, watching them? Mr. Maldonado was still on the list. But so was the overseer, and the security guard.
“Excuse me, sir, yeah, you with the wrench. What’s your name?”
At the question, the man glanced toward the overseer, then back at John. The overseer answered, “John,” he said.
John raised an eyebrow.
“Does your John have a last name?”
“Smith,” said the overseer.
Renee frowned, deciding that whether the name was fake or not, the thug would have to go on the list as well. He couldn’t afford to rule anyone out, not yet. Adele had kicked over a hornet’s nest and someone had noticed. Someone at this factory. Someone involved in the killing of Adele’s mother. And, perhaps, the best way to find a hornet was to keep kicking the nest until it came out to try and sting him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flashing lights ahead, flashing lights behind. The Greek police had come out in force to escort Adele and Agent Leoni to the crime scene. This, in one sense, left Adele with a feeling of expediency, and she was nothing if not directed in her efforts. But also, it left her with a bad taste in her mouth where she sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, tearing through traffic beneath pulsing blue and red lights in a caravan of police cruisers.
The Greek authorities didn’t seem to care who was watching, or who knew they were en route to the Parthenon. Which could only mean one thing: the media was already involved.
Adele felt the twisting sensation in her stomach that used to come solely from flying when she was a younger agent, but now hearkened a far more dreadful form of nausea. Eyes were watching. A third body had dropped in the Acropolis. And Adele was now center stage.
This premonition only proved even more accurate as the cruiser pulled sharply outside the barrier of sawhorses against the backdrop of ancient stone architecture at the foot of a rising hill dappled by trees. The Acropolis culminated to the south ruins in the Parthenon. Already, around the sawhorses, Adele spotted more flashing lights, some coming from the scores of reporters gathered around, microphones like swords, pointing out the direction of their invasion toward the old structures.
Some of the lights came from the emergency vehicles parked around the dusty stone, lights buzzing.
Adele felt the butterflies in her stomach twist as she and Agent Leoni beat a hasty exit from their vehicle, clambering out of the front seat and stumbling through the crowds of gawkers and watchers and news folk. They moved between the sawhorses, through a row of police, keeping the crowds at bay.
Adele heard loud shouted questions in languages she didn’t understand. Leoni seemed unperturbed by the noise and moved quietly along next to her, eyes set ahead on the Parthenon itself—the purported scene of the crime.
Adele listened as Leoni rattle off something in what sounded like perfect G
reek to the patrol officer who had led their escort. She blinked, trying not to let her surprise show. How many languages exactly did this guy know?
Leoni frowned as the Greek policeman replied. After a moment, the handsome Italian glanced back at Adele, moving through the media storm. He waited until they were well past the sawhorses, and the blockade against the public, before whispering, “They had to take the body down.”
Adele’s expression curdled into a scowl, as she regarded him. She paused for a minute next to the tall, twisting marble columns. Matching his volume, she said, “What? We didn’t even get to check the scene.”
Leoni winced. He waved a hand toward the Greek officer next to him. “He says the order came from above.” Leoni then waved a hand toward the gathered media. “Too many eyes. They had to.”
Adele cursed as she followed the Greek officer further into the Parthenon, and came to a halt. The area was cordoned off with crime scene tape. There were already other officers, with evidence bags, combing the scene. Latex gloves and dainty sidesteps did little to assuage her frustration at how many people were already there. She glanced up, and some of her frustration faded to another emotion. A single noose from thick, dark rope dangled from the column above. Two hooked wires angled past the looped rope.
Leoni translated the Greek officer’s words. “The body was posed with the hooks as well,” he said. “It looked like he was praying, according to the first responders.”
Adele didn’t answer, shaking her head as she moved around. She glanced to her phone at the file she’d been sent from the preliminary report. As she expected, the same MO. No foreseeable connection to the other victims. Adele glanced around. They were in the Parthenon. A temple to Athena the virgin. High place was literally a translation of Acropolis according to Leoni. The riddle seemed so obvious now. She glanced at her partner. “Did they find anything? Another riddle?”
