Left To Die

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 her 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.

What if the killer wasn’t from France or the US? What if he was from a different country entirely? What if he’d been just visiting both the United States and France?

The thought haunted her, niggling at her mind as she returned up the stairs and rejoined John in the suite.

By then, uniformed police officers had arrived for backup. Gendarmerie could also be glimpsed through the windows, far below, waiting outside in their quasi-military vehicles. The police took the prostitute and her client from there. Before leaving with their charges, they conducted a brief interview with John, who seemed to enjoy the whole situation. Adele stood in the doorway, watching her partner answer the final question of the leading police officer. She watched as he sauntered across the room, beaming at her. “That was fun,” he said.

“That’s one word for it.”

John chuckled, and began to slide a piece of paper into his pocket.

Adele glanced at the parchment. “What’s that?”

John smirked, but shrugged with one shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

Adele glanced at the paper, noticing a couple of numbers before he finally slid it completely from view.

She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “You didn’t.” She resisted the urge to reach out and shake the man. “Is that the girl’s number?”

John chuckled again and patted Adele on the shoulder in a gesture he had to know would infuriate her. “My American princess, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“I can’t believe you. I can’t—”

“—you know what I feel like? A drink. You should come. You look tightly wound. I heard Agent Paige was talking about you with Foucault, by the way. She’s not very nice in her report.”

“I don’t—I just—” Adele didn’t know what to say. She glanced toward John’s pocket, then back up at his smirk, and then down to the hand which he was still pressing against her shoulder. There was something condescending about the gesture, but also familiar.

Strangely, this invitation to get drinks seemed to suggest he had warmed to her somewhat. If not for the burn along his neck and up his throat, John would have been quite handsome, with his bold nose and disheveled bangs. It was little surprise, in his position, with his personality, that he would leverage his authority to coerce the number from the prostitute. Adele sincerely hoped it was just a joke, but decided it wasn’t worth pursuing; she had more serious matters to commit her thoughts to.

If Agent Paige was causing trouble back at the office, there was nothing Adele could do about that either. Their history proved that.

She shook her head, mouth slightly agape, and glanced back toward the two black-latex-wearing suite occupants. The tickets on the phone had confirmed the man’s claim—he’d only arrived last week, and he hadn’t come from the States. She sighed softly, breathing through her nose as she surveyed the arresting officers and then turned back to John. “I don’t even—”

“A rough night, I know. You got your hopes up.” For a moment, it almost seemed like John’s voice was sincere. He reached out and began to guide her, tugging insistently at her arm and pulling her toward the elevator. “Come. I’ll show you my favorite spot.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s back at headquarters. I know how much you like the office; you can pretend you’re working.”

“A drink at headquarters?”

John nodded and continued to guide her along with a strong but surprisingly gentle grip. “You need to unwind as much as I do.”

Adele loosed a sigh, lifted her eyes skyward as if in silent prayer. But at last, she nodded, numbly. What else was there to say? The killer had evaded her once more. The APB had been useless. Perhaps a drink was exactly what she needed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Adele could feel the exhaustion from the last couple of days taking its toll. The thought of her morning run tomorrow filled her with dread, but she hadn’t missed one in years and she wasn’t about to start in Paris. Still, as John drove his SUV wildly up the nighttime streets, darting beneath the vibrant light posts lining the sidewalks, she couldn’t help but feel the last vestiges of her energy being spent on an emotion eerily similar to unease.

“I thought we were going to get drinks,” she murmured from the passenger seat. Her cheek was pressed against the cool window, and her hair cushioned the side of her face. She stared out the front windshield, her eyes tracking the buildings ahead of them.

“We are. Back at headquarters.”

“You said that. Sounds awful. Why not just go to some bar—”

“Just hang on. I’m about to show you.”

“You sure they won’t tow my car?”

John kept his long arms out, holding the steering wheel, but still managed to evoke a shrug from a shoulder followed by a slight tilt of his head.

“Even if they did, so what. It’s a government car. They’ll have to give it back. You’re too tired to drive.”

Adele sighed again, closing her eyes, if only for a moment, like someone on a diet inhaling the scent of chocolate cake. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, “I’d think you were worried about me.”

John tutted quietly and said, “I thought you were a good detective. I’m worried about my own ass. Follow the clues, American Princess.”

They pulled into the parking lot outside the DGSI headquarters, nodding at the night guards as John flashed a badge and Adele handed hers to John so he could poke it out the window.

One of the guards nodded in familiarity to Renee, a gesture which the tall man returned. Adele was reminded of her own relationship with Doug, one of the security guards on the third floor.

John parked beneath the dark overpass, the concrete lot illuminated only by rectangular incandescent lights in the enclosed space’s ceiling.

