Left To Run

Paige returned Adele’s look of annoyance, and in answer, Adele reached out and slammed her thumb on the buzzer for the landlord. It took a moment, then the doors buzzed. Sophie pushed open the front door, moved in, and allowed it to swing shut behind her.

Adele had to hurry forward to jam her foot in the gap, catching it before it closed fully.

Adele stared in frustration at the back of the older agent’s head. Again, not a single hair was out of place. Paige’s clothing was neatly pressed, her suit jacket a charcoal gray, matching her pants.

Adele had never particularly enjoyed her old supervisor’s company. The last time she’d interacted with the woman, on the previous case in France, Paige had caused trouble.

“Excuse me,” said Adele, keeping her voice low, “do we need to talk?”

Paige acted like she hadn’t heard, though, and continued toward the stairs.

Adele took a few hurried steps to catch up with the older woman, and she reached out, gently placing a hand on the other agent’s forearm. As if she’d been scalded, Paige whirled around, a snarl on her lips. “Don’t touch me!” she snapped.

Adele’s eyes flicked to the woman’s holster beneath her parted jacket. She lifted her hand, raising it in a placating gesture. “Apologies.”

“What do you want?” Paige said, scowling. “We’re doing it your way, aren’t we? We’re here wasting time instead of talking to witnesses.”

“What witnesses?” Adele said, biting back further retort.

“The American. The one who found the body.”

Adele shook her head. “She found the victim, but she didn’t see anything.”

Paige pursed her lips. “It would be a better use of our time than going over an empty crime scene. You read the report, didn’t you? No physical evidence. There’s nothing for us here.”

Adele huffed, shaking her head. She reached out as if to steady herself, gripping the wooden banister of the railing that led up the apartment steps.

She could hear the jingle of keys and the sound of footsteps approaching as the landlord made his way across the hall. She glanced past her partner, over the banister and through the wooden rails, to spot an old, bald man with a bit of a paunch and a stained sweater moving toward them.

Adele lowered her voice, trying to keep calm as she said, “You can contact the officers with the American. They’re on standby. Tell them to bring her here, if you want. We’ll interview her after; better here than the station, anyway.”

“Fine,” said Paige. “Maybe I will.” She reached for her phone and fiddled with it for a moment.

Adele waited as the landlord approached, hoping this was the last heated exchange for the moment. It wouldn’t do to look unprofessional in the face of public speculation.

The landlord glanced between the two women, seemingly ignorant of the bad blood. He adopted a simpering, oily smile and said, “I can show you to the room.” He paused for a moment, his smile still stretching his lips like taffy. “Just out of curiosity…” He paused, as if waiting a rehearsed number of seconds. Then he said, “When will I be able to rent out the apartment? There are bills to pay—”

“I’m Agent Sharp,” Adele interrupted. She studied the man. “This is Agent Paige.” She reached into her pocket and flashed her badge, as well as the Interpol credentials Robert had given her.

The landlord waved them away without glancing toward either ID. Paige was still glancing at her phone, ignoring the man.

“I can show you,” he repeated.

Adele gestured with a hand up the stairs and allowed the landlord to take the lead, following him at a slow pace as he breathed heavily, moving up the stairs one at a time. When they reached the third-floor landing, he clicked the keys into the lock and twisted, pushing the door open. Adele examined the keys, then glanced at the back of the landlord. “You didn’t enter the apartment a couple of days ago, did you?”

The landlord regarded her, and then after a moment, his face adopted a horrified expression. He immediately began shaking his head wildly, causing his jowls to jiggle. “No,” he insisted. “Certainly not. I never enter the apartments. The keys are just for emergencies.”

Adele raised her hands. “Does anyone else have access to a set of keys?”

The landlord shook his head firmly. “Only the apartment tenant. And myself. And I don’t use them,” he repeated.

Adele nodded to show she’d heard, watching as the man pushed open the apartment door and stepped aside, gesturing for the two agents to enter.

The agents ducked under the crime scene tape crisscrossing the door. Adele moved onward and glanced at the tile floor.

Already, most the blood had been cleaned up. Photographic evidence had been taken of the scene, and previous investigators had come through to catalog everything. Adele glanced around the kitchen; she noted a few stains of blood against the cabinet next to the fridge, as well as along the tile floor. She moved over the stains and glanced at the fridge. It was closed now.

Besides the closed fridge door and the missing stain, the crime scene looked exactly the same as the photos. The body had long since been taken to the coroner, and the final report would be forthcoming soon enough.

She hated to admit it, but there wasn’t much to be seen. No physical evidence. Just liked she’d been told.

They’d already dusted and scanned for fingerprints all along the counters, the fridge, the body. And still, nothing had shown up. Nothing besides the victim’s own fingerprints.

The second victim had been found with her back against the cabinets, facing the fridge. This meant whoever had attacked her had done so quickly. There had been a bit of blood spatter, but not much. There’d been no signs of defensive wounds on the body. No struggle whatsoever.

“Do you think she knew the killer?” Adele asked, quietly.

Agent Paige said, “Maybe.”

Adele stepped daintily over the faded pool of blood. She walked to the fridge, and, using her pocket to sheathe her hand, she grabbed the handle and pulled it open. There were still groceries in the fridge. Old sandwiches rested in the crisper, and a large jug of milk sat nestled next to a dozen eggs. Otherwise, the fridge was mostly bare. Adele regarded the cabinets where the woman had been found, sitting on the floor in a pool of her own blood.

She examined the wooden block of steak knives next to the sink. All the knives were accounted for. They’d been scanned for blood and cleared. The killer had taken his weapon with him. They still didn’t even know what he had used to kill the woman.

