Left To Die (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book One) Read online

  “Why must he be French?” John snorted, his accent thicker than ever. “Probably a fat American, eh? Fled to my lovely country like a rat leaving a sinking ship.”

  “Either way, why continue killing? He got away with it. The killer escaped the US. Why strike again? He could have gotten away.”

  “Eh. He speaks French and English, but he is not so smart, hmm?”

  Adele glanced over. “Perhaps it’s you?”

  John shot her a sidelong glance, then a smile broke his face. He turned back to the stairs, waving at her to follow. “I wonder that myself, sometimes,” he said. “Come—we go speak with her friends.”

  As Adele cast about the bloodstained ground one last time, a voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Hello!” said the voice in French, echoing down the stairs. “Hello, please, may I speak with you, madame?”

  Adele turned to find the gendarmerie blocking the path of two elderly folk who were leaning against the wooden barricade and peering into the underpass, waving at her. John had paused on the opposite side of the crime scene, facing a different set of stairs. The tall man rubbed absentmindedly at the burn mark along his chin and flicked a questioning eyebrow in Adele’s direction.

  “Yes?” Adele said, turning her back on John. “Can I help you?” She peered up, squinting in the sunlight that dappled the stairs and guard rails leading to the sidewalk above.

  The elderly couple were well-dressed, with long overcoats and thin gloves. Their silver hair was trimmed neatly: the man with a military cut, not unlike John’s—minus Renee’s overly long bangs—and the woman with shoulder-length locks that reminded Adele of her mother’s.

  She swallowed at the thought, but pushed it quickly aside as she ascended the bottom steps, pulling within hearing distance.

  “Pardon us,” said the man in a rumbling, creaking voice. “But is this where it happened? Where the young girl died?”

  Adele watched the man and her gaze flicked to the woman. She hated that her immediate thought was one of suspicion—an instinct honed over years of confronting the worst humanity offered. But, just as quickly, she discarded the notion. Nothing in the killer’s crimes suggested a duo.

  She kept her expression pleasant, quizzical. Her French, the same as her English, and the same as her German, sometimes carried an accent. She did her best to hide it, but hadn’t been in practice as much as with English. “You knew the girl?” she said, carefully.

  The old couple shared a glance, peering past the uniformed officer who stepped back once Adele approached.

  The old man eyed her up and down. “You are not police,” he said, cautiously.

  Adele glanced at her slacks and self-consciously tugged at her sleeves. “Er, no—not exactly. I’m working with DGSI, though.”

  The old woman frowned, clicking her tongue quietly in disapproval.

  Adele decided that mentioning the FBI would only have made things worse. The DGSI had only become an autonomous office a couple of years before she’d joined, and there were some in the public who didn’t approve of the agency’s reputation.

  The old woman began tugging at her husband’s arm as if to lead him back up the few steps. “Sorry,” the woman said, still peering disapprovingly at Adele. “We made a mistake.”

  “I don’t work with DGSI anymore,” said Adele, thinking quickly in an effort to save the situation. “I’m consulting. Because of Marion—the girl who died.” She made a face like sucking lemons. “Oh, apologies, I-I don’t think I was supposed to mention her name.” She stepped back, peering down the stairs, but also positioning her body in just such a way so that the bloodstains beneath the bridge were visible over the barricade.

  She waited an appropriate number of seconds, then turned back, shielding the crime scene again with her body. “A nasty business,” Adele said. “The girl’s mother is inconsolable, as I’m sure you can imagine. She’s from Paris, too. Living all alone now in her apartment. Such a pity—one should never be cursed to see their child leave the world first.”

  The old man was peering past Adele, his face turning pale as he surveyed the underpass beyond. The woman had stopped tugging at his arm and her expression softened as she mulled over Adele’s words. The woman made the same clicking sound with her tongue, but then sighed. She shook her husband’s arm in a permissive sort of way.

  “Go on,” said the old woman. “Tell the lady.”

