“Just how I like it?”
“Thick and bitter with a little bit of caffeine,” Adele said, stepping through the security checkpoint and retrieving her briefcase on the other side.
“Just like you, Doug,” said one of the other men with a snorting laugh.
“Shut your mouth, slick,” retorted the guard. His expression soured, but he turned so the other man couldn’t see and winked at Adele, a twinkle in his gaze.
She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m enabling you. Caffeine is a killer—mark my words. Give it fifteen years and the FDA is bound to—”
“Yada, yada,” Doug said, and then he tipped the coffee, downing half the cup in two gulps. “Feel free to enable me all you want. Anyway, don’t let us old fogeys keep you, sport. You got the shimmer.”
She turned to leave with a farewell wave, but then paused, heel half raised. “The shimmer?”
“In the eyes. Something’s brewing, right? No—don’t tell me. Might bump my head.”
“Not enough clearance. I get you. But you’re right. Something is up. I’ll see you fellas around—Doug, Steve.” She nodded to both men in turn and then hastened up the beige hallway, her shoes tapping against the marble floor and squeaking every few steps.
She took a turn past an old-fashioned water cooler and some potted plants, then hurried along a row of tight cubicles. The familiar sound of polite murmuring as folks went about their business, answering calls, printing, faxing, clicking away at their keyboards—all of it filled her with a nauseating sense of dread. There were those in the Bureau who wanted her behind a desk. The thought alone terrified her more than any bullet or case.
She reached an opaque glass door set behind a large, rectangular pillar, which nearly completely obscured the door from view. She swallowed, her hand reaching for the handle. For a moment, she paused, listening, gathering her thoughts. Who was this latest victim? Why had he taken a month-long break from his killing? She’d done good work, but he’d slipped through her fingers before. The bosses had to realize that, right?
From the room, she could hear a quiet murmur of voices—one of them soft, even-toned, the other fuzzy and diluted through the glass.
She turned the handle, tapped a courtesy knock with the hand carrying her briefcase, and then pushed into the room.
Three figures waited for her. One sat by the window, a balding man with a long nose, down which he peered into the street below. Another man, taller than average with a strong jaw and a pen behind one ear, sat by a desk, eyeing a large fifty-two-inch TV screen over a conference table.
The other woman in the room was also sitting, but on the edge of the table, her suit pants stained just over the pocket. All three of them, including the face on the TV, reacted to Adele’s entrance.
“Sharp,” said the tall man with a nod. “Glad you could make it.”
“Sam,” she said, returning the gesture of greeting. “What did I miss? And who’s the pixels?”
“Sharp,” said the woman seated at the table, turning slightly so she faced the door. Lee Grant was one of Adele’s few friends in the department, and though she kept her tone professional, there was a weight of concern behind her glance. “How was your flight?”
Adele shrugged. “Long, boring. Sleazy lawyer in business.”
Grant rolled her eyes. “The usual then?”
Adele chuckled softly. “About the sum of it.”
“Well,” said Agent Lee, “we were waiting for you to get started. The pixels, as you put it, belong to DGSI exec Thierry Foucault. I believe you two have a history.”
Adele’s eyebrows invaded the personal space of her hairline, and she circled the table, setting her briefcase down and turning for a better look at the screen. A hawk-faced man with thick eyebrows and even thicker cheekbones glared out from the screen, his eyes flicking around the room. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said, slowly, racking her brain for any memory of the man’s face.
“The young lady—this is Sharp?” said the face on the screen, still giving the appearance of scowling, though Adele was starting to suspect this had more to do with the arrangement of his features than of his current mood.
Adele tilted her head in a nod.
“I was still at the embassy when you worked for DGSI.” The speakers crackled for a moment, and Adele leaned in, straining to hear. The sound cleared a moment later as Foucault continued. “Four years? Five? A pity you left. France can always use talent like yours.”
Adele had no doubt her file sat in front of the executive, but she kept her smile polite. “It was four. I learned a lot in my position in Paris. I doubt the FBI would have recruited me without the experience.”
“This is the way of it, no?” said Foucault, smirking through the screen. “France creates the things most valued by America, hmm. It is no matter… I—I did wonder,” he said, slowly, his eyes flicking down for a moment, confirming Adele’s suspicion about the file. “Why was it you left, eh? Not the weather, I hope.”
Lee glanced toward Adele, then quickly interjected, “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to discuss it,” she said. “We ought to focus on the task at hand.”
But the man on the screen was already wagging his finger. “No, no. It is important DGSI knows who it is we work with. France is no jilted lover—it is important we know who we take back, hmm?”
Adele tried to conceal her frown. What did he mean take back? Agent Lee tried to interject again, but Adele cut her boss off.
“It’s really quite simple,” said Adele, hiding her frown behind pressed lips and an impassive stare. “I tracked a killer in France, and he didn’t turn out to be who I thought he was. I felt like it was time for a change.” Bleeding. Bleeding. Always bleeding. Adele shivered as her dream flashed through her mind, but she stowed the thought with a swallow and a proud tilt of her chin. She shrugged toward the screen, feeling her suit jacket slide across her shoulders.
Of course, she wasn’t mentioning the months of PTSD after tracking the killer and discovering he wasn’t the culprit behind her mother’s torturous murder. Nor did she feel it appropriate to mention the American forensic psychologist whom she’d traveled to the States with, hoping to set down roots. Chances were, Foucault had all of it in his little file, but as far as she was concerned, it was nobody’s business but hers.
“Does that settle it then?” said Agent Lee, glaring at the screen. She pushed off of the conference table and strode past the man with the hooked nose still standing quietly by the window.
“There is nothing to be settled,” said the screen.
“Not yet, no,” Grant replied, still frowning. “But it might be in everyone’s best interests to let the bygones pass and discuss the events of last night.”
Adele felt a flash of gratitude for her superior. Lee Grant wasn’t just named after two generals on opposing sides in the American Civil War, but she commanded an authority that any agent would willingly follow into battle. Lee’s eyes often narrowed in such a way that they became little more than stormy slits in her naturally tan complexion. The child of an American and a Cuban immigrant, Lee was one of the few people in the office who understood Adele’s roots, especially given the less-than-six-year age gap between them.