“Is… is everything all right, sir?” Adele said.
“Fine,” he snapped back. He followed her gaze, glancing to the stacks of gum packs and the candles. He sighed and waved airily. “Sorry. Just trying to kick a habit. New leaf and all. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
Adele settled in the seat next to John, all too aware he wasn’t paying much attention to her. Was he intentionally neglecting her? Had they left things that rough after all?
She shot a look toward where the long frame of the tall agent reclined in his seat. He looked as bored as ever to have been dragged into a meeting. Normally, though, the boredom was a bit of a joke between them. She would often tease him about being unprofessional, and he’d respond by calling her American Princess or something equally condescending.
It was a playful banter that had seen Adele through some of the tougher days on the job. Now, though, he’d referred to her as Agent Sharp on entry, and his boredom seemed self-contained, shared only with himself.
Foucault’s irritation did little to stem the tide of frustration rising in Adele’s own chest, so she bit her tongue and waited.
“Two bodies, two countries,” Foucault said, curtly, speaking around a wad of gum the size of a walnut. “Both of them having died of what appears to be a heart attack on two different trains.”
“Trains?” said John.
“Trains.”
“What type of trains?” Adele asked.
“The ones that go choo-choo and sit on rails,” Foucault said, a bit testily. Then, realizing he was being unfair, he said, “Cross-country passenger trains. The most recent death was on the Normandie Express. It goes through France, Germany, and a couple other countries, I’m told.”
Adele nodded. “And these deaths, the MO was similar?”
Foucault paused for a second, brows knitted. “We’re not certain the deaths are murders, actually.”
This time, Adele and John did share a look, despite themselves. But just as quickly, their inquisitive glances rebounded back in Foucault’s direction.
Adele said, “How did they die then?”
“Heart attacks,” Foucault repeated. “Or so it seems. Granted, neither of the victims had a history of heart problems, and one of the victims was quite young. As I’ve said, two days, two deaths, two trains, two countries…” He made a rolling motion with a finger as if to say you fill in the blanks.
“So we’re called in just to check it out?”
“First death was in Italy, the second in Northern France,” Foucault said. “Check it out is right. We’re not sure it’s cause for much alarm, and local authorities think it could be a coincidence… But,” he paused significantly, his dark eyebrows stretching their confines, “the transportation companies have powerful friends and they want us to hurry this along. We want this case investigated and sealed as quickly as possible… It’s most likely nothing.”
“But,” said John and Adele at the same time. This time they didn’t share a look.
“But.” Foucault nodded. “Just in case, we’re sending you two down to where the second train is being held at the station. Make sure. Make it quick. Report back—hear me?”
Adele nodded hesitantly. It sounded routine—throwaway even. And yet, there was something, despite his new twitchy disposition, in the way Foucault was talking that made Adele nervous. He was using the right words, downplaying the murder angle, and yet something about the way he glanced at them, the way he emphasized the two deaths in two countries… Something told Adele there was more to this one than met the eye. She felt a shiver of foreboding stretch down her spine.
“Is that all, sir?” she prompted.
Foucault’s eyes flashed for a moment, and he studied her. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again just as quickly and shrugged. “All I know for certain. Rest is up to you.” He popped another stick of gum into his mouth, pulling at his collar and muttering, “It’s damn hot in here. Out, out! Hurry along.” He made twin shooing motions toward John and Adele, bringing the meeting to a close.
CHAPTER FOUR
The painter winced as he dragged the razor across his face, rocking slightly back and forth and swaying in time with the brass jazz pulsing through the bathroom. He hummed to himself as he swayed, stripped completely nude as he examined himself in the mirror. His clothing was folded and placed neatly on top of the toilet lid, a metallic mask resting on the pile just over two black gloves.
The razor moved across one eyebrow, taking away the final remnants of hair. The man hummed along with the saxophone solo pulsing in from the other room and reached for the tape he’d left on the back of the toilet. Still humming, he peeled off a fragment of tape, pressing it to his forehead around the eyebrow and pulling away. He gasped in pleasure at the sheer pain of the sudden removal. He pulled another section of tape and pressed it lower down his face now, over the eye, around the socket. He pulled away again, making sure to catch the final remnants of any fiber of hair from his eyebrow.
Then, staring at the clear, translucent tape, he moved back to the razor, bringing it up to his next eyebrow. He continued to sway, feeling the breeze against his unclothed form in the still, darkened bathroom.
The lights were off throughout most of the house, save the pulsing glare from the small screen he kept by the sink. The screen displayed video image of the apartment where Adele Sharp lived.
The painter glanced down at the apartment again, smiling to himself and humming some more as he reached for the tape again.
“Soon,” he murmured softly. “Dear, dear friend, very soon…”
In the background, just above the sound of the pulsing music, he heard the faintest of mewls as if from a cat.
A frown flickered across his face, and he glanced in frustration toward the open door. No rest for the wicked, he supposed. He looked back into the mirror.
Of course, he couldn’t introduce himself to Adele first. No—best to let a mutual friend make the introductions. First impressions were hard to shake, and he intended to make a marvelous initial approach. He smiled at the thought, staring at the video feed. Someone was exiting the building. He leaned in, peering at the footage from the camera he’d managed to tap into across the street.
“Is that…” The man’s eyes narrowed. He recognized that man, wearing a thin white T-shirt and a walrus mustache. He watched as the man left the apartment building, moving up the street and out of sight.
Curious. Was Adele entertaining friends and family? Why hadn’t he been invited?
Another mewling sound echoed from down the hall. He gritted his teeth now, not pressing too hard. His teeth, like some of his bones, weren’t the strongest things in his body.
He frowned, his face collapsing into a glare as he gazed into the mirror, staring into his deep eye sockets, his bony cheeks etched against thin skin. Not nice to exclude your closest friends… Not nice at all.
He puffed a breath, trying to calm himself, to still the rage suddenly burbling like hot tar from in his chest.
Not nice at all. He’d have to introduce himself soon… Very soon.
The thought of what he had planned for tonight prompted him to relax a bit, sighing in relief.