by Blake Pierce
Her own briefcase rested on top of her suitcase handle, which she’d extended and held tight, rolling her suitcase along behind her.
“Adele Sharp,” said a soft, polite voice. Surprisingly, a voice she recognized.
For a moment, if only that, the thoughts of the case were chased from her mind. The way the person pronounced her name, the words plucked from the air, like a florist cutting flowers and presenting them to a customer, brought back memories.
She looked in the direction of the voice and a smile stretched her face.
“Robert?” she said, her cheeks bunching. “Of course they would send you. Of course!”
Robert Henry stood straight-backed and stiff. He wore an immaculately pressed suit, and had a curved, perfectly manicured mustache on his upper lip. His hair was thicker than she remembered it back in their days working at the DGSI—hair plugs, perhaps? Robert had been the one who’d taken her under his wing. He’d saved her life on at least two separate occasions.
A flood of memories came with this recognition. He was smiling back at her, his hands loosely at his side, his polished shoes heel to heel.
Robert Henry was about three inches shorter than she was. Adele was tall, but not excessively so. Robert had once played soccer for a semi-professional team in Italy, but had returned to France when he’d been recruited in the 1950s by the French government, long before DGSI existed. Now, like his hair, his mustache was also dyed black.
“Robert!” she called, hurrying across the floor, her shoes squeaking against the polished ground. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
The small man smiled up at her, extending a hand with a sort of gallant flourish. He took her arm and declared, “You are as beautiful as my sore old eyes remember. I feel the youth returning to my bones as we speak.”
Robert didn’t even have a hint of an accent. Adele had it on good authority he could speak eight different languages with perfect inflection. As far as investigators went, he was one of the best France had to offer.
“Off to your flattering ways already, I see? And me only fresh off the plane.”
“And fresh is the perfect word. Refreshing to have someone who appreciates the importance of sparsity.”
His eyes darted to her small suitcase.
“I’ll just buy anything else I need. FBI’s paying.”
“Of course, of course. And how are our American friends?”
“I can’t complain. You didn’t drive yourself, did you?” Adele grimaced and made a big show of shaking her head.
“Ah,” said Robert, a slight frown increasing his otherwise impassive expression. “If you’re recollecting that time in Bulgaria, the countryside, I’ll have you know, automatic cars are a bane, non, a curse on the modern world!”
Adele hid a smirk and wheeled her suitcase around so she could rest an elbow on the raised handle. “Yeah, that’s why you hit the light post, is it?”
He scowled in mock severity, clicking his tongue. As he drew nearer, he smelled of a bit too much cologne and a light odor of cigar smoke. “Back to where we left it, I see? No respect. And is it just me, or has your beautiful, glorious accent faded, hmm?”
Adele paused at the smell and the comment about her accent. Her mind wandered for a moment, back to her first days at the DGSI, walking into Robert’s office. The same smell had confronted her, as had the same small, friendly man, with far more gray hairs at the time. She could still remember the neat, tidy office, displaying pictures of racetracks and old sports cars. Robert had no frames displaying family photos, as he had no family.
And yet, Adele’s lips curved slightly as she remembered the way the man had greeted her then. A strange young girl from America, wandering into his office. He’d welcomed her like a niece and immediately had started asking far too personal questions about her health, her love life, her favorite foods.
It had felt like home.
Adele never had a home. She wasn’t German enough, French enough, American enough for anyone to claim her as one of theirs unless they wanted something from her. She spoke with the slightest of accent in every language, unable to fully call one hers.
Twelve years in Germany, another fifteen years in France, then the rest in the US. Angus had teased her about traveling so much and never settling. But it never felt right settling anywhere, because… though she hated to admit it, Adele didn’t belong anywhere. A girl without a home, and no real family left to speak of—moving so much had familial consequences too.
At the time, on her first day, Robert had seen right through her loneliness. He’d seen her as a kindred spirit and adopted her on the spot.
The small, well-dressed, even-toned man kept Adele by the arm, holding it in the crook of his, and began to lead her back toward the exit. They approached the sliding glass doors and slipped into the stream of passengers leaving the airport. Adele allowed her old mentor to guide her along the streets across the gate lane, to where a parked car awaited them—a Renault sedan with dark, tinted windows framed by black paneling. Adele gave her suitcase to Robert, who hefted it into the trunk.
She moved toward the passenger’s door, but he quickly beat her to it and opened it, ushering her into the front seat with a gallant wave of his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, hiding a smile.
There were some who mistook Robert for a bit of a fool. He was quite showy and enjoyed things like wine and cheese tastings and discussing philosophy. There was a pretentiousness to it, but it didn’t bother Adele in the least. Because she also knew he had successfully closed more cases for the DGSI than any other investigator in the history of the agency—albeit, it wasn’t a very long history.
He rounded the car back to the driver’s side with slow, even steps. As he settled into the vehicle, he glanced over at Adele. “You seem in good health,” he said. He paused for a moment, rubbing the steering wheel, then, noticing the motion, he fell still. “Since you were last here… have things—”
“I’m fine, Robert,” Adele replied quickly, cutting him off before he could finish the sentence. Her tone fell somber on her own ears all of a sudden. She felt a slight flush to her cheeks. “Last time… The strain—it was—”
“You do not owe me an explanation.”
