Left To Die

Six kilometers from the center of Paris, in the northwestern suburbs of the Ile-de-France region of the capital, Adele found herself staring up at the headquarters of the DGSI.

On the outside, it didn’t look like much. A small cafe rested next to the sealed structure, with dull pink and orange bricks providing a quaint appearance in comparison to the bleak gray and black building for which it served as a foot stool.

Adele remembered the building well. In her mind, she had rehearsed the number of turns the vehicle made as it circled the closed parking lot behind the headquarters.

Inside, the building was far nicer than she remembered. Fresh coats of paint and up-to-date technology now filled the offices that Robert led her past.

“One thing to say for terrorists,” Robert said as he guided her through the building and noticed her curious glance toward a row of high-powered computers behind a glass wall. “They have a singular way of motivating the allocation of taxes. Here, this way.”

Robert led her to an open foyer. A receptionist glanced up from behind a desk and cleared his throat with a polite tilt of his head.

“Here to see Foucault,” Robert answered the querying glance.

The receptionist nodded and tapped a button on his phone. There was a buzz, then a thick glass door clicked open, adjacent to the desk.

“They’re both waiting,” said the receptionist.

Adele followed her former mentor into the room.

It was only as she peered out the windows that she realized they were likely on the top floor. These windows didn’t face the street, and they were all tinted black.

Still, the view from so high up brought back another tide of memories. She turned from the city toward the room. Immediately, she spotted the man from TV screen back in San Francisco. His eyebrows were even thicker in person and his glower doubly intense. He sat behind an old desk that looked to be made from carved oak. The desk sat surrounded by so much technology, it seemed somewhat out of place in both time and taste, as did the quill and ink pot sitting near an old dial-phone.

“Agent Sharp,” Foucault said, speaking with the same light accent as before. “Good of you to come.”

She nodded her greeting.

“This is Special Agent John Renee,” said Foucault, gesturing to his left. “He will be your partner on the case. He’s already been briefed by SOC Grant on the particulars of the previous cases.”

Adele glanced to the second man standing by the oak desk. Perhaps a couple years older, with prematurely gray hair on the side which always accompanied the word “distinguished,” Agent John Renee was the tallest man in the room. He had a bold roman nose and a burn mark just beneath his chin, stretching down his throat. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and pronounced cheekbones. Overall, he struck Adele as carrying the appearance of a James Bond villain. Handsome enough to stare at, but rough enough to worry about.

She smiled to herself at this characterization, but hid the expression just as quickly, extending a hand toward her new partner.

“Greetings,” she said.

“Français?” John Renee replied.

Adele shrugged. “Oui, un peu.”

John nodded, his close-cut hair just as dark beneath the ceiling light as it had been in shadow. “English, then,” he said, carrying the thickest accent of the three men. “I have read the files, oui. But I still think I must ask you some questions.”

Foucault interrupted. “I’m sure Sharp wishes to settle. Robert, thank you.”

John rolled his eyes, but covered by glancing out the window. “The American princess needs her beauty sleep?”

“The American princess is fine,” said Adele, keeping her cool. She glanced toward Foucault. “Actually, if it’s all the same, I’d like to see the crime scene while it’s still fresh.”

Foucault’s lips turned down in a sort of shrug and he nodded. “I have no objections. John?”

The tall man with the military hair cut gave a curt shake of his head. “Have you seen the pictures?”

Adele adjusted her sleeves. “Yes. I’d like to track the girl’s movements, if it’s all the same. Is there anything new I should know about?”

John began to move toward the door without so much as an au revoir to the other men. “Lab gave us the results. The body we recovered does indeed belong to Marion Lucas. They found something in her blood.”

“That would be the paralytic. Do they know what it is?”

John shook his head, opening the door and stepping through it before her. Robert frowned from within the room and gave a small nod in Adele’s direction.

“No,” said John. “But they’re looking. We had hoped the FBI might know.”

Adele quickly returned Robert’s farewell, then winced at John. “Afraid not. Never enough of a sample to narrow it down, unfortunately. No matter. How far is the crime scene from here?”

“Follow me, American Princess,” said John. “I know a shortcut.”