Left To Die

“The toxicology report. From the lab. You said it would be on your desk?”

“That’s what I was told by the technician. He said by tonight.” John shrugged. “The lab is good at their job. I don’t expect there was a delay.”

“Have you read it yet?”

Some of the sarcasm and scorn returned to Agent Renee’s gaze. “I said it would be on my desk by tonight. I’ve been out with you all day. When would I have had time to read it, hmm?”

Adele was getting to her feet, though, ignoring his comment. “We need to see what it says. Now.”

John shrugged, rose from his seat, and poured himself a fourth glass, nearly to the brim. Then, ignoring the concerned look on Adele’s face, he sidled past her with steady movements and pushed open the door. Adele followed him back up the stairs to the seventh floor—by the fourth he’d already finished his fourth glass and yet, somehow, it didn’t seem to affect his surefooted movements.

Either he knew how to hold his liquor very well, or years of training his physical body had a greater effect than that of the alcohol.

John’s office was far larger than Adele’s, and there were no pictures or photos here. Instead, his walls displayed posters of scantily clad models and actresses that most agencies would’ve considered grossly inappropriate.

John played his role well—just enough to keep people offended and at arm’s length. But Adele was starting to discern more about the man.

Still, right now, the source of her curiosity wasn’t the man himself, but what lay on his desk. She spotted the manila envelope the moment she stepped into the room.

John left the door ajar behind them and approached the desk with her. She beat him to the envelope and opened it with quick, deft motions.

She scanned the document a few times, hesitating, trying to place the results. It wasn’t formatted the same way the FBI did, so it took her a moment, but at last she found what she was looking for.

“Dammit,” she muttered. She lowered the report.

“What?” said John, sounding bored again.

Adele gnawed on the corner of her lip, shaking her head slightly from side to side, her hair swishing against her ears.

“It’s the same as the FBI. They know the chemical compound; a powerful paralytic, but they don’t know what it is.”

John sat on the edge of his desk, massaging his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they can identify its components, but they don’t know where it would be sold. It’s not over-the-counter, obviously. But it’s not even in medical distributions. They’ve not seen anything like it.”

Adele tapped her fingers against the manila folder, grinding her teeth in frustration. A clear, powerful liquid. Not unlike John’s alcohol.

Could the killer be making it himself? She highly doubted it. Whatever substance he used was powerful and immediately effective. To make that sort of stuff from scratch would take a level of clearance and competence the killer couldn’t have possessed while simultaneously maintaining anonymity. But then where was he getting it?

John asked, “FBI didn’t know?”

Adele shook her head.

“DGSI doesn’t know?”

“Great rehashing.”

“My point,” he said with a sniff, “is that perhaps Interpol might have a clue. America and France aren’t the only places with records of tox screens or chemicals.”

Adele glanced to John, her eyes widening. “Do you think Interpol will help?”

John smirked. “DGSI has a great relationship with Interpol, unlike the US. Besides, their headquarters are in Lyon—it’s not far from here.”

Adele tapped her fingers against the folder, her excitement mounting. “Genius. If we can find out where he’s getting that drug, we might be able to find out where he’s from.”

“I thought you said he was from France,” said John, frowning.

Adele placed the folder back on the desk and turned, heading toward the door once more. She could feel exhaustion still pressing down on her like a blanket, trying to smother her. Her morning run loomed large in her mind, and she shuddered at how she would feel when the wake-up call came for her in her hotel room. Still, if John was right, and Interpol could identify the substance, it would clear things up.

“I thought he had to be, at first,” said Adele. “But what if he’s not from the US or France? What if he’s a vacationer? We didn’t consider that. What if he’s from somewhere else, and what if that’s where he’s getting the substance from?”

John tried to hide it, but he looked impressed, if only for a split second.

She patted him firmly on the arm. “Good idea, grab the report, we can fax it over from my office.”

John shook his head and waved at her. “No need. I have an old military buddy who works there. I’ll give him a call—send a picture of the report. Give me a second.”

Adele felt a surge of gratitude toward her partner, which she hadn’t felt up to this point. Perhaps he wasn’t as disinterested and useless as she’d first thought.