“No, perhaps not.” Adele glanced out the window back toward the milling passengers heading to parked vehicles. Her gaze turned back to the vehicle and traced the interior. She paused for a moment, glancing up at the visor above Robert’s seat. Two small, weathered photographs were tucked in the corner sleeve, in the same way taxi drivers throughout the city displayed photographs of their families.
Except, this photograph was of the DGSI headquarters, and, the second, smaller one was… Adele looked closer and felt a sudden lump in her throat.
The second photograph was of her and Robert standing next to each other—the first day on the job. She recognized her young, smiling face peering out of the dusty picture. She’d never had a home, never belonged anywhere… And yet, there, sitting in the small car smelling of cologne and cigar smoke, she felt more at home than she had in years.
“It is good to have you back, child,” said Robert, glancing over at her with a concerned expression. “Are you ready to work?”
Adele nodded, her eyes flicking away from the visor. “I’m not here for any other case besides this one. Understand?”
Robert’s eyebrows inched up. “I will not speak of it; I understand. But do you?”
Adele thought for a moment, watching as Robert started the engine and checked his mirror, pulling slowly away from the curb.
One case at a time. That’s all she had time for. One case.
She stared out the window as they left the airport, pulling toward the heart of the city. In the distance she could hear tolling bells. It was good to be home…
Her expression softened for a moment as she stared out across the city, her eyes tracing the river and darting across the many old structures. As her gaze flitted to the bridges, little mo
re than arches on the horizon, her expression hardened.
This was home, but there was a rat in the basement, and it was up to her to find it and crush it before it could cause any more harm.
The Benjamin Killer had fled the States for a reason and had already killed once since he’d arrived in France. It would only be a matter of time before he killed again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Six kilometers from the center of Paris, in the northwestern suburbs of the Ile-de-France region of the capital, Adele found herself staring up at the headquarters of the DGSI.
On the outside, it didn’t look like much. A small cafe rested next to the sealed structure, with dull pink and orange bricks providing a quaint appearance in comparison to the bleak gray and black building for which it served as a foot stool.
Adele remembered the building well. In her mind, she had rehearsed the number of turns the vehicle made as it circled the closed parking lot behind the headquarters.
Inside, the building was far nicer than she remembered. Fresh coats of paint and up-to-date technology now filled the offices that Robert led her past.
“One thing to say for terrorists,” Robert said as he guided her through the building and noticed her curious glance toward a row of high-powered computers behind a glass wall. “They have a singular way of motivating the allocation of taxes. Here, this way.”
Robert led her to an open foyer. A receptionist glanced up from behind a desk and cleared his throat with a polite tilt of his head.
“Here to see Foucault,” Robert answered the querying glance.
The receptionist nodded and tapped a button on his phone. There was a buzz, then a thick glass door clicked open, adjacent to the desk.
“They’re both waiting,” said the receptionist.
Adele followed her former mentor into the room.
It was only as she peered out the windows that she realized they were likely on the top floor. These windows didn’t face the street, and they were all tinted black.
Still, the view from so high up brought back another tide of memories. She turned from the city toward the room. Immediately, she spotted the man from TV screen back in San Francisco. His eyebrows were even thicker in person and his glower doubly intense. He sat behind an old desk that looked to be made from carved oak. The desk sat surrounded by so much technology, it seemed somewhat out of place in both time and taste, as did the quill and ink pot sitting near an old dial-phone.
“Agent Sharp,” Foucault said, speaking with the same light accent as before. “Good of you to come.”
She nodded her greeting.
“This is Special Agent John Renee,” said Foucault, gesturing to his left. “He will be your partner on the case. He’s already been briefed by SOC Grant on the particulars of the previous cases.”
Adele glanced to the second man standing by the oak desk. Perhaps a couple years older, with prematurely gray hair on the side which always accompanied the word “distinguished,” Agent John Renee was the tallest man in the room. He had a bold roman nose and a burn mark just beneath his chin, stretching down his throat. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and pronounced cheekbones. Overall, he struck Adele as carrying the appearance of a James Bond villain. Handsome enough to stare at, but rough enough to worry about.
She smiled to herself at this characterization, but hid the expression just as quickly, extending a hand toward her new partner.
“Greetings,” she said.
“Français?” John Renee replied.
Adele shrugged. “Oui, un peu.”
John nodded, his close-cut hair just as dark beneath the ceiling light as it had been in shadow. “English, then,” he said, carrying the thickest accent of the three men. “I have read the files, oui. But I still think I must ask you some questions.”
Foucault interrupted. “I’m sure Sharp wishes to settle. Robert, thank you.”
John rolled his eyes, but covered by glancing out the window. “The American princess needs her beauty sleep?”
“The American princess is fine,” said Adele, keeping her cool. She glanced toward Foucault. “Actually, if it’s all the same, I’d like to see the crime scene while it’s still fresh.”
Foucault’s lips turned down in a sort of shrug and he nodded. “I have no objections. John?”
