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Left To Die
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.
“Yes?” Adele said, turning her back on John. “Can I help you?” She peered up, squinting in the sunlight that dappled the stairs and guard rails leading to the sidewalk above.
The elderly couple were well-dressed, with long overcoats and thin gloves. Their silver hair was trimmed neatly: the man with a military cut, not unlike John’s—minus Renee’s overly long bangs—and the woman with shoulder-length locks that reminded Adele of her mother’s.
She swallowed at the thought, but pushed it quickly aside as she ascended the bottom steps, pulling within hearing distance.
“Pardon us,” said the man in a rumbling, creaking voice. “But is this where it happened? Where the young girl died?”
Adele watched the man and her gaze flicked to the woman. She hated that her immediate thought was one of suspicion—an instinct honed over years of confronting the worst humanity offered. But, just as quickly, she discarded the notion. Nothing in the killer’s crimes suggested a duo.
She kept her expression pleasant, quizzical. Her French, the same as her English, and the same as her German, sometimes carried an accent. She did her best to hide it, but hadn’t been in practice as much as with English. “You knew the girl?” she said, carefully.
The old couple shared a glance, peering past the uniformed officer who stepped back once Adele approached.
The old man eyed her up and down. “You are not police,” he said, cautiously.
Adele glanced at her slacks and self-consciously tugged at her sleeves. “Er, no—not exactly. I’m working with DGSI, though.”
The old woman frowned, clicking her tongue quietly in disapproval.
Adele decided that mentioning the FBI would only have made things worse. The DGSI had only become an autonomous office a couple of years before she’d joined, and there were some in the public who didn’t approve of the agency’s reputation.
The old woman began tugging at her husband’s arm as if to lead him back up the few steps. “Sorry,” the woman said, still peering disapprovingly at Adele. “We made a mistake.”
“I don’t work with DGSI anymore,” said Adele, thinking quickly in an effort to save the situation. “I’m consulting. Because of Marion—the girl who died.” She made a face like sucking lemons. “Oh, apologies, I-I don’t think I was supposed to mention her name.” She stepped back, peering down the stairs, but also positioning her body in just such a way so that the bloodstains beneath the bridge were visible over the barricade.
She waited an appropriate number of seconds, then turned back, shielding the crime scene again with her body. “A nasty business,” Adele said. “The girl’s mother is inconsolable, as I’m sure you can imagine. She’s from Paris, too. Living all alone now in her apartment. Such a pity—one should never be cursed to see their child leave the world first.”
The old man was peering past Adele, his face turning pale as he surveyed the underpass beyond. The woman had stopped tugging at his arm and her expression softened as she mulled over Adele’s words. The woman made the same clicking sound with her tongue, but then sighed. She shook her husband’s arm in a permissive sort of way.
“Go on,” said the old woman. “Tell the lady.”
The man continued to stare past Adele, over the barricade, his eyes fixated like he’d seen a ghost. After another tug on his arm, though, he cleared his throat and his dark eyes leveled on Adele.
“The girl—Marion—we saw on the news. Recognized her from the apartment. She lives on Rue Villehardouin as well.”
Adele nodded carefully, her eyes flitting back down the stairs in John’s direction, but he was out of sight beneath the underpass. “You knew Marion?”
The old man was staring off again and his wife tugged sharply at his arm once more. “Ahem, yes,” said the man. “We would cross paths occasionally on our nighttime walks. A friendly, nice, pretty—er, nice young girl.” He cleared his throat and retrieved his arm before his wife could pull it off. He leaned over the sawhorse, white knuckles straining where they gripped the barricade.
The gendarmerie reached out to push him back, but Adele gave the quickest shake of her head and leaned in, staring intently into the old man’s dark eyes set in his wrinkled face.
“She walked alone,” said the old man. “Said she was going to visit friends—she should not have been alone. Paris is not what it once was.”
“No. Most places aren’t,” said Adele. “You saw her leaving her apartment then. What time?”
“Eight? Nine?”
“Half past seven,” the woman chimed in from behind her husband.
Adele nodded. “Did she say anything? Besides that she was off to see friends?”
“No,” said the old man. “She said goodnight is all. But…” Here, his fingers gripped the sawhorse even tighter. “Perhaps it isn’t my place to say… But—but—”
“—just tell her, Bernard,” the woman snapped.
“I do not mean to cause anyone trouble,” the old man said.
Adele prompted him with a tilt of her eyebrows. “But…”
“But I saw someone following her. Maybe he was just going the same way… I do not know. But—like I said—I do not wish to cause anyone trouble. However, after hearing what happened to her… I mean, at the time I didn’t think anything of it. But now, maybe if I had said something.” The old man trailed off and leaned back from the sawhorse, pressing up against his wife in a protective sort of posture.
The wizened woman looped her hand back through his arm and rubbed affectionately at his wrist in a calming gesture.
