Adele nodded. “I’m looking into a case.”
Before she could continue, the manager held up a hand that wasn’t gripping the crutch. He made a wiggling motion with his fingers. “Credentials, please, if you don’t mind.”
Adele sighed, but fished out her credentials from the plastic compartment against her thigh. She flashed them toward the manager, and he took his sweet time about it, but at last, he finished reading, wagged his head, and she returned them to the pouch.
He looked her up and down, not in a lecherous way, but certainly an intrusive one. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting. “You’re on the job?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at her outfit.
“In a way,” she said, briskly. “I’m looking into one of your delivery trucks.”
He shifted his weight again, groaning as he did. He shot her a resentful look, as if somehow the sprain in his ankle was her fault.
“We can go sit in your office if you like,” she said.
He quickly shook his head. He glanced back at the door, which was shut, and then looked at her again. “No, here’s fine. What do you want to know about one of my trucks?”
“Specifically, trucks that deliver to Paris.”
“Paris is a big city,” he replied.
“Yes, but I’m tracking packages that go to a specific shop. I followed the truck that arrived and dropped off a few weeks ago.”
“It is a large store? Trucks go to a lot of stores in Paris.”
She nodded. “I know, but no, it’s not a large store. Called Gobert’s.”
The man didn’t blink; he didn’t react in any way. He had the dead-eyed look of someone clueless.
Adele frowned. “Look, I just want to know the names of the drivers that deliver to Gobert’s.”
“A few weeks ago, you say?” he said.
She hesitated, and tapped her thumb against her chin. “Actually, it’s from ten years ago.”
Now he was staring at her as if she’d gone insane. “Ten years? Dear, I don’t think you know how this place operates. It isn’t exactly anyone’s dream job. We have high turnover—nearly seventy percent.” He waved a small hand toward the assembly line through a side glass partition between the entry room and the main floor of the factory. A few people were scattered among conveyor belts, testing products or marking clipboards. Another few operated large machines, and then a few more loaded packaged boxes onto a forklift.
“All right, well, how many employees do you have?” she said, testily. “It would’ve been around ten years ago. Someone involved with delivering the packages.”
The manager frowned. “Who did you say you were with?”
Adele fixed him with a look, but didn’t reach for her credentials again, allowing the weight of her glower to tip the scales. And then he blinked and looked away; he muttered to himself, but waved a hand and moved back toward his office.
Adele tried to follow, but he slammed the door shut before she could step through. She stood with her nose nearly pressed against the door. With a reluctant sigh, sweaty, and tired from her run, she returned back to the center of the waiting room.
She stared at the wooden door and the plaque with the name on it, counting in her head, for no other reason than to distract herself. She counted the chocolate bars moving across the conveyor belts, and counted the employees within, through the glass partition.
At last, the door creaked open, and the manager hobbled out again, swinging his bad leg in the boot and pushing off his crutch.
“A few names,” he said. “Most don’t work here anymore—like I said, high turnover. But two of them still do. One of them is an old fellow. Used to run trucks, but was too weak to lift the boxes. Had to move him over to the conveyor belt—handed in his two-week notice a month ago. He’s not in today.”
Adele hesitated. “Who’s the other?”
The manager sighed, then checked down at the phone he had open in his hand. He glanced at the note on it, then looked up at her. “As luck would have it, he’s actually in. A younger guy. Name of Andrew Maldonado.”
“And where is Mr. Maldonado?”
The manager waved at the glass partition, pointing toward a dark-haired fellow leaning over a conveyor belt. He wore protective eyeglasses and carried a clipboard tucked under one arm where he stood next to one of the larger machines.
“He gets off shift in about three hours. If you don’t mind waiting, you’re not allowed on the floor, as it could be dangerous for—”
Completely ignoring him, Adele stepped past the injured manager and pushed toward the glass partition. There was a security key card reader in front of her, and she gestured, snapping her fingers at the manager. “Open—open this.”
The manager was staring at her, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but unless you have a warrant, you’re not allowed on the floor during operating hours, unless you’re licensed by—”
“I don’t care about your safety licensing. Open the door or I’ll shoot it.”
The words surprised her even as she said them, but the manager’s eyes bugged. He gave her a nervous look and then, glancing up and down to see if she even had a weapon, he hobbled over. He slid a key card in the slot and opened the door.
“At least wear safety glasses,” he said, wincing. “You can never be too careful in a place like—”
But whatever he’d been about to say, she ignored, moving through the door and stepping hurriedly toward the indicated fellow by the conveyor belts. She called out as she approached, “Andrew Maldonado!”
The man didn’t seem to hear her over the whir and grind of the machines. Adele huffed in frustration, stepping purposefully across the factory floor, her eyes fixed on her target.
The only person in this entire company, besides a geriatric, who had driven trucks ten years ago. The only person still connected to the Carambars, to Gobert’s, to her mother.
Anything else was a dead end. She couldn’t let this one get away. She stomped toward Andrew, who still hadn’t heard her, and gripped his shoulder, spinning him. She found herself looking into an extremely pale face above a patchy beard. Mr. Maldonado had stretchy skin beneath his eyes as if perhaps he had lost a significant amount of weight very quickly.
Andrew looked at her and lowered his clipboard, surprised. He took in her appearance and then glanced through the glass partition at his manager. “He can’t help you now,” she snapped. “I need you to tell me what you were doing ten years ago when you were delivering Carambars to Gobert’s.”
The man just looked at her, adjusted his safety glasses, and then, stuttering, “Wh-what?”
She repeated the question, but more forcefully.
“Ten years ago? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She pointed a finger at him, practically jamming it up his nostril. “Why did you stop driving trucks? Why are you here?”
He hesitated and then muttered, “I don’t like driving. Makes me uneasy. Who are you?”
“I work with Interpol,” she snapped. “What were you doing ten years ago? Did you know Elise Romei? Did you know the shop Gobert’s? Did you tamper with the chocolate bars?”
He looked over her shoulder again, staring stunned toward the manager, who was shrugging helplessly in the doorway. Adele again tried to ignore him, placing herself between Andrew and his manager.