by Blake Pierce
She shook her head, then tapped at her pockets and pushed a sigh skyward. “Dammit. Must’ve left the phone in the car.”
She stepped past John and peered through the windshield, noting the phone sitting in the cup holder through the tinted window.
“I just needed to clear my head,” she said, glancing at her partner. “I’m serious, get off. You’ll put a dent in the thing.”
John nodded, adopting a look of sincerity. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”
He made no move to rise. “Maybe, just a suggestion, in the future you shouldn’t leave yourself completely without any mode of communication.” He shifted again, the heels of his shoes at the end of his long legs tapping against the metal rim of the front right tire.
“Could you stop,” Adele snapped, feeling the annoyance rising in her like bile in the back of her throat. “I’m not in the mood.”
He smirked. “Any new leads?”
“I’m serious. Get off the car—Christ, you’re like a teenage boy.”
“You know what your problem is?” he said, still making no move. “You think the world owes you. You think you’re entitled. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re not owed anything. This city is my city. American princesses can’t just come here and—”
“—Stop calling me that. Get off the damned hood.”
The frustration in her chest was now turning to anger, which, aided by John fanning the flames, was quickly turning into rage. She didn’t like that he had this effect on her. He was behaving like a child. This attitude never would’ve been permitted at the FBI. She vaguely wondered about his story. He didn’t seem like a very good agent. He was bored half the time, sarcastic the other half, and angry throughout it all. So why had they hired him? And, most importantly, why was he still sitting on her car with that enraging smirk?
She reached forward and grabbed him by the arm, preparing to bodily drag Agent Renee from the hood. He tensed the moment she touched him, his eyes narrowing, his other hand dropping instinctively toward her chest with rapid speed.
He didn’t hit her, but it was a close thing, as if he’d been trained to react violently to physical contact.
“Don’t touch me,” he growled.
“Get off my car.”
He slammed a hand against the side of the metal, far too hard. “This car?”
“Jesus, John, maybe we better just go back and ask if they’ll set us up with different part—”
Before Adele could finish, she heard the quiet chirping sound of her phone, the ring tone drifting through the tinted windows.
A split second later, a louder ringing sound of some French rock song began playing from John’s suit pocket. He glanced at her, frowning, still tensed, the muscles in his neck straining like someone on the verge of action. But as the song played, he fished the phone from his pocket and began to relax. He pressed the speaker to his ear, still frowning at Adele, and snapped, “What?”
Adele waited, also frowning.
John continued to glare, but then something else crept into his expression. “You sure?” he demanded.
Adele couldn’t hear the reply on the other end, but she did hear indistinct sounds. In the distance, car horns blared. The rain had stopped, but a quiet dripping sound resonated as water fell from gutters and leaves and moved in slow spurts toward the sewer grates.
Adele leaned in closer to John, listening. He smelled like expensive cologne and gunpowder. It was a scent she recognized from her father. The gunpowder anyway. Her father never spent a dime on cologne. He would’ve thought it wasteful. But he spent enough time at the gun range that he always came home smelling just a little bit like smoke and metal. Adele’s least favorite part of the job was target practice—perhaps due to her father’s opposite influence.
“What is it?” Adele could feel goose pimples rising across the back of her arms.
John slid off the hood of the car and began hurrying over to a large black SUV parked behind her.
“A hit on the APB,” he said quickly. All signs of his bored, annoying personality had vanished, replaced by an excited air that propelled him quickly toward the side door of his car. “Red-haired tourist, the Hyatt Hotel downtown.”
Adele stared, stunned. “Is he there now?”
“Right now. He has a girl with him.”
Adele cursed and fumbled for her keys, racing around the hood of the car toward the driver’s seat. “I’ll follow you!” she shouted over her shoulder.
John was too busy gunning his own engine and turning away from the curb, ripping up the street. A second later a siren blared from the SUV, coupled with flashing red and blue lights.
Adele settled, didn’t bother to buckle, and tore after him, roaring through the French streets. She would get the bastard this time. This time, he wouldn’t escape.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The cold metal of her firearm pressed against her cheek. She kept it close, angled upward, out of the line of sight from the eyehole in the large metal door that led to the hotel suite. Red numbers: 57. A single eyehole, trimmed with bronze.
Behind her, she could feel the presence of the concierge who’d given them the key card and escorted them quickly to the room.
John flanked the other side of the door from where Adele pressed against the wall. She could feel the metal frame of some bland hotel art jutting against her shoulder. She breathed slowly, calming herself, waiting. She had never been particularly good with a firearm. It was the one area that she needed more practice in. John, though, seemed in his element. He was crouched low, his extraordinarily tall form somehow compact all of a sudden. The gun he held with as much skin gripping the metal as possible, putting Adele’s own teacup grip to shame; the Glock .22 seemed an extension of his hands.
A wildfire glinted in John’s eyes, and he nodded toward the door and mouthed the words, “Ready?”
She glanced back down the hall, toward the stairs. They hadn’t wanted to take the elevator. Grunting and low muttering resounded through the thick door to suite fifty-seven.