Adele, though, for her part, felt anything but calm. She tried to keep her tone in check, but found it difficult with her pulse pounding in her ears. “You saw someone following her? You’re sure?”
“Yes,” said the woman at once.
“Well,” said the man, “he may have simply been going the same direction. Like I said, I don’t wish to cause any—”
“Sir, if I may, you’re not causing any trouble,” said Adele, quickly. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady herself. She could hear the accent in her words the more excited she got. Now wasn’t the time to announce to these two citizens that she hailed from beyond Paris. With folk like these it would only complicate the situation. So she inhaled again, and then, her words pressing on the silence between them, she said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
For a moment, she thought of reaching for her phone to record the reply, but then decided it might only spook the couple.
The old man shrugged. “Someone following her. Like I said.”
“He carried a bundle,” the woman said. “And—yes.” She snapped her fingers. “He wore a blue shirt.”
The old man frowned, though, his brow crinkling. “No,” he said. “The shirt was green. His shoes were blue.”
“Was he wearing shoes?” said the woman in doubt.
Adele felt her heart sink. She licked at her lips, finding them suddenly dry, and began to step back down the stairs, if only to gain some space to breathe.
“Is there anything else?” she said from a step further down.
The old couple glanced at each other, then, nearly at once, they both replied, “He had red hair.”
Adele had been half-glancing back toward where John awaited, but at this, her gaze flew back to the old couple. She stared at them, searching their expressions for certainty. “Red hair?” she said. “You’re sure?”
They both shared a look, then nodded adamantly.
Adele felt her pulse racing once more. She’d once had a smartwatch when she’d trained for a marathon. Her resting heart rate had always been far too high for how in shape she was—another side effect of the job. And now, she could practically hear her heartbeat in her ears.
“Would you be willing to give an official statement down at the station?” Adele said. “What are your names? Bernard, you said? Last name?”
The old man began to reply, but the old woman tugged sharply on his arm. “You’ve heard our statement,” she said, frowning. “There is nothing more to say.”
“I understand,” Adele began, “but if—”
“Nothing more!” The woman had already half-dragged her husband up the steps, leading him quickly away from the underpass.
The gendarmerie officer glanced at Adele as if waiting for an order to stop them. But she shook her head.
“Let them go,” Adele murmured. “I doubt there’s anything more we can learn anyway…”
She nodded in gratitude toward the officer, then gave a small little salute with two fingers toward the retreating backs of the elderly couple. With a slight skip in her step, she turned and took the stairs, hurrying back toward where John waited.
Red hair. A wig? Perhaps. But a clue either way.
The bastard wouldn’t get away. Not this time.
A smile stretched her lips as she rejoined John on the other side of the underpass, facing a ramp with a long metal rail.
“What are you so chipper over?” John said, frowning. He had a phone raised, pressed against his cheek, and he seemed more grumpy than usual.
“I—” Adele cut herself off. “Who is that?” she said, nodding toward the phone.
John lowered the device and clicked a button on the side, sliding the phone back into his pocket, still frowning. “Marion’s friends. Some boots were able to track them down. They’re waiting for us at the bar.”
“Why do you look pissed off? That’s good news.”
“Oh, yes? It is good? Hmm—well Michael and Sophie are going to be there. You remember Agent Paige, yes?” His tone was now high-pitched and would-be innocent, carrying the malicious undercurrent of bad humor. “She refused to work with you. I cannot emphasize this enough, eh. Refused. Called you a chienne—do you remember this word, hmm? It is why I am saddled with our American princess—because Paige would not play nice.”
Adele felt the smile fade from her face with each subsequent word. She swallowed, slowly, a prickle of anxiety spreading through her, tingling down her spine. “Sophie Paige? She’s an agent now?”
“No longer supervising, hmm?” said John, still in his would-be innocent voice. His mood seemed markedly improved all of a sudden. “I wonder why that is? She wouldn’t—no, god forbid—she wouldn’t blame you for her demotion, would she?” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise.
“Christ, you’re such an ass,” Adele snapped. She began stomping up the ramp, rubbing her hand against the cool metal of the guard rail. “Are you coming? Or do you want me to interview all our witnesses on my own?”
John didn’t reply, but she could hear him chuckling behind her as he followed.
Inwardly, Adele was a tangle of emotions. Sophie Paige had been her supervisor back when she’d worked for the DGSI. And what a mess that had been. Surely, after all these years, she wouldn’t still hold a grudge…
“Who am I kidding,” Adele muttered out loud, picking up the pace as she reached the sidewalk and stomped toward the waiting vehicle.
Sophie Paige was exactly the sort to hold a grudge. Interviewing a bunch of Marion’s friends with that gargoyle leering over her shoulder sounded about as much fun as pulling teeth.
Two steps forward, one step back.
But Agent Paige or not…
The killer had red hair.
Twenty-five. Twenty-four. No more.
