Left To Die

Adele shrugged one shoulder, glancing back through the opaque glass.

John stared at her slippers again. “Not exactly professional,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.

Adele smiled. “I’m on vacation.”

“Yeah? Good for you.”

“What?” Adele teased. “That’s all I get? No jokes about how lazy American princesses are?”

But John didn’t smile this time; he glanced off down the hall, his face darkening for a moment. “You deserve a break,” he said, softly. “Don’t let them drag you back too soon, hear?”

Adele sighed, feeling some tension leave her shoulders. “I’ve just got a last meeting with Foucault, then I’m off for the week.”

“Going to spend it in Paris?”

Adele hesitated. “I think so, yes. An old friend offered me room and board for the week.” She lowered her voice and winked conspiratorially. “He has a private swimming pool, so I think I might take him up on the offer.” Adele didn’t add the more important part. Her teeth pressed against each other and she felt her mood darken for a moment. The killer had said, “Honestly, it’s funny you left Paris, you know that?” He’d been talking about her mother’s killer. Why had it been funny, though? The way he’d said it kept repeating in Adele’s mind… Almost… almost as if the killer she’d been looking for all along had been in Paris.

Adele had known he’d killed in the city, but she’d never known where he’d been from. Funny you left Paris… Maybe what she had been longing for was beneath her nose the whole time. A week of vacation wasn’t a long time, but… enough time to turn up a new clue? Perhaps.

“How’s the old man?” John asked, still leaning against the glass.

Adele paused for a moment. Only three days had passed since closing the case of the German vacationing killer. Her father had emailed her earlier; he’d returned from the hospital to more than one can of condensed soup waiting for him on his front porch: gifts from his work buddies. She shrugged toward John. “Tougher than me,” she said. “But he agreed to video call me later today—so that’s progress.” She chuckled and shook her head in incredulity. “By the sound of things, though, he’s heading back to work tomorrow.”

John nodded, no longer smiling. “I doubt it,” he said, softly.

She frowned. “For all the things he is, my dad isn’t a liar.”

“No—not the work part. I doubt he’s tougher than you.”

Adele hesitated, studying her French partner. “John, am I hallucinating, or did you just compliment me?”

He studied her, his eyes laden with something she couldn’t quite place… A sorrow, but also a relief. Just as quickly, he covered with a chuckle and a wink. “The way to a princess’s heart; lavish with compliments. This could be the start to an illicit French romance, hmm?”

Adele didn’t react at first. She looked at the tall agent leaning like a tomcat against the door, his eyes hooded as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He really was quite handsome, even with that burn mark. “Maybe we can test that theory,” she said with a smirk of her own. “Indoor pools are always more fun with two people.”

John blinked, taken aback for a moment, and Adele hid her smile of satisfaction.

After a bit too long of a pause, John finally retorted, “I’m a really good swimmer.”

“We’ll see,” Adele said, sweetly. Then she got to her feet, stretching her long legs as she did and rolling her shoulders.

John, still staring at her, hadn’t noticed the shadow approaching from the other side. He jolted like a scalded cat as the door to the executive’s office opened.

Foucault glanced out in the hall. He looked up at the tall agent, frowning, then turned his attention to Adele. “Agent Sharp,” he said, “join me, if you please.”

Adele brushed past John, looking up and winking at him before following Foucault into the office. The door shut with a quiet rattle of glass.

Adele suppressed her smile at John’s startled reaction. It took her a moment to quell the satisfaction, but she finally turned to face Foucault’s desk. To her surprise, he wasn’t the only one in the room.

The TV screen was on behind him, depicting the face of Agent Lee from back in San Francisco. Additionally, the same woman from before—the one from Interpol, was standing by Foucault’s desk with a phone in one hand and a paper file in the other. The large woman eyed Adele from behind thin glasses, her intelligent eyes twinkling.

Foucault was now sitting in his chair, peering across the desk at Adele. Both the chair and the desk seemed perfectly proportioned to suit the DGSI executive’s frame.

Adele felt a sudden flash of embarrassment at her choice in footwear.

For a moment, Foucault frowned, glancing down at Adele’s slippers, but before he could say anything, Agent Lee spoke from the TV screen.

“Hey, Sharp,” she said. “I hear you’re doing good things across the pond!”

Adele smiled at her friend and gave a little wave. “Can’t complain,” she replied. “How are things stateside?”