Left To Run. Блейк Пирс
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was startled from her reverie by an officer in uniform tapping her shoulder. She glanced back, turning from the window in the hallway outside the victim’s apartment.
“Excuse me,” the officer said, quietly.
Adele raised an eyebrow to show she’d heard.
The officer cleared his throat and smoothed his mustache. “The witness refuses to come inside. She says she’d rather talk on the sidewalk. Is that all right?”
Adele glanced at the man, then toward the open door to the apartment. For a brief moment, she was tempted to leave Agent Paige and go talk to Ms. Robinson on her own. But at last, she sighed and nodded. She pointed toward the open door. “Would you mind telling my partner?”
The police officer nodded once, then circled the banister, heading for the door. He gave a polite wave toward where the landlord still waited at the end of the hall, keys in hand. For all Adele cared, he could wait all day. They wouldn’t be renting out the place anytime soon. Not yet at least.
She moved back down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hoping to have a couple of moments to speak with the witness without Agent Paige’s presence clouding her thoughts.
She reached the ground floor, pushed open the door to the apartment building, and noticed a third car, this time a police vehicle, waiting at the curb. Adele glanced at the front of the vehicle, where a second officer sat on the hood. She had a cigarette in her hand and looked to be lighting it, but when she spotted Adele, she quickly tucked her lighter back in her pocket and flicked the cigarette toward the grate beneath the car’s front wheel.
The officer pushed off the hood just as quickly and nodded toward the back seat of the vehicle.
“She refuses to get out,” the officer said. “I can make her, if you’d like—”
“Of course not,” Adele retorted. “She’s not a suspect.” She moved toward the rear of the vehicle and peered inside. A dimple-faced young woman with curly brown hair sat in the back. She couldn’t have been older than Adele. Perhaps early thirties.
Adele tapped on the door and looked toward the officer expectantly. The officer waved apologetically and then reached into her pocket and clicked her key.
The police car lights flickered; there was a quiet ticking sound of the locks. Adele tugged on the handle and opened the door. She peered inside the cabin, ducking low and meeting the eyes of the American woman.
“You’re Melissa Robinson?” she asked.
The curly-haired woman nodded once. “Yes, I am,” she replied in accented French.
“English or French?” Adele said. The woman hesitated, frowning, and began to speak, but Adele interrupted and said, “How about English? Easier for both of us I’d imagine.”
The seamless way Adele switched from nearly perfect French to flawless English seemed to take the woman with the curly hair back a bit. “Are you—” she began.
Adele said, “On assignment. It’s a long story.” Normally people didn’t understand what it was to be American, German, and French. The idea of having three citizenships was lost on most and Adele didn’t want to get into it.
She heard footsteps behind her, and with a weary collapse of her shoulders, she glanced back to notice Paige approaching, glaring in her direction.
Adele returned her attention to the police vehicle once more. She still didn’t enter the vehicle, figuring it might be perceived as threatening, so instead she leaned forward, her arms pressed on the top of the door, in a sort of sheltering posture, hoping the way she positioned herself would communicate protectiveness to the woman within.
Adele cleared her throat and said, “I’m very sorry you had to come back here, and I’m sorry that we wanted to bring you back upstairs. That was my oversight.”
Melissa Robinson nodded, smiling in a small, sad way as if accepting the apology. Adele felt a bit of weight lift from her chest at the American’s expression as she continued, “But I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me anything about the victim. Her name was Amanda, is that right?”
“Yes,” Melissa said, her voice quavering.
Adele continued to lean in, but she could now hear more footsteps, and could feel Agent Paige coming even closer.
Melissa’s gaze flicked from Adele, over her shoulder toward the approaching agent.
“You mind giving us a moment?” Adele said, tight-lipped, to her partner.
Agent Paige leaned against the front of the vehicle, though, peering into the back without greeting the witness. “Go right ahead,” she said. Paige made no move to leave. The two officers watched the agents, but stayed where they were on the sidewalk.
With a frustrated sigh, Adele turned back, keeping her expression as pleasant as possible. “Is there anything else you might be able to tell us about Amanda?”
Melissa shook her head almost immediately. “Nothing,” she said, stammering a bit. “I barely knew her. We were going to meet for the second time today.”
Adele frowned. “Today?”
“I’m sorry, I mean yesterday. It’s been rough… Yesterday, early on, before she… when she died.” The woman shook her head again, wincing, and she glanced back through the window, up toward the third floor of the apartment building.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Adele. “But do you mind helping me out; what do you mean you were going to meet yesterday?”
“I mean,” said the woman, “that we met at a supermarket briefly, but for the most part only ever spoke online.”
“Online?” said Paige, gruffly, leaning past Adele and shouldering her out of the way so she could peer into the back seat. “What do you mean online?”
Melissa glanced between the two women. “I mean on the Internet. We have a chat room for expats from America. She wanted to meet up; it can be lonely sometimes in a new country if you don’t know anyone.”
“There are a lot of you here?” Agent Paige said. Adele didn’t like the disapproving tone in her partner’s voice. Paige issued a soft snort of air, but she kept herself mostly in check. “Don’t like the home country, is that it?”
Melissa fidgeted uncomfortably, twisting the seatbelt in her hands. She still had it attached, even though the car was parked. Adele didn’t blame her; sometimes people latched onto anything for a feeling of safety.
The woman shifted again and seemed unsure whom she ought to address. At last, she settled on looking at Adele. “We don’t dislike our country. At least, not all of us. Not really. There are a lot of reasons someone might move away. Culture, changing jobs. I can’t tell you how many hours most of us had to work back home. Sometimes it feels like in America you just live to work. In France, it feels like there is more of a life. Plus there are so many different people you can meet; a common history and architectural beauty…” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Don’t get me wrong; I do like America too, sometimes,” she added quickly. “But everyone has their priorities and tastes. Some people love to travel. Some people want to start over. I can’t imagine it’s that strange.”
Adele shook her head. “It isn’t,” she said, “but you said you met Amanda briefly before. How?”
Melissa brightened at this. “I… I met her while shopping. We…” She hesitated, her tone slipping. And she swallowed. “We met in a checkout line at Le Grande Epicerie de Paris…”
“The grocery store?” Adele asked.
Melissa’s eyes were sad, but a bit of humor crept into her tone as she said, “It’s—it’s a bit of a joke among our community. The USA section at the store only carries things like peanut butter cups, popcorn, beef jerky—a funny interpretation of what Paris believes are the staples back home…” Melissa hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for Americans