Left To Die

“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 pressed 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.