  The man continued to stare past Adele, over the barricade, his eyes fixated like he’d seen a ghost. After another tug on his arm, though, he cleared his throat and his dark eyes leveled on Adele.

  “The girl—Marion—we saw on the news. Recognized her from the apartment. She lives on Rue Villehardouin as well.”

  Adele nodded carefully, her eyes flitting back down the stairs in John’s direction, but he was out of sight beneath the underpass. “You knew Marion?”

  The old man was staring off again and his wife tugged sharply at his arm once more. “Ahem, yes,” said the man. “We would cross paths occasionally on our nighttime walks. A friendly, nice, pretty—er, nice young girl.” He cleared his throat and retrieved his arm before his wife could pull it off. He leaned over the sawhorse, white knuckles straining where they gripped the barricade.

  The gendarmerie reached out to push him back, but Adele gave the quickest shake of her head and leaned in, staring intently into the old man’s dark eyes set in his wrinkled face.

  “She walked alone,” said the old man. “Said she was going to visit friends—she should not have been alone. Paris is not what it once was.”

  “No. Most places aren’t,” said Adele. “You saw her leaving her apartment then. What time?”

  “Eight? Nine?”

  “Half past seven,” the woman chimed in from behind her husband.

  Adele nodded. “Did she say anything? Besides that she was off to see friends?”

  “No,” said the old man. “She said goodnight is all. But…” Here, his fingers gripped the sawhorse even tighter. “Perhaps it isn’t my place to say… But—but—”

  “—just tell her, Bernard,” the woman snapped.

  “I do not mean to cause anyone trouble,” the old man said.

  Adele prompted him with a tilt of her eyebrows. “But…”

  “But I saw someone following her. Maybe he was just going the same way… I do not know. But—like I said—I do not wish to cause anyone trouble. However, after hearing what happened to her… I mean, at the time I didn’t think anything of it. But now, maybe if I had said something.” The old man trailed off and leaned back from the sawhorse, pressing up against his wife in a protective sort of posture.

  The wizened woman looped her hand back through his arm and rubbed affectionately at his wrist in a calming gesture.

  Adele, though, for her part, felt anything but calm. She tried to keep her tone in check, but found it difficult with her pulse pounding in her ears. “You saw someone following her? You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” said the woman at once.

  “Well,” said the man, “he may have simply been going the same direction. Like I said, I don’t wish to cause any—”

  “Sir, if I may, you’re not causing any trouble,” said Adele, quickly. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady herself. She could hear the accent in her words the more excited she got. Now wasn’t the time to announce to these two citizens that she hailed from beyond Paris. With folk like these it would only complicate the situation. So she inhaled again, and then, her words pressing on the silence between them, she said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  For a moment, she thought of reaching for her phone to record the reply, but then decided it might only spook the couple.

  The old man shrugged. “Someone following her. Like I said.”

  “He carried a bundle,” the woman said. “And—yes.” She snapped her fingers. “He wore a blue shirt.”

  The old man frowned, though, his brow crinkling. “No,” he said. “The shirt was green. His sho
es were blue.”

  “Was he wearing shoes?” said the woman in doubt.

  Adele felt her heart sink. She licked at her lips, finding them suddenly dry, and began to step back down the stairs, if only to gain some space to breathe.

  “Is there anything else?” she said from a step further down.

  The old couple glanced at each other, then, nearly at once, they both replied, “He had red hair.”

  Adele had been half-glancing back toward where John awaited, but at this, her gaze flew back to the old couple. She stared at them, searching their expressions for certainty. “Red hair?” she said. “You’re sure?”

  They both shared a look, then nodded adamantly.

  Adele felt her pulse racing once more. She’d once had a smartwatch when she’d trained for a marathon. Her resting heart rate had always been far too high for how in shape she was—another side effect of the job. And now, she could practically hear her heartbeat in her ears.

  “Would you be willing to give an official statement down at the station?” Adele said. “What are your names? Bernard, you said? Last name?”

