At first, he didn’t seem to be aware he was being addressed.
“Dad, I’ve gotta go in to work.”
He looked over now, his eyes cloudy, some of the darkness she’d seen before having faded, as if to be replaced by a sudden stupor. He murmured something softly, then shook his head.
“I’ll try to get back as soon as possible,” she said, wincing. “Feel free to order food or raid the fridge. Whatever you want.”
Her father looked at her for a moment, his eyes sad in a way she wasn’t accustomed to. The normally rigid and rough man before her looked raw, exposed, as if a veneer had suddenly been stripped away. She saw a naked look of grief in his eyes, for a moment, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay near it.
At last though, he shook his head and sighed. “You know… you got closer than I ever could,” he said, and for a faint moment a smile even crossed his normally dour expression. “As Yogi Berra said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”
Adele blinked. She wasn’t sure what a cartoon bear had to do with it… Was she remembering that name right? No matter. But despite her father’s words, his eyes still held another trait… something deeper, darker, lurking behind his gaze. “Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tonight.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Duty calls.”
She shook her head hesitantly, then muttered another apology, hating that she was leaving her father only a half hour after he’d arrived. She sighed, waited to see if he’d say anything else, and when no words were forthcoming, she quickly marched to where she’d left her keys and wallet, snagged them, gave one last, “See you in a bit,” and then, grateful for the excuse, she hurried out the apartment door, shutting and locking it behind her. A new case would provide a distraction. And right now that’s exactly what she needed.
CHAPTER THREE
Adele took the elevator from the bottom floor of the DGSI headquarters in that strange, pink building outside the old café. The headquarters was a relatively new structure as was the agency itself.
As the elevator doors dinged, passengers got on and off, carrying with them—from the adjoining corridors—the smell of fresh coats of paint, where workers were still completing the building over a contract that seemed like it might take twenty years thanks to a combination of slow workers and ridiculous security protocols hampering the painters’ workdays and personnel.
Not every part of the DGSI, though, was so guarded. Adele thought briefly of the basement. John Renee liked to keep his own speakeasy down there, a hidden bachelor pad. She’d been invited into the sacred space more than once, but not recently. Recently, things between them had been less than ideal.
She took the elevator to the second floor first, adjusting the sleeves of her suit and smoothing a lock of blonde hair behind an ear. Adele bid a quick farewell to the two other passengers still waiting in the elevator, and then stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. She moved rapidly toward Robert Henry’s spacious office which overlooked a portion of the parking lot and a view of the distant city.
Renee had said the meeting with Foucault was urgent, but Adele still couldn’t shake thoughts of her old mentor. What could it hurt just to check in quickly? Just to see his smiling face, to see how he was doing?
As she neared Robert’s door, though, she noted it was closed. Adele frowned, glancing up and down the hall. She tapped delicately on the door. No answer.
She knocked a bit louder, then tried the handle. Locked.
“Robert?” she called.
A head poked out from the doorway across the hall, and a woman with short hair frowned. “He’s sick,” she said. “Didn’t come in today. Please keep it down.”
Adele winced in apology and then turned, moving dejectedly back to the elevator. Robert had been coming in to work over the last week as much as possible. If he hadn’t come in today, his health must have declined again.
She gave a shuddering little breath that rattled her throat before boarding the elevator again. She made a mental note to visit Robert as soon as possible.
Adele took the elevator one floor up, to the third level, and the doors dinged open, revealing another carpeted hall. Adele walked briskly toward a bench which faced an opaque door.
For a moment, she stopped. Normally, John Renee would wait for her outside the Executive’s door. It had been a ritual of sorts. They would often enter the room together, facing the wrath of the Executive with backup.
But now she could hear voices from inside, and the opaque glass door was half ajar, suggesting John had already entered ahead of her.
Adele stepped away from the bench in the carpeted hall and pushed her fingers against the opaque glass. She hesitated, listening through the glass at the slow growl of Agent Renee’s voice. For a moment, she felt a flash of recollection, how things had been left the last they’d spoken. How poorly she’d treated him and yet how angry she’d felt. Now, some of the anger had numbed, but the sheer pain, the grief of the situation, ten years in the making, wouldn’t allow her to settle. Would John be angry to see her? Would he ignore her? How could she patch things up? Did she even want to?
She pushed against the glass at last and moved into the Executive’s office. As she entered, she was struck by how it smelled.
Normally, Foucault’s office would exude the aroma of an ashtray inside a dumpster full of cigarettes. He often opened the window when he smoked, but it didn’t help things much.
Now, though, she could barely detect the scent of ash. Perhaps a faint bit had leached into the carpet and walls from years of abuse. But mostly, the odor she detected now was a surprisingly pleasant one, seemingly emanating from flickering red candles in rose cup glass containers placed around the desk.
Rather than smoking, as often was the case, Executive Foucault instead seemed to be chewing on something. Adele glanced at the desk and noted a pile of nicotine gum packs, with a thick, balled up circlet of wrappers forming somewhere near his open computer.
Agent Renee was in the room as well, sitting across from the Executive’s desk, shaking his head and muttering. As Adele entered, John fell quiet, as if sensing her, and turned, glancing in her direction. The tall, handsome agent had dark, slicked back hair and a strong nose. A twisting set of burn marks moved up like creeping ivy from his chest to the underside of his neck, then to his chin.
She felt a flutter of happiness at the sight of her old partner. She cleared her throat and dipped her head in a quick greeting. “Hello,” she said. She’d intended for the word to come out more warmly than it had. John’s expression didn’t change, but he seemed to note the accidental coolness of her tone. “Good morning, Agent Sharp,” he said, brusquely.
“Take a seat, Sharp,” Foucault called from behind his desk. He popped another stick of nicotine gum in his mouth and gestured impatiently toward one of the chairs near where John sat.
“I’ll make this quick,” Foucault continued. The Executive of the DGSI had a hawklike nose and a dark brow. He was shorter than John and his voice came stained with the cigarette smoke normally found hovering throughout the poorly ventilated room.
Now, though, while the smoke was gone, replaced by flickering cherry candles, the strain in Foucault’s voice only seemed to have increased. He also seemed to be perpetually glowering and reached up, rubbing at his temples.