Adele reached up, opening the freezer. There were two trays of ice, a tub of ice cream, and some frozen pizzas. The ice cream container was stained with melted, then refrozen, streaks on the side, and one of the trays of ice was completely empty. Adele pursed her lips; it was a personal pet peeve, but she hated when people put empty ice trays back in the freezer. She glanced at the ice cream container, and then her eyes flitted to the frozen pizzas. Cauliflower. She wrinkled her nose, but felt a sudden flush of embarrassment as she studied the food.

What had she been expecting to find?

She eased the freezer door shut and turned back to survey the room. There was no indeed physical evidence. She regarded the sink and noted a slow drip. She moved over and twisted one of the handles. The drip continued, one droplet at a time. Tap, tap. Droplets struck the metal basin.

“Is the witness coming?” Adele said, glancing over at Paige.

The older woman was still watching the skyline through the window. She grunted, “On her way.”

Adele cleared her throat. “What was her name again?”

“Melissa Robinson. Also American—she found the body.”

Adele set her lips. “How do you think we should approach questioning?”

Agent Paige shrugged again. “You’re the Interpol operative. I’m just here following your lead. Do what you want.”

Adele hesitated, staring across the crime scene. She nodded once, then, in as diplomatic a tone as she could summon, she said, “I think we need to have a chat.”

Paige finally looked away from the window and raised a silver eyebrow.

Adele approached carefully, coming to stand in front of the older woman, though part of her wanted to hide in the corner of the room. The scent of soap was even stronger than before as she met her partner’s gaze. “This doesn’t have to be painful, but I have a feeling you’re not putting in as much effort as you could.”

Paige betrayed no expression for a moment. At last, she shrugged and said, “I’m not in charge of your feelings. Maybe you should do a better job controlling them.”

Adele stared at the older woman. “I don’t believe this is helpful.”

“The number of things you’re unable to believe isn’t my business,” Paige said coolly. She carried the attitude of someone delighting in the frustration of another. Adele’s mounting temper seemed only to further fuel Paige’s enjoyment.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Adele blurted out at last.

Agent Paige’s expression became fixed.

Adele glanced back toward the door, and was glad to see the frame empty, suggesting the landlord was further down the hall. She lowered her voice all the same and said, “I didn’t know. I just saw someone had moved one of the accounting documents out of evidence. I thought it was a clerical error. When I reported it to Foucault, I had no clue—”

“Stop,” Paige snapped, gritting her teeth.

The quiet, quizzical expression of complacency had faded now, like ice melting over a pool, revealing the boiling anger beneath.

“I’m serious,” Adele said, “if I had known—”

“You did what you did.” Paige was scowling now. Her hands, at her sides, trembled against her gray suit. “They demoted me. I’m lucky I still have my job. Matthew was arrested. They questioned him for nearly a week!”

Adele winced. “I’m sorry. All I saw was missing evidence. I didn’t know—”

“God damn what you don’t know,” Agent Paige snapped. She slammed her finger into Adele’s chest, pushing sharply against the younger woman. “You should have come to me. I was your supervisor! You went behind my back, like a little rat.”

Adele stepped back, reaching up and rubbing at her chest, wondering if she’d find a bruise come morning. She shook her head and said, “You moved evidence to protect your boyfriend. I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t even know you were dating a suspect—”

“He wasn’t a suspect when we started,” Paige snapped, but then trailed off, biting the words with a snarl. “It’s none of your fucking business who I date, understand? And they cleared him. He didn’t do it.”

Adele nodded, trying to keep her posture nonthreatening. “Good. I’m glad. I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that someone had moved evidence. If I had known it was you, I would have talked to you. I definitely would have. You didn’t tell me, though. I just saw it missing—”

Sophie snorted and waved a hand at Adele. “Not everything has to be catered toward precious little Adele,” Paige snapped. “Not everything is about you.”

Adele ground her teeth, and she wanted to protest further, but the words wouldn’t come. The situation had been a bad one. Agent Paige had been lucky to keep her job. Her relationship with Matthew, an accountant with the DGSI, hadn’t been public knowledge at the time. Adele hadn’t known her supervisor was dating a suspect in the death of a prostitute. In the end, Matthew had been cleared. But Paige had blamed Adele for reporting the missing evidence. It had turned out Paige was trying to cover for her boyfriend; in the end, though, it had come to light that Matthew had been sleeping with the prostitute. Adele suspected Paige hadn’t known this when she’d hidden receipts and documents suggesting Matthew’s involvement.

Adele had seen the evidence missing, though, and had immediately reported the vanished files. After that, Sophie Paige had been investigated as well as Matthew. Her boyfriend had been cleared of murder charges, but had been fired from the DGSI. Paige would have been fired, but Foucault—for some reason Adele didn’t understand—had gone to bat for her and kept her on, demoting her in the process.

“I don’t like you,” Paige said, simply, all pretenses gone now, her expression once more a scowling, stony one. “I’m not ever going to like you. I didn’t ask for this assignment. I have to bear it. As do you. Now how about you stop wasting my time by dragging me to crime scenes that have already been investigated? Did you find anything new?” she demanded.

Adele hesitated, glancing back toward the kitchen; she was loath to admit she hadn’t. So instead, she said, “When’s the witness coming?”

“You’re insufferable,” Sophie snapped. She turned back to the window and stared out into the city. Adele, her hands trembling from anger, moved to the door and into the hallway, preferring to wait outside for the witness to arrive, rather than spend another moment with Agent Paige.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Adele 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 to shop there. Some of us find it ironic; others…”

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