  The old man began to reply, but the old woman tugged sharply on his arm. “You’ve heard our statement,” she said, frowning. “There is nothing more to say.”

  “I understand,” Adele began, “but if—”

  “Nothing more!” The woman had already half-dragged her husband up the steps, leading him quickly away from the underpass.

  The gendarmerie officer glanced at Adele as if waiting for an order to stop them. But she shook her head.

  “Let them go,” Adele murmured. “I doubt there’s anything more we can learn anyway…”

  She nodded in gratitude toward the officer, then gave a small little salute with two fingers toward the retreating backs of the elderly couple. With a slight skip in her step, she turned and took the stairs, hurrying back toward where John waited.

  Red hair. A wig? Perhaps. But a clue either way.

  The bastard wouldn’t get away. Not this time.

  A smile stretched her lips as she rejoined John on the other side of the underpass, facing a ramp with a long metal rail.

  “What are you so chipper over?” John said, frowning. He had a phone raised, pressed against his cheek, and he seemed more grumpy than usual.

  “I—” Adele cut herself off. “Who is that?” she said, nodding toward the phone.

  John lowered the device and clicked a button on the side, sliding the phone back into his pocket, still frowning. “Marion’s friends. Some boots were able to track them down. They’re waiting for us at the bar.”

  “Why do you look pissed off? That’s good news.”

  “Oh, yes? It is good? Hmm—well Michael and Sophie are going to be there. You remember Agent Paige, yes?” His tone was now high-pitched and would-be innocent, carrying the malicious undercurrent of bad humor. “She refused to work with you. I cannot emphasize this enough, eh. Refused. Called you a chienne—do you remember this word, hmm? It is why I am saddled with our American princess—because Paige would not play nice.”

  Adele felt the smile fade from her face with each subsequent word. She swallowed, slowly, a prickle of anxiety spreading through her, tingling down her spine. “Sophie Paige? She’s an agent now?”

  “No longer supervising, hmm?” said John, still in his would-be innocent voice. His mood seemed markedly improved all of a sudden. “I wonder why that is? She wouldn’t—no, god forbid—she wouldn’t blame you for her demotion, would she?” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise.

  “Christ, you’re such an ass,” Adele snapped. She began stomping up the ramp, rubbing her hand against the cool metal of the guard rail. “Are you coming? Or do you want me to interview all our witnesses on my own?”

  John didn’t reply, but she could hear him chuckling behind her as he followed.

  Inwardly, Adele was a tangle of emotions. Sophie Paige had been her supervisor back when she’d worked for the DGSI. And what a mess that had been. Surely, after all these years, she wouldn’t still hold a grudge…

  “Who am I kidding,” Adele muttered out loud, picking up the pace as she reached the sidewalk and stomped toward the waiting vehicle.

  Sophie Paige was exactly the sort to hold a grudge. Interviewing a bunch of Marion’s friends with that gargoyle leering over her shoulder sounded about as much fun as pulling teeth.

  Two steps forward, one step back.

  But Agent Paige or not…

  The killer had red hair.

  Twenty-five. Twenty-four. No more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Adele could feel the radiating glare singeing a hole in the side of her cheek the moment she stepped into Genna’s, the old, hole-in-the-wall bar behind the college. Adele scanned the crowded room, her gaze flicking across the many low stools arranged around circular tables. The furniture was scattered over what looked like a dance floor converted into a seating area for an elevated stage at the back.

  Adele could still feel Sophie Paige’s glare piercing the cramped space from the other side of the dingy room.

  Adele refused to look over at first. She kept her chin high and maneuvered with surefooted motions through the scattering of tables and cheap aluminum chairs.

  John lumbered along next to her, his mood sour once more thanks to the three red lights they’d hit on the way to the interview Marion’s friends.

  “They come here often?” Adele asked out of the side of her mouth, keeping her eyes rigidly ahead.

  John grunted.

  “You said they were here when Marion died. Is that verified?”

