John nodded once. “Who was that?”
“Another agent,” she replied, curtly. “From Italy. He’s confident this was murder.”
Then she turned and exited the hospital, not bothering to look and see if John was following.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adele paced the small, cramped room back in the Bourthes Precinct, scrolling through the documents on her phone. John sat on the floor, beneath a window, a laptop open on his legs as he also scrolled through the same information.
Adele sighed, but didn’t speak. Again, a strange, awkward silence had filled the space between them. By now, it was irritating enough that Adele half felt like addressing it then and there. But what could she say that wouldn’t simply make things worse? She shot a sidelong look over at where John continued to stare at his laptop screen, his face illuminated in glowing blue light from the device and also the bright white glare from the naked, tube ceiling bulbs.
As Adele considered what she might say, a staccato knock on the door echoed out in a playful rhythm, then the door opened and a smiling face popped into view.
“Everything all right?” Officer Allard said, glancing from Adele to John in the small space he’d managed to set aside for them back at his precinct.
“Fine, fine,” Adele said, forcing a smile. She looked back distractedly at the phone, reading and rereading the names she’d been provided by Normandie Express.
“Anything to drink?” Allard asked.
Adele shook her head, and John just grunted.
“Well… I’ll be just out here if you need anything,” he said, as if hopeful they might take him up on the offer.
Another shake of the head, another grunt.
The affable agent dipped back out and shut the door again behind him. Something about this brief interlude shifted the atmosphere enough that Adele struck up the courage to glance at her surly partner and murmur, “See anything standing out?”
John kept staring at his screen, frowning. “Joseph Dupuy—the first victim—was a young man in his thirties…”
“I noticed that too.”
“I thought both would be old. Pretty rare for a thirty-year-old to have a heart attack.”
“What does it say—he was a tech entrepreneur, yes?”
John finally looked up. “You think money is a motive? Bad business venture?”
Adele shrugged. “I’m not ruling anything out. Ms. Mayfield certainly came from wealth. I wonder if she had investments of a type. I’ll request that information.”
John grunted again, returning to the screen. “Don’t know about investments. But it looks like most of her money was inherited from her late husband. She’s involved in dog shows and is a breeder.”
“Not exactly a tight connection with a tech engineer,” Adele murmured. “They’re both rich, both were in first-class compartments on their respective trains… but otherwise they couldn’t be more different.”
John shrugged now, seemingly deciding he had nothing further to add.
For her part, Adele’s brow creased into a frown. “Maybe…” she said, slowly, “maybe they knew each other?”
“One was from London, came here on a cruise,” said John. “The other was an Italian coder. Doesn’t exactly seem like they would have had any reason to connect.”
“Well… still worth looking into.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
John shrugged again.
Adele’s eyes narrowed. “You know…” she said, testily, “we might not have left things the best, but there’s more at stake here than just—”
He cut her off mid-sentence. “You see the staff list?”
Adele gaped at him, hesitant, having been stopped mid-flow. For a moment, she felt like lashing out again, but then she breathed a couple of times, exhaling through her nose, and said, “What about it?”
“Both trains were from the same company. Normandie Express and LuccaRail are funded by Lockport Enterprises.”
“I’ve heard of them before. They’re involved with buses and ferries too, if I remember. You don’t think they’re involved, do you?” Adele’s tone softened a bit now that John was actually contributing something.
Her partner shook his head. “Not the company, exactly. But because they’re funded by Lockport, they also sometimes share employees. Trade to another line to fill the gaps.”
Adele stared. “How do you know that?”
“I wasn’t always a helicopter pilot.” John grunted. “I did a stint on an overnight ferry for a couple of years when I was a teenager and lied about my age. My point, though, is that I cross-referenced staff names.”
Adele stared. “Between the two lines? Anything?”
John nodded once. He held up two fingers. “Two names. Peter Granet, the conductor, and Martin Rodin, the bartender. On Tuesday, they were both in Italy on the LuccaRail, then Wednesday they were on the Normandie Express.”
Adele regarded John with a look of surprise. “Good work,” she said.
He gave a half shrug.
“So yesterday they switched rails?” said Adele. “Even if that’s the case, I don’t think Mr. Granet, the conductor, could be involved. He would be at the helm, far from the first-class compartment.”
“Unless he took a break,” John pointed out.
“Perhaps. But in both deaths? It would be noticed, surely…”
“Well then, that leaves us with Mr. Rodin, the bartender in the dining car. In fact, the dining car is directly next to the lounging area, where Ms. Mayfield was found.”
“The bartender you say,” Adele said, perking up suddenly. She felt a flutter of excitement in her chest. “Strange you mention him… I didn’t ask for a name, but my contact in Italy mentioned the bartender on the LuccaRail was overheard in an argument with the first victim.”
John and Adele both shared a look of surprise at this declaration, the tall agent sitting cross-legged, while Adele continued to pace the room, her eyes on her partner.
“So Rodin is our guy?” John asked.
“We can’t be sure. But he’s the only connection between the two trains. And if he had an argument with the first victim back in Italy, before switching trains for the company, maybe he had motive too. Not to mention,” she added, frowning in thought, “he was the bartender, which means he had access to the passengers’ drinks.”
“They’re running a tox report now,” John added.
“Exactly. Two heart attacks. Poison would be the obvious murder weapon. And what better way to poison someone than by handling their favorite drink right before consumption?”
John got to his feet, closing the laptop lid and putting it back in the black satchel he’d brought from the car. “Well, Mr. Rodin is our guy then. The staff is all still held back at the train, so our best bet—”
Before he’d finished, though, another quick knock echoed out on the door, and Officer Allard poked his head in again.
“Ah, pardon me,” he said, quickly. “But I couldn’t help but hearing. You mentioned a Mr. Rodin?”