Adele followed after her partner, an uneasy gait to her step. She couldn’t sleep, not now. Not after the day’s events. Her idea of a good time and relaxing with a drink rarely involved the workspace, but she hadn’t wanted to turn John’s invitation down. John’s personality took some acclimating, and she didn’t want to shoot down his one offer of camaraderie. He was a strange one. A rebel, in the most juvenile sense of the word. But there was also something deeper. Something she couldn’t quite make out about him. It piqued her curiosity.

She had to walk double pace to keep up with his long, steady strides as he moved down the nearly empty office hallways.

“APB was a bust, but the tox report should be on my desk,” he said conversationally, leading her toward the stairwell.

“Not more stairs,” Adele groaned.

“It will be worth it. Don’t worry.”

John’s office was on the seventh floor. But instead of heading up, he took the descending flight.

Adele stared uneasily after the tall man. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

John glanced over his shoulder up at her and flashed a jack-o’-lantern grin. “Haven’t decided yet. Just come, American Princess. You see killers everywhere. Makes it hard to recognize comrades.”

“Yeah? You’re a comrade, not a killer, is that it?”

“Perhaps I’m a bit of both.” He gestured at her and, without waiting, continued down the stairs.

With a rising sense of malaise, which made her feel silly, Adele followed after John, taking the stairs much slower than earlier.

He led her down to the basement and pushed open an old rusted door. A dusty, cracked hallway filled with chipped paint and dull lights stretched before her. At the far end, she spotted an evidence locker and a couple of interrogation rooms that seemed little used. John pushed open the door to interrogation room three and glanced inside, looking around. “Coast is clear,” he said, conspiratorially.

Adele didn’t know what or who he was looking for or expecting to find in the old, abandoned interrogation room, but she didn’t care to ask. Out of the entire building, this floor was the worst she’d seen.

Large flakes of paint peeled off the walls, and watermarks scoured the floor, suggesting the basement had flooded more than once. Lettering marked some of the doors as interrogation rooms, displaying words beneath thin layers of dust. The building had been serving the DGSI for a decade, but the basement had been left, it seemed, to fend mostly for itself.

John moved further down the hall until he reached Interrogation Room Six. Then he fished a key from his pocket. He tried the door handle, which wouldn’t turn. He nodded in approval, humming quietly to himself—the same tune that served as his ringtone. Then he inserted a small key, turned the door handle, and pushed it open.

He glanced up and down the hall, only further adding to the burden of unease on Adele’s shoulders. As the door opened, she was assailed by a strange, fruity smell. She’d been to vineyards before, and the odor of fermentation in the basement was overpowering.

John inhaled it, though, like a matron coming home to fresh-baked cookies. He stepped into the room, and, reluctantly, Adele followed. She scraped past the rusted metal frame and stepped into a room that was entirely dark. A second later, the door slammed shut, sealing off even the illumination from the hallway.

Adele felt her heart lodge in her throat. “John?” she barked. “This isn’t funny.”

She heard chuckling from the darkness, but then, a moment later, there was a quiet clicking sound. Lights sputtered into being above her, illuminating the enclosed interrogation room.

Except, instead of a metal table and cold chairs, there was a large, oversized couch pressed up against the back wall. A small distillery leaned against the wall, set on a wooden plank table that looked to have been handcrafted. A couple of pictures hung on the wall opposite the distillery, and miniature wooden barrels were stacked in the far corner, next to a sealed blue plastic tub with a thin layer of duct tape circling the lid. The fermentation smells came from this pile of barrels and the rectangular plastic container.

Adele saw a couple of bags of sugar, some clear tubing, and two hard corks on the ground as well as some other ingredients that she knew went into making wine and moonshine.

“You’re joking,” she said, staring at the place.

John whistled a cheerful tune and retrieved a couple of glass cups from on top of the window ledge. The window glimpsed the adjacent interrogation room, but it was too high for Adele to see much.

“Glasses are clean, don’t worry,” he said.

“By the smell of it, this stuff is strong enough that even if they weren’t clean it wouldn’t matter.”

John raised an eyebrow at her, then gestured toward the couch. “Has a reclining lever on the side. TV’s over there—turn on whatever you want. Actually, second thought. If it’s not sports, you won’t be able to find it down here.”

Adele wasn’t sure what to make of all this. Somehow, John had managed to build himself a secret mancave in the basement of the DGSI headquarters. By the looks of things, and the number of glasses, he either used it regularly, or he had guests over on occasion.

“Do you bring all the girls down here on their first day?”

John snorted, but any retort was interrupted by the sound of liquid trickling into a cup.

“You in for some sangria? Or would you prefer something from the distillery?”

Adele hesitated, then said, “The hardest thing you’ve got.”

John nodded in appreciation, and after a moment, he returned with two cups. Both held clear liquid.