  The especially tall agent grunted again, but then sighed through his nose as if realizing this response wouldn’t curb the tide of queries. His voice creaked with rust as he said, “They come here after work.”

  “And how come we’re interviewing them here?”

  John raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his smaller partner. “Agent Paige said it would keep them at ease. You would prefer we haul them off to interrogation rooms, hmm? How very American of you.”

  Adele shook her head, glancing back toward where the small group was seated on the far side of the bar.

  It reminded her of her old college days, though the thought soured her mood somewhat. Friends required roots. And roots required one to stay in the same spot for more than a passing second. Adele had never been particularly good at putting down roots. She’d never been taught how. Building friendships had been a thing of the past once she’d left university. Agent Lee, back at headquarters, was, perhaps, the one friend she had; it had been easy befriending a fellow workaholic.

  Still, as Adele finally allowed herself a glance across the bar—the atmosphere askew in the daytime, with most stools and booths empty and the stage serving only as a seat for a couple of customers—she found herself examining a group of four young, attractive Parisians.

  Agent Paige and her partner stood against thick red curtains covering a window and blocking out the sunlight. Sophie’s arms were crossed over her chest, creating pressure wrinkles in her otherwise neat gray suit. She had tucked her lip beneath her teeth in a sort of impatient, disapproving gesture.

  The four Parisian friends were all glancing nervously at each other, their hands fidgeting against curled knuckles or twitching fingers. Two men and two women. None of them could have been much older than twenty-five. One of the men, a square-jawed, blond-haired fellow with piercing blue eyes, was tapping a tattoo into the aluminum table, his fingers wiggling wildly. Across from him, a girl with dark hair and dark eyes had clasped her hands together as if she were praying, her thumbs pressed against her lips and her eyes staring at the ridges of her knuckles.

  All four of the friends held bleak, somber expressions.

  Adele switched her gaze to the babysitters standing by the curtains. Sophie Paige was still glaring. She met Adele’s look and communicated nothing, still glowering, still crossing her arms. Her eyebrows, though, inched upward, if only slightly. Her mouth pr
essed just a little bit more tightly, her lips forming an even—if such a thing were possible—thinner line.

  Adele nodded stiffly, offering a greeting to the woman. Perhaps things had improved since they’d last left them. It was often said that time could heal all wounds.

  Even as the thought crossed Adele’s mind, Agent Paige frowned at Adele, her eyebrows narrowing over her watchful gaze. She turned to her partner and muttered something beneath her breath, which sent the short, round man into a fit of giggling, his dark cheeks wobbling with mirth.

  Then again, perhaps time’s ministrations were overstated.

  “What’s the history between you two?” John said, quietly.

  Adele had paused, one foot on the single step that led to the raised back portion of the room.

  The barkeep leaned against the counter, a bored expression on her face. She’d been unlucky enough to draw the short straw to tend bar during early hours. Adele felt for the girl, and nodded sympathetically in greeting. The girl nodded back and then turned to start adjusting some ornately styled bottles on the lowest shelf above the sink, causing auburn liquid to slosh around.

  “It’s none of your business,” said Adele, growling, still hesitating on the step.

  “Ah, so there is history,” said John. He clicked his tongue. “I thought so.”

  Adele ducked her head, hiding her mouth. She lowered her voice even further, practically whispering. “Don’t give me that. You knew we had history.”

  John smiled lazily and leaned against a metal railing as if waiting for Adele to continue leading the way. “I had an idea. You just confirmed it. Tell me; did you take credit for a collar? Steal glory on a case that you both worked together?”

  Adele’s brow furrowed at this, and she quickly shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

  She wasn’t sure why this particular accusation bothered her so much. The idea that John would think she was the type to take credit for someone else’s success particularly burned. She had made her way on her own merit. No one else had given her a leg up.

  “Then what?” said John, still leaning against the railing. He glanced toward where the other agents were waiting and flicked up a finger as if to say, one moment. He’d been speaking quietly at first, but the more attention they seemed to draw from the customers, the louder he seemed to speak.