As they’d entered the lobby earlier, it had sounded like backup was at least three minutes away. Three minutes was a long time. A lot of pain.
The concierge had confirmed a girl was with the red-haired man. A victim.
For a moment, Adele hesitated. This didn’t seem like the killer’s MO. He didn’t take his prey back to some lair. He preferred to kill them in quiet, secluded places. Places that couldn’t be traced back to him. A new country, a new MO, perhaps? Whatever the case, she could hear the sounds growing louder through the door.
A second later, a woman screamed.
No more waiting. Backup would have to get here when it did. Adele jammed the key card into the door slot, and John shoved past as she turned the handle.
“Show me your hands!” he shouted, his booming voice filling the room.
Weapon raised, left arm bent, she followed John into the hotel suite, the sound of their footsteps muffled by thick carpet, but the sounds of their voices blaring forth, attempting to control the room with sheer volume, resonating in the large space.
The suite was at the top floor of the hotel, reserved for affluent clientele. There were ebony counters along a small area that served as an en suite kitchen; a chandelier dangled above the two agents, illuminating marble tiles on either side of the stretch of red carpet leading from the door, down two steps, and into a lounge area.
Adele was mediocre with firearms, but in surveying a crime scene, there were few better. She instantly cataloged three adjacent doorways in the suite. Two of them were shut, but one was propped open. Large, tinted windows circled a bulging, spherical wall, giving a view of the city below. And there, lying over the top of a mauve, cushioned sofa, a redheaded man had a woman pinned beneath him.
The man wore a strange black outfit. Beneath him, Adele could hear the quiet shouts and fearful cries of the woman.
The man’s hands jutted skyward, as he spun to face the two agents. “Please!”
he shouted. “Please don’t shoot!”
John hurried over to the woman, keeping his gun trained on the man.
Adele couldn’t see any blood. Adrenaline laced through her body as she took quick stock of the man. He didn’t seem to be armed.
She felt a slight jolt of discomfort as she realized he was wearing black latex all up and down his body. Her gaze flicked to the woman and realized she was wearing a similar outfit. There were conspicuously cut holes in the body of the outfits, allowing no room for decency, but ample room for intimate access.
John had pulled up sharply, and clicked his tongue in a disapproving sound. “Christ, put that away, will you?”
The man hesitated, his cheeks turning the same color as his hair. He began to lower his hands to zip up his suit, but just as quickly, Adele barked, “No sudden movements!”
The woman also covered herself, trying to keep some modicum of decency by placing herself between the couch and the agents. No blood. No weapon. No injuries.
“Dammit,” Adele said. She lowered her gun, shaking her head in disgust. “Mademoiselle, are you hurt?” This, she directed toward the woman.
The woman shook her head wildly and pointed toward the man. “He’s a friend,” she said. “Purely a friend. We’re not doing anything illegal. I’m here for free!”
John’s gun also lowered, and he sighed. “Interesting comment to volunteer,” he said, with a wry shake of his head. Some of the burning wildfire in his gaze had faded now.
Adele could feel her frustration mounting, but John seemed to have found the humor in the situation. He winked at the woman and gave her a quick glance up and down. “What’s the going rate?” he said. “I might have some spare time tomorrow.”
Adele stared in shock at her partner, but then, when the woman didn’t react in outrage, she glanced back.
Agent Renee holstered his weapon and winked at the woman. “Pretty sure while this is outside of my jurisdiction, you’re not supposed to be paying for it. It’s not 2016 anymore, my friend.”
The man, who had, with slow, careful motions, managed to zip up his latex suit for some amount of decency, shook his head. Adele noticed a long, leather strap on the ground, as well as a riding crop. She noticed a couple of bruises on the exposed side of the woman’s hip. But nothing in the woman’s posture suggested she was afraid of the man next to her. If anything, she seemed embarrassed.
“It isn’t like that,” the man said, taking a shuddering breath. He continued to fidget nervously, his hands still down by his waist. His gaze flicked between Renee and Adele, the red hue of his cheeks now matching his hair. “Perfectly consensual. Tell them—well? Tell them!”
The woman glanced sidelong at him and hesitated for a moment, a shrewd look coming across her eyes. She considered the comment, and Adele could see the wheels turning in her brain as she seemed to mull over her options. At long last, though, she sighed, and said, “He’s right. Perfectly willing.”
The red-haired man sighed in relief.
Adele tried to suppress her frustration. Clearly, this wasn’t the Benjamin Killer. It couldn’t be. Could it?
John moved over to the couch and plopped down, leaning back and crossing his legs, tossing his feet onto a footstool. The lack of professionalism sent another jolt of annoyance through Adele. Their argument from earlier had faded to the back of her mind, but the cavalier way in which John conducted himself put her ill at ease.
“Well,” said John, addressing the red-haired man, “I’m going to guess that you aren’t French. I haven’t heard an accent like that since American Princess first spoke back at the office.”
This, Adele thought was entirely unfair. It was true that earlier it had taken her a couple of hours to get back into the stream of conversation, but this man spoke with a terribly thick accent. She couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t American.
