But maybe that would never happen again. Besides, did he really blame her? He’d let her mother’s killer escape. He’d thought he’d been doing the right thing at the time, saving the victim. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If it meant Adele hated him… was it worth it?
John shook his head, muttering to himself and then pushing Martin Rodin along. He kept a firm grip on Martin’s collar and began leading him back around the train, toward one of the crossing bridges. In a growling voice, over the sound of Mr. Rodin’s protests, John said, “You have some explaining to do.”
CHAPTER TEN
They were back on the train, sitting in the dining compartment with their backs to the glass cabinet full of immaculate china. The long, shining oak table was surrounded by cushioned, antique chairs with beautiful upholstery. Adele sat with her hands clasped, and—at her request—Mr. Rodin had been uncuffed and now sat across from her, hunched in his chair, his angled features and sharp chin all seemingly jutting like knives in John’s direction as the tall Frenchman spoke.
“You were told not to leave the train,” John growled.
Mr. Rodin snorted, rolling up his sleeves slightly as if against a sudden wave of heat. Beneath, he displayed various tattoos, including one of a small bunny munching on a heart-shaped carrot. The bartender reached up, rubbing absentmindedly at his lower lip, which seemed to have a hole for a piercing, but no lip ring.
“I was told not to leave the station,” Rodin said. “My friend owns that cafe, I simply went to say hello. I don’t understand why you’re treating me like a criminal.”
Adele watched John’s still red eyes narrow. He pointed a finger at Martin Rodin. “You assaulted two police officers.”
Rodin winced, but quickly shook his head. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean—”
“To spray them with a controlled substance?” Adele asked, quietly. “And did you mean to leave this back at your girlfriend’s place?”
“She’s not my girlf—” Rodin began petulantly, but then trailed off as Adele plopped a large ziploc bag within a second bag on the table between them. She dusted off her hand and then motioned at the contents. “Speaking of controlled substances…” she said.
John whistled and poked at the bag, causing it to make a sound like a couple of maracas. “That’s a lot of pills,” he muttered.
“Those aren’t mine,” Rodin protested.
“That’s not what your girlfriend said,” Adele countered. “You slipped them behind the counter when you saw the cops coming and then sprayed them to try and escape.”
“She’s not my girl—”
“Focus,” Adele snapped. She prodded her finger at the pills, and they again made a shaking sound. The many orange bottles contained within shifted about. “No syringes, I noticed,” she said, slowly. “No toxins as far as the police could tell.”
He frowned at her. “Toxins? Why would I sell clients toxi—I mean, those aren’t mine.”
“You’re a pill pusher,” said Adele. “Is that right?”
“No.”
“What better place to deal than in train stations, where you can be on the move long before any police show up.”
“I didn’t,” he declared.
“Martin,” Adele said, slowly, leaning in now. “I don’t care about the pills. Truly, I don’t. I don’t even care about you spraying the police.”
“Assaulting a federal agent,” John added with a growl.
“That’s not why I’m here,” Adele continued.
Mr. Rodin squeaked, shaking his head and glancing between the two of them. “It’s not?”
“No. I’m here because you are one of the only common points between both the LuccaRail and the Normandie…”
At this, Martin Rodin looked actually flummoxed. He raised an eyebrow, then coughed delicately. “What does that have to do with anything?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know whose those pills are. Why are you treating me like a criminal?”
“Because you are one, aren’t you?” John said, never one to mince words or step lightly. The large agent leaned across the table now, pointing a finger toward Rodin’s chest. “You were in Italy yesterday, weren’t you?”
At this seeming detour in the line of conversation, Rodin frowned. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “I mean… yes. I work for multiple trains. I’m saving up to open my own restaurant.” He puffed his chest proudly.
“Look,” Adele said, interjecting, “I’ll tell it to you straight. We believe foul play was involved in the death of one of your passengers in Italy.”
“Foul play? As in murder? Hang on a second!” His eyebrows strained the confines of his face, but at last he looked away, out the window toward the marble fountain of the quaint sequestered portion of the larger station. “Impossible. And even if so, what does that have to do with me?”
Adele went quiet, allowing the silence to speak for her and watching his expression closely. But Mr. Rodin was either slow on the uptake or a seasoned poker player, because he betrayed nothing. He simply waited, frowning from Adele to John.
At last, she sighed and said, “Look, Mr. Rodin. You were in Italy and a man died. Now you are here and a woman died early in the morning. None of these,” she shook the pills, “are toxins as far as we can tell. But the lab will be checking them. Every single one. Do you see why we might be wanting to speak with you?”
Suddenly, it seemed to dawn on him and his mouth widened in surprise. He began to stammer, tugging at the hole in his lip with one manicured finger, the tattoos on his forearm shifting and then slamming to the table with his arm. “I didn’t do anything!” he said. “It’s a horrible coincidence. That’s all!”
“You had an argument with the first victim,” John said, staring out from beneath hooded eyes. “You were overheard.”
“I-I…” he stammered, shaking his head. “I don’t even remember the man’s name.”
“Joseph Dupuy,” John said, firmly.
“Oh… All right, yes, I remember him. And…” The ferret-faced man trailed off, trying to catch his bearings. At last he sighed and, lowering his voice as if confiding, said, “I did have an argument with him. I remember that. But this man…”
“Mr. Dupuy,” said John.
“Right. Mr. Dupuy was angry we didn’t stock peach schnapps. That was it. He said it was his favorite and started yelling at me. And… look,” he said, slowly, his eyes shifting toward the large bag of pills, then to John and back. “Everything in there… now I’m just guessing, but I think everything in there is perfectly harmless. Just a little mood alteration. That’s all. Definitely not something that could,” he coughed and squeaked, “kill anyone. And as for the woman early this morning, she never visited the dining car. Ask anyone. I never served her.” He said this last part with a flourish of his tone like someone laying down a trump card. And on top of it, he added, “Besides, why would I kill them? Over a little spat around alcohol? I have worse than that six times a day with most of my customers. You don’t tend bar if you’re a sensitive sort, I’ll tell you that.”