Adele accepted her glass from John. She leaned back in the couch and pulled the handle on the side, sighing as the footrest lifted up and the back of the chair reclined.

John sat on the couch, also, but preferred the arm, his boots on the cushion of the couch.

John faced Adele and leaned against the wall. He grabbed a remote lodged between the back of the couch and the wall, and pointed it toward the small screen attached to a swinging arm in the middle of the room. He clicked the remote, and the TV sputtered to life, filling the room with French commentators chattering about some recent soccer game.

“Do you like football?” said John.

Adele shrugged. “I played a lot of sports growing up, but I was never particularly interested in watching them.”

John tutted, sniffing in mock offense.

Adele inhaled the contents of her glass and winced as a powerful odor assailed her, clearing her nostrils and raising the hairs on her neck. She could feel John’s eyes on her. She pressed the glass to her lips, tilted it back, and swallowed a gulp.

Immediately, she regretted this decision.

The moonshine scorched her throat and filled her mouth with a strange, gingery taste. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was powerful.

She felt the burning sensation turn to a tickling one, threatening to elicit a cough. She clenched her teeth, refusing to give John the satisfaction of seeing her react to the liquor. Her eyes watered, but she managed to keep the drink down. A small victory.

Adele glanced over at John, who had already downed half his glass.

“Good, isn’t it?” he said with a smirk.

Adele shrugged and leaned even further back. Above her, she spotted a couple of the pictures she’d initially noticed from the door. Both photographs displayed men with guns and wearing uniforms.

She stared. “Were you part of the Commandos Marine?”

Absentmindedly, his hand reached up and massaged at the burn mark on his neck. The handsome man shrugged and murmured quietly, “Once upon a time.”

“My father served in the military.”

John nodded to show he’d heard, but offered no comment himself. He took another long swallow from his drink, downing the rest in a giant gulp, and then swung his legs over the couch to retrieve some more.

“I’ve heard stories about you guys,” she said, nodding toward the picture. “Some people say you’re the Navy SEALs of France.”

John gave a harsh, barking laugh. “We’re better than those Americans,” he snapped, an undercurrent of anger to his words. “We sacrifice more and take harder jobs.”

Adele didn’t see the point in arguing.

“Well, I should’ve figured you for a military guy. You have the manners of a soldier.”

John flicked an eyebrow up and downed another glass in two quick swallows. He poured himself a third from the distillery spigot.

“We still have work tomorrow,” Adele reminded him.

“Never stopped me before,” John said with a shrug. This time, he took the glass back to the couch. He once more sat on the armrest, facing Adele, his dirty shoes pressed on the dusty cushion.

“Thanks for inviting me here,” she said.

She couldn’t get a good read on John. Was he trying to make a move on her? If so, he was sitting far enough away for them to be siblings. She had no interest in becoming romantically involved with anyone at this point. John wasn’t bad looking, but he was ill-mannered and seemed to hate his job. She wasn’t sure the career path that led from special forces to DGSI agent. The way he carried himself, his weapon drawn, back at the hotel, had suggested more than basic field training.

The memory of the hotel room came rushing back. Adele visibly winced, shaking her head and taking a long sip from her cup. She swallowed, savoring the burn as the alcohol did its work.

Stupid. So stupid. Redheaded tourists—just a john and a prostitute. Adele refused to see the humor in the situation.

The killer was out there, probably preparing to strike again. She needed another clue, a directional signal. The APB had been a bust. A wig, then? Probably. Red hair was too obvious. Robert had been right. She was back to square one. Nothing to show for it.

She felt her hand squeezing tightly around the cold glass and she resisted the urge to chuck the thing across the room.

A replay of some soccer goal displayed itself on the small color TV. She watched, mesmerized by the lights, looking for some source of distraction. What next?

She stared at the glass in her hand, at the clear, trembling liquid. She was missing something. There had to be a way in; some way to break the killer’s defenses. To figure out where he’d made a mistake. He was clever, but he couldn’t be that clever.

“You really love the work, don’t you?” John said, breaking the silence.

She glanced over and noted no change in his appearance. His voice wasn’t slurred either. But, by her count, he was almost finished with his third glass.

“It’s what I do,” she said.

“You’re obsessed. I used to know men like that. Back in, well… where I used to work. Obsession got them killed.”

His voice choked for a moment, and Adele look sharply away, hoping to spare his pride. John did not seem like the sort who would appreciate sympathy or pity.

“I don’t know what that life is like,” she said, softly. “But I do know what it’s like to lose someone.”

She thought of the overgrown grass next to the bike trail. The sheltered portion of the park, hidden from eyes. She thought of cuts and intricate patterns, like some patchwork art, lacing up and down her mother’s body. She thought of the mutilation, the pain, the loneliness, the terror. She thought of how helpless she’d been to do anything. And, afterward, how miserable she’d been in solving the case.