Left To Run. Блейк Пирс
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in his office,” she said. “We’re to start right away?”
Her old mentor nodded as he pushed out of his chair and moved with stiff motions around the edge of his desk. “Leave your suitcase here,” he said. “I’ll send someone to take it to my home. Come now.”
Robert took her by the arm, looping her hand through the crook of his elbow, and escorted her to the elevator. Robert was old-fashioned, and there were some who thought of him as pompous. But to Adele, his behavior only summoned a fond amusement.
They waited for the quiet ding of the elevator and stepped into the compartment. For the briefest moment, Adele’s finger hovered over the button for the second floor—John’s office would be there. Was he in? No—now wasn’t the time. There wasn’t a gap of three weeks between kills like the last time. Three days. That’s all that had passed between the killings. A rapid, startling pace. A pace that might only get worse.
Adele pressed the button for the top floor and, with Robert next to her still holding her elbow, she waited as the elevator carried them up and toward the office of the executive.
Paige sat by the window, a familiar comfort in the way she reclined in the office chair. Executive Foucault himself peered out from beneath a hawk-like brow, gnawing on one corner of his lip and shaking his head.
Adele and Robert stood, waiting, watching. Foucault’s eyes fixed on his computer screen and his expression only darkened. “This is it?” he asked, glancing up. “Nothing new?” His eyes darted to Agent Paige, whose own gaze bounced to Adele as if redirecting the executive’s ire.
Adele hesitated. Sunlight streamed through the open window of the executive’s large office—the gusting air ushered out some of the scent of cigarette smoke, but the odor still clung to the walls.
“I just arrived,” Adele said, hesitantly, unsure if she was being blamed for something. “I was planning to settle at Robert’s…” She trailed off at the look on Foucault’s face and then cleared her throat. “Honestly, I slept on the plane. We can start this afternoon. I’d like to see the crime scene of the second victim.”
Foucault nodded, waving a hand. “Yes,” he said, his thick eyebrows narrowed over his dark eyes. “That would be best. We don’t have time to wait on this one, hmm? No.” He nodded toward Paige. “You two have worked together before, yes?”
Paige continued to sit in silence by the window. She nodded once. Adele also nodded.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Robert intervened, clearing his throat. “A strange one, this,” he said, quietly.
Adele kept her eyes fixed on Foucault, but nodded in agreement.
Robert grunted as the attention in the room shifted from Adele to him. “The victims must have known the killer,” he said. “A friend? Maybe a family member?”
Adele turned her face slightly, rolling her head against her shoulders. “Maybe. Or maybe the killer snuck up on them. A landlord? With a key?”
Robert hesitated for a moment and silence reigned once more. At last, he said, “What do you make of the missing kidney?”
“You’ve been over the files?”
“Second report isn’t in yet.” Robert paused, inclining an eyebrow toward Foucault in question.
The executive nodded. “They’re working on it, but it’s taking some time. Full report should be in soon.”
Robert nodded and this time addressed Foucault, moving across the room to peer through the open window into the street below. A small, pink-painted cafe occupied the street across from the DGSI.
“I did read the first report,” he said. “Only the kidney missing. Why do you think that is?”
Paige and Foucault both stayed silent. But Adele glanced across the room toward her mentor, watching the way the afternoon sunlight illuminated the side of his face and cast shadows against the carpeted floor.
“Trophy collecting?” she said.
“Perhaps,” said Robert. “Makes sense.”
“What else?”
Robert shrugged and his gaze snapped to Foucault behind his desk.
The executive’s frown deepened. “That’s what you’re paid to find out,” he said. His eyes darted between the three agents and he reached out, patting the side of his computer. “We need more information, and you don’t have much time to provide it.”
Adele noted the quick way in which we became you. She paused, then said, quietly, “I’ve been thinking about the victims. Both of them expats, yes? Growing up, I had some experience with that community—not much, as my mother was local. But some American friends at school whose parents relocated for work.” She paused. “They’re a vulnerable community. Isolated a lot of times—barriers in language and culture. Perhaps the killer is using this to get close to them. Exploiting loneliness or a pressure to please the host country.”
Foucault took this with a nod and shrug. “Explore all possibilities,” he said. “Just,” he paused, “don’t make it personal.” He turned from Adele. “Agent Henry, you’ll be staying here, I presume?” Foucault’s gaze flicked to the smaller man.
Robert rubbed his mustache. “I’ll leave the field work to the youngsters, I think.”
Foucault returned his attention to Adele. “Second crime scene?” he said. “It’s still under our supervision.”
“I’m ready to start if she isn’t too tired,” Paige said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the room. The comment seemed innocent enough, but something about it raised Adele’s hackles.
Now that the attention was once again on her, Adele inhaled softly.
Americans in France, expats—she felt a kinship with them; a camaraderie. Adele knew what it was to move from country to country, to reestablish roots, to build a life once more.
But these lives had been built only to end with bloodstains on the floor of their apartments. No physical evidence. No sign of a struggle. No sign of breaking or entering.
Now wasn’t the time for rest.
“I’m ready when you are,” said Adele, already turning toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele ground her teeth in frustration, tapping her fingers impatiently against the woodwork of the door frame that led into the apartment. She glanced at her watch for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes and her eyebrows lowered even further over her eyes, darkening her countenance as a flash of impatience jolted through her.
“Christ,” Adele muttered. She frowned as she glanced up and down the street, tracking the flow of vehicles. She kept trying to spot any government issues, but found her attention drawn only to the loaner she’d parked against the curb by the empty meter. It was still afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, dipping only slightly in the horizon.
Adele and Sophie had taken separate vehicles, as Adele would be heading to Robert’s straight from the crime scene.
She leaned against the railing leading up the concrete steps and turned back toward the front door of the apartment. For a moment, she considered entering on her own. But generally, protocol dictated two agents were required on scene in tandem. On her first day back on the job in France, Adele didn’t want to stretch boundaries. Still, Agent Paige was making it difficult. Already, she was nearly thirty minutes late.
Adele let out a low growl. She’d made arrangements with Robert to take her luggage to his house, and then driven straight to the crime scene. The drive had taken twenty minutes. Paris was one of the few cities with next to no stop signs. It was rumored there was one stop sign, somewhere; Agent Paige must have found it and not known how to proceed.
Nothing else explained why Adele had been waiting on Paige for half an hour.
She glanced along the street, toward