“No,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “My records go back forty years. But your mother didn’t file anything.”
Adele frowned, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Another thing, darling, look, I remember your mother’s situation. I remember the terrible things that happened. I’m very sorry, truly. I wouldn’t know what that was like…”
Adele just waited, wondering what she would say next.
“I might get in trouble for this, but I suppose I don’t work for the post office. And I’m not compromising any of my tenants. And given the circumstances of, well… The postman who worked at the building when you lived here with your mother,” the landlord said, a slight tinge to her voice.
Adele stiffened, waiting, her eyes widening. “Yes?” she said, quickly. “Who?”
“His name was Antoni Bordeaux.”
“Antoni Bordeaux?” said Adele. She began to fumble at her pocket, trying to extricate her father’s notebook, to write the name down.
“I’m afraid, dear, it’s more bad news, though,” said the landlord.
Adele’s scrambling fingers fell still, pressed against her thigh. “Oh?” she said. “And why is that?”
“Antoni Bordeaux died five years ago; I’m very sorry. But that’s the best I can do… Hello? Mademoiselle, are you still there?”
Adele cleared her throat. “Yes, Ms. Glaude, I’m still here. Sorry. No, thank you. You’ve done more than I could ask. Thank you.”
Adele bid farewell, then closed her phone, pocketing it again.
“Someone die?” John asked, nonchalantly.
Adele didn’t realize how deeply she was frowning until she glanced toward her partner. She blinked, trying to clear her expression. “Yes, in fact.”
John stiffened. “Oh, sorry.”
“No one I knew.” A swirl of frustration and disappointment twisted through her. “Died five years ago. A suspect, actually.”
John inclined an eyebrow. “Are you working a case?”
“Maybe. If you want to be cryptic about your past, then at least allow me the decency to be so about mine as well.”
John raised his free hand in mock surrender, and then downed the rest of his drink.
For her part, Adele paused, thinking. A dead end. The postman had died five years ago. And yet, her mother’s killer was still alive, according to the first serial killer she’d hunted in France; he’d said as much.
She shook her head angrily. So then what did that damn message from her mother mean? Switching notes. Funny? It didn’t make any sense.
She jammed her hands in her pockets, resting them against her phone on one side and her father’s notebook on the other. She approached John’s couch and collapsed on the edge, putting her feet up against him and wedging herself into the corner, crossing her arms.
“Bad day at the office?” he said.
“The worst,” she replied.
“I can think of something that might take your mind off of it,” said John with his usual coy smile.
She hesitated, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. “John, I’m not sure if—”
His eyebrows shot up. “What, no. I was going to say another drink. Don’t let my dashing good looks and charm fool you, American Princess. I’m not a complete asshole.”
“Only a partial asshole, then?”
John tapped a long finger against his nose and pointed at her, then got up, taking her cup from her and refilling it at the spigot. She watched him as he did, again enjoying the view.
Before she could take in much of it, though, her phone began to buzz once more.
The landlord again?
Before that thought settled, she heard another phone start to ring. John frowned, grabbing his own device from where he left it next to the distillery.
In near unison, the two of them lifted their phones to their ears, and in tandem said, “Yes?”
The room remained silent for a second as they listened.
On Adele’s end, she heard, “Agent Sharp, we need you to report to Executive Foucault’s office.”
“Now?”
“We know it’s late,” said the voice, “but it’s urgent. The Executive is coming in, personally. He’ll fill you in on the details.”
Adele hung up her phone, and a few seconds later, John followed suit.
“I got dispatch,” she said. “You?”
“Foucault’s assistant,” said John.
Adele frowned. “Are you also supposed to meet him upstairs?”
John sighed, strode over, and grabbed his shirt; he pulled it back on, almost with an air of reluctance. Then, without another word, he sidled past Adele and, beneath his breath, muttered, “Next time it’s your turn to provide the view.”
He pushed out the door to the bachelor pad and moved up the hall.
Flustered for more than one reason, Adele quickly followed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Executive Foucault stood by the window of his top-floor office as John and Adele entered. The opaque glass door swung shut, rustling the carpet behind them, and Adele cleared her throat, staring at the DGSI executive.
Foucault turned. He had a hawkish face, with thick, dark eyebrows and even thicker cheekbones. His hair was normally slicked back with oil, but now was disheveled, curls dangling past his forehead and just barely touching his eyelashes. He passed a hand through his hair, taming the loose strands, his silhouette outlined against the moonlight streaming through the glass.
He wore sneakers and a casual T-shirt with running shorts. Adele hadn’t seen the Executive without a suit before, and somehow, now, he looked like a father waiting to pick his children up after soccer practice.
“Sir,” said Adele, “you wanted to see us?”
Foucault had a single picture in his hand, and had been studying it, deep ruts in his forehead like grooves in clay. He waved the photo in Adele’s direction, using it as if to scoop the air toward himself.
John moved first, taking a lengthy stride across the office. “She dead?” said John, accepting the large photo.
The Executive shook his head once. “No,” he offered. He had a deep, croaking voice, tinged with the influence of one too many cigarettes. The office itself smelled of stale nicotine and smoke. Mercifully, one of the windows in the back corner was left perpetually open. Perhaps an eventual security breach, but in Adele’s estimation, she was willing to risk it for the sake of her lungs.
Foucault wiggled fingers in the direction of the photo. “American,” he said. “Found her last night. A truck driver did.”
Adele sidled up next to John, somehow finding something about the proximity stranger than it had been the previous day. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable—more distracting than anything. She coughed slightly and returned her attention to the photo.
The glossy picture showed a smiling face, dimpled cheeks, and vibrant blue eyes. The woman in the photo couldn’t have been much older than twenty.
“Alive you say?” John asked.
Foucault, in response, handed over a second photo.
The same woman, though it took Adele a second to realize it. She barely seemed recognizable. The second photo displayed a pale, sallow-faced girl. Her cheeks were gaunt, malnourished, her hair stringy and stained. Her eyes were closed, and, if Foucault hadn’t said anything, Adele would’ve assumed the girl was dead.