“You’ve been over the files?”
“Second report isn’t in yet.” Robert paused, inclining an eyebrow toward Foucault in question.
The executive nodded. “They’re working on it, but it’s taking some time. Full report should be in soon.”
Robert nodded and this time addressed Foucault, moving across the room to peer through the open window into the street below. A small, pink-painted cafe occupied the street across from the DGSI.
“I did read the first report,” he said. “Only the kidney missing. Why do you think that is?”
Paige and Foucault both stayed silent. But Adele glanced across the room toward her mentor, watching the way the afternoon sunlight illuminated the side of his face and cast shadows against the carpeted floor.
“Trophy collecting?” she said.
“Perhaps,” said Robert. “Makes sense.”
“What else?”
Robert shrugged and his gaze snapped to Foucault behind his desk.
The executive’s frown deepened. “That’s what you’re paid to find out,” he said. His eyes darted between the three agents and he reached out, patting the side of his computer. “We need more information, and you don’t have much time to provide it.”
Adele noted the quick way in which we became you. She paused, then said, quietly, “I’ve been thinking about the victims. Both of them expats, yes? Growing up, I had some experience with that community—not much, as my mother was local. But some American friends at school whose parents relocated for work.” She paused. “They’re a vulnerable community. Isolated a lot of times—barriers in language and culture. Perhaps the killer is using this to get close to them. Exploiting loneliness or a pressure to please the host country.”
Foucault took this with a nod and shrug. “Explore all possibilities,” he said. “Just,” he paused, “don’t make it personal.” He turned from Adele. “Agent Henry, you’ll be staying here, I presume?” Foucault’s gaze flicked to the smaller man.
Robert rubbed his mustache. “I’ll leave the field work to the youngsters, I think.”
Foucault returned his attention to Adele. “Second crime scene?” he said. “It’s still under our supervision.”
“I’m ready to start if she isn’t too tired,” Paige said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the room. The comment seemed innocent enough, but something about it raised Adele’s hackles.
Now that the attention was once again on her, Adele inhaled softly.
Americans in France, expats—she felt a kinship with them; a camaraderie. Adele knew what it was to move from country to country, to reestablish roots, to build a life once more.
But these lives had been built only to end with bloodstains on the floor of their apartments. No physical evidence. No sign of a struggle. No sign of breaking or entering.
Now wasn’t the time for rest.
“I’m ready when you are,” said Adele, already turning toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele ground her teeth in frustration, tapping her fingers impatiently against the woodwork of the door frame that led into the apartment. She glanced at her watch for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes and her eyebrows lowered even further over her eyes, darkening her countenance as a flash of impatience jolted through her.
“Christ,” Adele muttered. She frowned as she glanced up and down the street, tracking the flow of vehicles. She kept trying to spot any government issues, but found her attention drawn only to the loaner she’d parked against the curb by the empty meter. It was still afternoon, with the sun high in the sky, dipping only slightly in the horizon.
Adele and Sophie had taken separate vehicles, as Adele would be heading to Robert’s straight from the crime scene.
She leaned against the railing leading up the concrete steps and turned back toward the front door of the apartment. For a moment, she considered entering on her own. But generally, protocol dictated two agents were required on scene in tandem. On her first day back on the job in France, Adele didn’t want to stretch boundaries. Still, Agent Paige was making it difficult. Already, she was nearly thirty minutes late.
Adele let out a low growl. She’d made arrangements with Robert to take her luggage to his house, and then driven straight to the crime scene. The drive had taken twenty minutes. Paris was one of the few cities with next to no stop signs. It was rumored there was one stop sign, somewhere; Agent Paige must have found it and not known how to proceed.
Nothing else explained why Adele had been waiting on Paige for half an hour.
She glanced along the street, toward the gap between the blocks of buildings. She swallowed, staring toward the open path across the street, with hints of green hidden within. Something she loved about Paris had been the little passages and hidden gardens ready to be explored as if through some labyrinth crisscrossing the hunched buildings. The French had a special word for those who walked aimlessly, enjoying the side roads and gardens: la flânerie. Adele couldn’t remember the last time she’d relaxed enough to walk aimlessly. And now certainly wasn’t the time.
With a final puffing breath of frustration, Adele turned to the doors and moved to buzz the bottom button marked Landlord. He’d been instructed to let her in. With or without Paige, Adele was determined to see the crime scene of the second victim.
Before she could push the buzzer, though, there was a quiet screech of tires. Adele glanced over her shoulder and spotted a second SUV with black tinted windows parking behind her own vehicle. Agent Paige’s silver hair appeared over the top of the doorframe as she exited the driver’s seat, taking her sweet time about it. The older agent paused on the curb, then snapped her fingers as if realizing something, turned back to her car, opened the door, and began rummaging around inside.
Adele stared; it took nearly a minute before Paige found whatever she’d been looking for, and then once more, at a snail’s pace, began to move toward the stairs to the apartment. She gave a noncommittal grunt in Adele’s direction.
Adele suppressed her temper. She would have to work with Paige for the duration of the case, and starting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t help anything. But it almost seemed like her assigned partner was intentionally dragging her feet on this one.
“I thought we agreed to come straight here,” said Adele, trying to keep her tone neutral.
Paige shot Adele a long look out of the corner of her eye. “Yeah? I’m not usually in a hurry to waste my time. The crime scene monkeys have already been over this. Not sure why we’re here.”
Adele turned fully now, looking away from the apartment doors and the buzzers to face her partner. “We’re here,” she said, gritting her teeth, “because I want to examine the crime scene myself. Is that all right with you?”
Paige picked at her fingernails, flicking whatever she found onto the sidewalk. “You’re not going to discover anything new.”
“Maybe not, or maybe so.”
Adele could smell Agent Paige’s perfume, though to call it perfume would have been a stretch. Her partner smelled of soap; not scented soap, but rather a sort of plain cleansing odor that hearkened of hygiene and simplicity. Agent Paige wore no earrings, nor jewelry of any kind. She had a strong profile with a roman nose and sharp cheekbones. Adele remembered her first year at the DGSI, working under a taskforce with Agent Paige—she’d been intimidated by the older woman then, and, judging by the twisting swirling in her gut, the sensation hadn’t faded.