“British?” she said.
The man glanced sharply at her, worry wrinkling his face in rigid lines around his eyes. He began to reply, but then caught himself.
John chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Does the missus know you’re out and about, playing with the French toys, hmm?” John said. “It would be a pity for her to find—”
Before he could finish, the man let out a quiet yelp and bolted for it.
Adele snapped her gun up, and there was a brief window where she could have fired, but, though her finger stayed on the trigger, she didn’t squeeze. The man’s face was covered in sweat and streaks of red as he barreled into Adele, knocking her roughly to the side. He shouted incoherently and bolted toward the door.
Adele stumbled back, slamming into one of the couches, throwing out a hand to steady herself on a metal railing that led up the two steps.
She aimed at the man’s retreating form and shouted, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
But he didn’t stop. In his black, skintight latex suit, the man bolted into the hallway and then disappeared from view, the sound of his thudding footsteps reaching them from the open doorway.
Adele hesitated for only a moment to glance back at John, raising an eyebrow in exasperation. “Gonna help?”
John leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head, and smirking in the direction of the prostitute against the wall. “I’ll cover her,” he said. “You can chase the one with the wood in the rubber suit.”
Adele huffed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she stowed her weapon, and then broke into a sprint, racing up the stairs along the red carpet and out into the hallway of the hotel.
She spotted the man pushing through the doorway that led to the stairs, his fingers shoving against the metal push bar, and the latex of his suit reflecting the red from the exit sign above.
Adele lowered her head, racing toward the man and covering the distance rapidly. They were at the top of the hotel, and the man hadn’t opted to wait for the elevator.
She reached the stairwell and could hear him a flight below her, cursing as he circled the stairs, sprinting down.
“Stop!” she shouted.
The retort of slapping footsteps indicated he had no desire to comply. She saved her breath and continued her pursuit without further comment. Adele took the stairs four at a time, leaping down the steps rapidly.
Just below her, she could hear the ragged gasps of the man as he continued to flee. Her own breathing was steady, calm. She could feel the way her body responded each time she pushed off one foot and rounded the banister, circling down the staircase one flight at a time. She spent most of her life running, training. Every morning, without fail, she would exercise for moments like these. The man had made a mistake in thinking he could outrun her.
Already, even though they’d only covered a few flights, she could tell the man was lagging. She was gaining now and reached the top of a flight of stairs as he reached the bottom. Another flight of stairs, and he was only halfway down. One more, and he was within grabbing distance.
Adele didn’t try to shout this time. The man was gasping, heaving, his breath coming in huffing puffs.
For her part, Adele’s breathing was elevated, her heart rate higher, but she could still keep this up.
The red-haired man could hear her approaching footsteps, and he turned, his eyes wide with panic. They widened even further as Adele launched through the air, tackling him from behind and bringing both of them slamming to the marble landing.
The man’s breath whooshed from his body as he thumped to the floor, cushioning her fall.
Adele tried to control her temper as she rolled the man over and pulled his hands sharply behind his back. Just another tourist who liked his French prostitutes and bondage games.
“I suspect you’re going to enjoy this,” she said, grimly. There was a slight squeak of his rubber outfit against the floor as she shifted him into a better position and then reached for her handcuffs, pulling them out and shackling his wrists.
“How long have you been in France?” she demanded once the man was secure. She kept h
er knee in the small of his back, crouched over him like some gargoyle above a hapless victim. Frustration and fury cycled through her body, carried by pulsing adrenaline and an elevated heartbeat.
She shook him roughly, pulling at the handcuffs until he loosed a painful grunt.
“How long have you been in France?” she repeated, speaking in English now.
The man sighed softly, deflating like a leaking balloon, and then, with a grunt, he said, “Only a week. You can check my tickets on my phone. Please—don’t hurt me.”
He had a British accent. London, by the sound of it.
“A week? How come you’re just now checking into the hotel?”
It took another shake of the man’s cuffed hands, but again he grunted, and, reluctantly, gasped out, “Third hotel. I switch after… After each one.”
“Each what?”
The man whimpered, shaking his head, his red hair shifting back and forth and his rubber suit squeaking against the marble floor. “They’re better in France. You don’t understand. I’m not a bad man. I pay them well, and always follow our safe words, I promise! You’re not going to tell my wife, are you?” At this, the British man’s voice cracked.
Adele muttered in disgust—not so much at the man’s actions but at the outcome of the APB. This wasn’t the killer. Of that, she was nearly certain.
She gently guided the man back to his feet, some of the anger deflating from her at his docile posture. With a sigh, trying to steady her breath and allowing the man to do the same, she guided him back up the stairs.
As she did, her vortex of annoyance and anger began to recede, giving way to another thought… She glanced sidelong at the man, pushing him along in front of her. He had a British accent. A Brit in France.
While this man clearly wasn’t the killer, she’d been operating under the assumption that the killer was from France or the US. That he either fled the US to escape to a foreign country or that he’d been vacationing in the US and returned home to Paris. But, as she shoved the man along, back up the stairs, she realized there was a third option.
