Left To Run. Блейк Пирс
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into the kitchen, grabbed her plastic bowl, and turned on the water with an irritated snap of her wrist. She rinsed out the milky residue in the bottom, placed the bowl in the dryer rack, and headed back toward the door.
Before she could turn the doorknob, though, a quiet chirping sound caught her attention. Adele’s eyes darted to the kitchen table. Her phone was vibrating.
She frowned. The only people who would call her this early were her father in Germany, or work.
And she had just spoken to her father a couple of days ago. It was little surprise, then, when she glanced down at the glowing blue green screen depicting a single word in white letters.
Office.
She picked up her phone as the buzzing noise faded. Adele read three simple words in black text flashing across her screen. Urgent. Come in.
Adele removed her sweatband and hurried back to her room to change into work clothes. The jog would have to wait.
From the parking lot, through the security checkpoints, Adele only paused once to drop off coffee to Doug, one of her friends on the security team. By the time she reached the fourth floor, and Supervising Agent Grant’s office, she could already hear voices through the opaque glass door.
Adele pushed in and pulled up short.
Two large TV monitors set in the wall depicted faces Adele recognized. On the left, over Grant’s desk, Executive Foucault, the DGSI supervisor. On the right, situated near a blue-tinted window with a view of the city, Adele spotted Ms. Jayne, a correspondent for Interpol who had first proposed the idea of a joint task force headed up by Adele.
Agent Lee Grant, who’d been named after the two generals in the Civil War, stood behind a metal standing desk, her fingertips steepled beneath her chin, a troubled expression on her face. She glanced up at Adele, waving her in with quick scattered gestures. Agent Grant’s office was sparse, with a yoga mat in one corner and a pile of workout DVDs hidden beneath a blue plastic binder next to her desk.
Agent Grant gestured to one of the empty stools in front of her standing desk and waited for Adele to sit. At last, she cleared her throat, regarding Adele with a nod, and said, “They need you back in France.”
Adele looked between the TV monitors. Ms. Jayne’s and Foucault’s gazes were just a bit off, each of them glancing at the various screens at their disposal rather than looking directly into their cameras. Still, Adele couldn’t help but search the gaze of Ms. Jayne and the DGSI executive, trying to discern their motives.
“Is it bad?” Adele asked, hesitantly.
Ms. Jayne cleared her throat, and in a clear, crisp voice, said, “Only two victims so far. I’ll let Foucault fill you in on the details.” Ms. Jayne was an older woman, with bright, intelligent eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. She had silver hair and was a bit heavier than most field agents. She spoke without an accent, suggesting she’d mastered the English language, but it didn’t seem as if it were her native tongue.
On the other screen, Executive Foucault’s dark eyes narrowed over a hawkish nose; he shook his head and seemed to be glancing down off screen—there was the sound of rummaging papers.
“Yes, yes,” he said in heavily accented English. “Two dead. So far. Two Americans,” he added, glancing up at the screen. “Or, at least, were Americans.”
Adele frowned. “What do you mean?”
Foucault’s gaze flitted across the screen one way then the other, not quite lining up with anyone in the room, but suggesting that perhaps he was glancing between portions of his own computer screen.
“Expatriates,” he said. “Americans now living in France. Both had visas, but were applying for citizenship, or at least one of the victims did. The other only recently arrived.”
Adele nodded to show she’d heard. “So why do you need me?”
Ms. Jayne cleared her throat. Her voice came clear, even through the crackle of the speakers. “We need someone who’s familiar with the DGSI, but who America is comfortable investigating their own. The unique nature of the crimes could also use someone with your expertise.”
Adele frowned. “What unique nature?”
Foucault replied, “Two dead so far. Throats slit, nearly ear to ear.” He adopted a grim tone and continued, “I’ll send the files along as soon as I’m cleared by the coroner. Both young women, both recent arrivals. We’re investigating, of course, and I’m sure our agents will come up with some good leads, but,” he frowned again, glancing at his computer screen, “Ms. Jayne seems to think it would be wise to involve you early on. I can’t say I fully agree, but it’s not my hill to die on.”
Adele raised a hand while he spoke, waiting for him to finish. He noticed this, and nodded for her to speak.
“How long between the murders?” she said.
The executive replied without hesitation. “Three days. The killer is quick. It’s worth noting there’s no physical evidence at the scene.”
Adele shifted in her seat, realizing this chair didn’t make as much noise as the one back in her kitchen. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s no physical evidence.”
“None?”
Foucault’s frown deepened, his bushy eyebrows pressing together. “None at all. No fingerprints, no traces of hair or saliva. No sexual assault that we could find. The cuts alone, according to the coroner’s initial report, were strange. Whoever did this slit their necks, but did so without a quavering hand—a practiced motion.”
“And what does that mean?” Adele asked.
“If I may,” said Agent Grant, speaking for the first time from behind her standing desk, “cuts and slicing wounds carry a sort of signature. Whether the attack was left-handed, or how strong they were, or how tall…”
Foucault nodded with each passing word and cleared his throat. “Exactly. But these particular attacks were done by someone without much signature at all. There’s no physical evidence. No sign of a struggle. No forced entry. Nothing suggesting any foul play, except, of course, two corpses in downtown Paris.”
“Well,” said Ms. Jayne, peering through the screen now. Her eyes seemed to have readjusted for a moment, now fixating firmly on Adele. “Are you ready for your flight?”
Adele flicked her eyes to Agent Grant and raised her eyebrows.
Grant hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to spend another couple of weeks with Agent Masse?” she said, her tone betraying no emotion whatsoever.
Adele scowled.
Grant’s eyes twinkled in a morbid sort of humor. “I’ll take that as a no. Already signed for your leave and reassigned Masse. You’re good to go.”
Adele tried to suppress the sudden jolt of emotion—she was a professional, after all—but as she pushed from her chair, she couldn’t help but feel excitement at the thought of returning to France.
“Is there anything else I should know?” she asked, glancing at Foucault.
“I’ll send you the reports,” he said with a shrug. “But they’re short. As I told you, not much evidence. There is one thing. A strange detail, but certainly important…”
“What?”
“The first victim’s kidney was missing.”
A strange silence fell over the room for a moment, and the two crackling screens and the two agents in the San Francisco office waited, all of them frowning.
“Her kidney?” said Adele.
“Just so,” said Foucault.
“Is the killer taking trophies?”
The executive shrugged, his thick brow narrowing over his sharp nose. “Well, that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You provide the answers. It’s my job to provide the questions. I’m