The tall man with the military hair cut gave a curt shake of his head. “Have you seen the pictures?”
Adele adjusted her sleeves. “Yes. I’d like to track the girl’s movements, if it’s all the same. Is there anything new I should know about?”
John began to move toward the door without so much as an au revoir to the other men. “Lab gave us the results. The body we recovered does indeed belong to Marion Lucas. They found something in her blood.”
“That would be the paralytic. Do they know what it is?”
John shook his head, opening the door and stepping through it before her. Robert frowned from within the room and gave a small nod in Adele’s direction.
“No,” said John. “But they’re looking. We had hoped the FBI might know.”
Adele quickly returned Robert’s farewell, then winced at John. “Afraid not. Never enough of a sample to narrow it down, unfortunately. No matter. How far is the crime scene from here?”
“Follow me, American Princess,” said John. “I know a shortcut.”
Adele hurried after the brash man as he maneuvered quickly through the halls, leading her toward the elevators set at the end of building. She stepped into the first car that opened with John. The crime scene would have answers. It had to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adele inhaled the river air, the same air that had now gone stale in the corpse’s lungs. Marion’s body had long since been taken to the morgue, but her blood still stained the concrete in haphazard patterns, smothering the dust beneath the bridge in tendrils of crimson.
The area remained cordoned off, with sawhorse blockades obstructing the stairs and the walkway on either side. Two gendarmerie stood sentry, but otherwise, Adele and John had the crime scene to themselves.
Adele dropped into a crouch, pointing her finger at the blood. “Why do you think he bleeds them?” she murmured, then flicked her gaze back toward the stairs.
John gave a noncommittal grunt. “Psychos and freaks do psychotic and freakish things,” he said.
Adele pushed off her knees and moved over to the stairs, peering up beneath the blockade toward the sound of traffic and pedestrians above. “She lives on Rue Villehardouin?”
Another grunt. “That’s what her mother said.”
“She must have come down the stairs then. Shops with surveillance cameras?”
John frowned, testing the word in English. “Surveillance?”
“Security,” Adele said in English, then repeated the word in French.
“Still checking.”
Adele nodded. “Waiting for the warrants?”
John snorted at this, giving her a long look. He scratched at the burn mark beneath his chin as he wagged his head side to side. “How long has it been since you worked here? DGSI does not need warrants.”
Adele tucked her tongue inside her mouth and turned back toward the underpass, nodding slowly. He was right, of course. How could she forget? There were those who felt the reach of the DGSI extended far longer than their purpose. She supposed she didn’t disagree. But, from the law enforcement side of things, she certainly wouldn’t complain. Less red tape meant less time wasted, which meant more criminals behind bars and more citizens kept safe.
Adele shook her head in disgust, glancing around the scene once more. “Nothing new,” she said. “Any insights?” She turned, but found John staring across the river, watching the boats pass, a distant look in his eyes. “Hello?” she said. “Is our case boring you?”
He snapped out of his reverie. For a moment, his handsome features hardened, his eyes narrowing over his roman nose. “Yes,” he said. “A stupid girl allows herself to be lured beneath an ugly bridge. And now her
insides are staining my shoes. So, yes, American Princess, I am bored, and I am tired. Does this count as insight enough for you?”
Adele refused to allow her reaction to play across her face. She knew men like John—men who uttered callous, obnoxious opinions to throw others off guard.
John rolled his eyes, turning back toward the crime scene and facing away from the river. Agent Renee was nearly a head taller than her. His height alone had earned sidelong glances as they’d taken the stairs into the underpass. But Adele refused to let this intimidate her. She stepped right up next to John, surveying the bloodstains.
“The killer must know French,” said her partner after a moment.
Adele pursed her lips. “I thought the same. To lure her down here, he had to communicate somehow. Did Marion know English?”
“No. I asked her mother.”
Adele jerked her head in a short, choppy motion. “Good. So our killer knows English and French.” She exhaled deeply, shaking her head. “Why is he here, though? In France, I mean. Is he French? Vacationing and killing in America?”
“Why must he be French?” John snorted, his accent thicker than ever. “Probably a fat American, eh? Fled to my lovely country like a rat leaving a sinking ship.”
“Either way, why continue killing? He got away with it. The killer escaped the US. Why strike again? He could have gotten away.”
“Eh. He speaks French and English, but he is not so smart, hmm?”
Adele glanced over. “Perhaps it’s you?”
John shot her a sidelong glance, then a smile broke his face. He turned back to the stairs, waving at her to follow. “I wonder that myself, sometimes,” he said. “Come—we go speak with her friends.”
As Adele cast about the bloodstained ground one last time, a voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Hello!” said the voice in French, echoing down the stairs. “Hello, please, may I speak with you, madame?”
Adele turned to find the gendarmerie blocking the path of two elderly folk who were leaning against the wooden barricade and peering into the underpass, waving at her. John had paused on the opposite side of the crime scene, facing a different set of stairs. The tall man rubbed absentmindedly at the burn mark along his chin and flicked a questioning eyebrow in Adele’s direction.
