She couldn’t let past grudges affect this case. Sophie Paige still worked for the DGSI. That couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t mean Adele would let the older woman and their shared history ruin the investigation.
Adele stormed into the bar’s bathroom and stared at herself over the mirror, her eyebrows flicking down in a furrow at the sight of her drenched collar and jacket.
She wiped the alcohol from her face, trying to rid herself of the odor of whiskey. She used foam soap on her chin, scraping the smell away.
As she did, she mulled over the next step. She still had a new clue. The killer had red hair. And he had recently come from the US. How many redheaded tourists could have arrived in the last week? Not many. She would’ve bet it wasn’t many at all.
They would have to place an APB. Perhaps get in touch with the airports. The DGSI had access to more files than much of the FBI. Interpol often shared their own intel. If the Patriot Act in the US was an agency, it would look eerily similar to the DGSI.
The amount of freedom it afforded could create the worst sorts of law enforcement out of people like Agent Paige. Though, perhaps that was just Adele’s bias showing.
She twisted the metal knob to the faucet and rinsed off her hands. Adele glanced back up into the mirror, meeting her own gaze. Clearly, the killer was smart. There was no rhyme or reason behind the victims he chose. Their nationalities were different, their genders were sometimes different; only their ages seemed to matter. What did it mean? Why was he so obsessed? Adele had gotten close. Back in Indiana, she was nearly certain she had gotten close… But how close? They’d had no concrete suspects. He’d escaped that time. Now, though, she wouldn’t let him escape again.
She flung droplets of water from her hands back into the sink, shaking her fingers, then turned sharply and stormed back out of the bathroom, drying her hands off on her already stained shirt. No time for those dinky little air dryers.
The red-haired bastard couldn’t be far. If she had to bet on it, she would guess he was still in the city.
Adele now moved toward the exit to the bar, gesturing at John to follow.
“Are you okay?” he said, a kernel of sympathy in his tone for the first time.
She nodded fiercely and gestured again. “Come. We have work to do. I have an idea.”
CHAPTER TEN
Raindrops rattled the windows in staccato, ushering frigid gloom into the temporary office they’d given Adele back at the DGSI headquarters. She leaned in her chair, staring at the ceiling, studying the fresh paint that glazed the concrete. A small black radiator, of the electronic variety, whirred softly behind her. The office was still unfinished and the heating units were a temporary measure. In the back of the room, a few outlets extended naked wires like the tentacles of some tiny ocean creatures. Back at headquarters in San Francisco, Adele hadn’t been given her own office. There were too many agents for that to be considered fair. But again, an agency like the DGSI, which was only a decade old, pulled out all the stops to tempt new recruits. And, like Robert had said, the recent wave of terrorist attacks in Europe, despite all the political implications, had increased the budget for most intelligence agencies.
“How do you fair, my sweet?”
Adele turned slowly, glancing toward the door, her gaze tracing from the figure’s polished shoes, up his well-maintained, pressed pants, and lingered on his manicured fingernails. Then she smiled softly and met her old mentor’s gaze.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” said Adele. She leaned back in her chair, pressing her head against the cold wall, still listening to the rain in the background. “Can’t say that we’ve done much.”
Robert ran his hands through his ever-thickening hair, and the early wrinkles around his eyes creased as he squinted in her direction, adopting a look of concern. “You put an APB out?”
She nodded. “John did. Red-haired tourists. Can’t imagine there’s too many of those; at least not in the city.”
Robert stood straight in the doorway, his posture perfect. Most folks would’ve leaned against the doorframe, or come into the room and relaxed in one of the chairs across the desk from Adele. But Robert stayed where he was, upright, dignified, a bit pompous. He peered down at her, and the short man cleared his throat with a rasping sound. “How is it being back home?”
Adele crossed her legs, pressing her heels on top of the desk. She sighed, ushering a breath in his direction, exhaling the stress and frustration clogging her lungs.
“I’m not sure I am,” she said, softly. “Not sure I have a home. But there are worse things, I suppose.”
At this, Robert frowned, and he stepped into the room, studying her slowly.
Adele met his questioning look. “I’m not the one who chose to move around as much as we did. A child doesn’t always have the options they’d like.”
He continued to study her in silence, thinking through his words carefully before speaking. “No,” he said at last, a curt, clear word. “But perhaps it isn’t you don’t have a home. But that you have more than one.” He dusted at his dustless suit. “Perhaps it isn’t a curse, but rather a blessing. There are those who would be lucky to have more than one home.” Robert stepped further into the room and made his way slowly over to the window, peering out into the gray skies. “For me, Paris is my home. I would envy the ability to hold fondness for more than one place.”
Adele smiled at the man, but she didn’t say anything. She knew what he was trying to do. And she appreciated the effort. But words didn’t change the truth of the matter. She had never quite belonged anywhere.
That wasn’t a claim for pity. Rather, it was a position of strength, especially as an investigator, to be an outsider looking in. The outsider always brought a new perspective that locals might not possess. Her life, her upbringing—Germany to France to the US—gave her insight that others didn’t hold. Each place she lived had its own boon, a gift of experience that it bequeathed her. And yet, whenever she contemplated such things, a slow ache often developed in her chest, not quite unlike anxiety. Perhaps it was closer to loneliness.
She thought vaguely of her mother. But then shook her head, dislodging the thought.
“Have we had any hits yet?” she said, quickly, clearing her throat and speaking more firmly. Robert was still staring out the window. He gave the slightest shrug of his suited shoulders. “I have not heard anything.”
“What case are you working on?”
“Nothing new. They have me in an advisory role only.”
The way he said it gave Adele pause. There was an edge to his voice that she didn’t quite understand.
She stared at the back of her mentor’s head, watching him, studying his silhouette framed against the window. “Oh?”
He shrugged again and turned toward her; the droplets stippling the window framed him in a sort of liquid halo.
It’s good to have you back,” said Robert. “I’ll leave you to your work. But you know where I am. My number is the same. If ever you need anything—”
“I know. I really do. And I’m grateful. Extremely grateful.”
He flashed one of his rare smiles, which revealed two missing teeth in the front left side of his mouth. For a man who cared so much about appearances, the missing teeth were often jarring to people. Adele had never quite learned the story behind them, but she knew better than to ask.
As she watched him go, she wondered vaguely what he’d meant by “advisory role.” She knew the agency liked to hire young talent. But the thought that anyone would try to edge Robert, of all people, out of his job was ludicrous.