Before he could continue, Adele’s attention was caught by movement in the back of the room in the direction of the dining car.
Allard was standing there with two other officers behind him. They wore white gloves and had empty plastic bags in their hands. Allard was shaking his head.
Adele frowned. She raised her voice. “Find anything?”
Allard said, “Nothing,” glancing hesitantly at Mr. Rodin, then back to Adele. “We looked through all the bottles, his room, his belongings… No poisons of any kind. Coroner gave a preliminary report of the pictures we sent of the pills and labels. Some Vicodin, a few Adderall—nothing dangerous.”
“You went through my things?” Mr. Rodin said, his voice rising.
“You knocked me over after dousing everyone with pepper spray,” John returned. “Call us even or take it up with the company.” John looked to Adele, and she volleyed the glance back to Allard, who shrugged helplessly again.
Adele returned her attention to Rodin, considering his words. A brief argument at a bar wasn’t unheard of. And though they’d been informed there’d been words, no one had been able to verify what the argument had been about. Right now, all she had to go on was Rodin’s own testimony. Not only that, but the death of Ms. Mayfield had occurred early in the morning, only a few hours after the train had departed. Someone like Mayfield likely wouldn’t be visiting a bar so early, which meant Rodin was likely telling the truth—he’d never even served her. Plus, if the pills on him were mild at best… where did that leave them? Ms. Mayfield didn’t seem the sort to take up with some pill pusher, either. This, coupled with the failed search, didn’t sit well with Adele.
“Mr. Rodin… I don’t know what to make of you,” she murmured. “You assaulted police officers, ran from a federal agent, have more than one controlled substance, and are sitting across from me lying through your teeth. Why should I believe you?”
Martin stared back, blinking and shaking his head. “I… I—I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t!”
Adele sighed. She stared at Mr. Rodin, reading him, trying to find a crack in the facade. But while he struck her as a bit of a rat, he didn’t seem the killing sort. Too squirrelly, too scared. But then again, looks could be deceiving.
“Hang on,” he quickly interjected, eyebrows rising. “What time?”
“Excuse me?”
“What time did this woman die? When exactly?”
“It’s hard to say exactly,” Adele countered, “but probably around nine a.m. Why?”
“Because,” he said, breathing a sudden sigh of relief and leaning back in his chair, “I was with a,” he coughed, “client from eight until nine. Not Ms. Mayfield. A client in the dormitory car. A Mr. Steter. He works in the dining car with me and purchased a decent amount of,” he coughed again, “merchandise.”
“What sort of merchandise?” Adele pressed.
But at this Rodin looked pointedly away from the pills and shrugged. “Things and stuff,” he muttered. “Just ask Mr. Steter. Johnny. I was with him all morning. He took a damned time picking out his usual supply, I might add.”
Adele shared a look with John, who shrugged. “We’ll be checking up on that,” she said, directing the comment toward Mr. Rodin.
“I’m counting on it,” he countered, a new confidence in his tone, carried by a swell of relief. “I never even saw the old lady who died. Ask anyone. No one will have even seen me near the first-class compartment. I was in the dormitory car all morning. There were at least two other valets there as well. Just ask around. It’ll check out.”
“It better,” John said.
“It will,” Rodin insisted.
Adele massaged the bridge of her nose, then glanced at Allard. “Think you can double-check his story?”
The cheerful policeman nodded a couple of times. “Of course. We need to take him in anyway,” he added, wincing sympathetically toward Rodin. “You know for all the…” He mimed a spraying gesture and tipped his head toward the pills.
Adele paused for a moment, thinking, glancing back at Rodin, who’d gone rigid again at Allard’s words. But then she sighed and made a shooing motion. “He’s all yours,” she said. “Just tell me if his alibi fails to check out.”
“You got it!” Allard said, happily. “And, umm, Martin, if you don’t mind, please come with us.” The policeman stood in front of the other officers, gesturing politely at Rodin.
For a moment, Adele thought he might make a break for it. But then the weasel-faced man sighed. Rodin didn’t say anything as he pushed away from the table, got stiffly to his feet, and marched indignantly away from the agents, toward where Allard and a pair of handcuffs stood waiting.
As Rodin was cuffed and one of the officers came over to retrieve the bag of pills and follow Allard off the train, Adele leaned back, glancing up at the ceiling again.
“Think it’ll check out?” she murmured.
John looked over. “His alibi? Dunno. Nothing toxic on him. Except maybe his personality.”
“Right. I was worried you’d say that. I… I don’t think he’s our guy.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty damn. I mean, if he was lying about being in the dormitory car…”
“Think he was?”
Adele shook her head. “You?”
John shook his as well.
Then, in near synchronization, they both emitted belly sighs and stared out the window. As they sat in silence, Adele felt a sudden shiver along her arms. She closed her eyes, staving off a rising tide of anxiety all of a sudden. Something just felt off about the case… She remembered the same sense she’d gotten from Executive Foucault. He’d been cagey, strange… But the sense of foreboding she’d felt around him had been different than usual.
Or maybe he’d simply tried to quit smoking and it had affected his mood. Now, Adele had the same sense… Something was off—something didn’t sit right. But what? Had Rodin been lying? She didn’t think so. He seemed a coward—a low-level pill pusher. He’d had pepper spray as his weapon of choice. A hardened killer would certainly have had a better out, wouldn’t they have? And the way he’d claimed he’d been in the dormitory car, the sheer expression of relief… She didn’t think he was lying. Allard would have to confirm it…
But if Rodin wasn’t the killer, then who was?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Night had fallen, and through the thin glass sunroofs of the sequestered part of the station, Adele glimpsed moonlight brushing the windows. She sat in the lounge car of the train, staring up and out of the window where she reclined in the chesterfield.
Her phone sat on the table in front of her, the speaker squawking as she listened to Foucault, his instructions uttered brisk and clear.
“I’m sorry, Agent Sharp, but there is no alternative,” he said. “We are under immense pressure from the train company to allow them to embark again. We can’t keep them stationary any longer.”
Adele exhaled through her nose. “Bureaucrats already involved?”