Left To Die

The four friends slumped even lower in their seats. Then, with a great sigh of resignation, Tomas pushed himself up, stepping backward over his stool and retrieving a coat set on the table behind him. He gestured with a small jerk of his head at the others, and they quickly followed his retreat.

It would take Adele a little bit of time to re-acclimate to the way things were done at the DGSI. There were no checkouts for the interview room, no clerk to escort the interviewees out of the station. They were in a bar in the afternoon in Paris. The French agency often afforded more freedom and less red tape. But, as she glanced toward where Sophie Paige hung her head at the bar, holding a drink which she wasn’t sipping, it also allowed the worst sorts too much leeway sometimes.

“Farewell,” Paige called without looking back. Her words seem to propel the four friends even quicker out the door, and Adele could hear the scattered sound of their rapid footsteps as they hastened along the sidewalk outside, and then the sound faded with the dull thump of the shutting door.

Adele glared at the Paige’s back, frowning. Her hands tingled, her fingers tapping incessantly at her upper thigh.

John stepped forward, his elbow brushing against her shoulder. “Do we go now?” he asked, his voice low. “What is this about red hair?”

Adele ignored him, and she hurried forward, shoving past Paige’s partner and surging toward the seated woman at the bar.

“Sophie,” the round, balding man barked in warning.

Adele stormed forward, and Sophie Paige turned slowly, glancing over her shoulder and swiveling in her stool.

Adele found her fists were bunched at her sides, and she quickly unclenched them. It wouldn’t do to get into a fight in a bar the first day on the job.

“Can I ask what you think you’re doing?” Adele snapped.

Agent Paige gave a half smile, presenting the sort of leer that belonged on the mouth of a shark. “You may ask whatever you want. Hells, do what you want. You always have.” Page spoke in French, rapidly, as if she were trying to shake Adele off the scent of a trail.

But Adele’s French was coming back to her, and she replied just as quickly, “Do we need to talk?”

Paige glared. “The time for talking was six years ago, don’t you think? Before you knifed me in the back!”

“I didn’t—”

“Go deal with your case and get out of my face.”

“I never intended for you to get in trouble,” said Adele. “I didn’t know you had been demoted.”

Agent Paige’s left hand tightened around the filled glass, and she spun around sharply, tossing the contents at Adele.

John and Paige’s partner rushed forward, but Adele stood her ground, allowing the alcohol to seep down her face and stain her clothing. It dripped from her chin against the faux floorboards with rhythmic taps.

She could feel all eyes on her, including a couple of the daytime customers and the barkeep behind the counter. She inhaled shakily through her nostrils, smelling the whiskey on her chest.

“You’re a mess,” said Agent Paige. “Clean yourself up.” She grabbed a dirty towel from behind the counter and flung it at Adele. Then, without paying, she shoved off the stool and strode away from the bar, toward the door. Her partner quickly fell into step.

Adele found that her left hand was bunched up against her pants, holding her trousers tight.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said John, his shadow falling over her, cast by the glowing lights in the square fixtures above.

Adele shook her head, causing sticky liquid to slip along her face and continue to drip down her chin. “I knew she was going to be trouble.”

“You weren’t lovers, were you?”

Adele glanced up at John and shook her head, noting his coy smile and the slight wiggle of his eyebrows. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“That would’ve been incredible,” John said, smiling fondly, looking off into the distance. Then he glanced back at Adele and sighed softly. “Come, you should clean yourself up. There are bathrooms in the back; I saw a sign.”

He pressed gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward the back of the bar, but Adele shrugged off the helping hand and stomped away, her legs stiff, her arms straight at her sides.

She couldn’t let past grudges affect this case. Sophie Paige still worked for the DGSI. That couldn’t be helped, but that didn’t mean Adele would let the older woman and their shared history ruin the investigation.

Adele stormed into the bar’s bathroom and stared at herself over the mirror, her eyebrows flicking down in a furrow at the sight of her drenched collar and jacket.

She wiped the alcohol from her face, trying to rid herself of the odor of whiskey. She used foam soap on her chin, scraping the smell away.

As she did, she mulled over the next step. She still had a new clue. The killer had red hair. And he had recently come from the US. How many redheaded tourists could have arrived in the last week? Not many. She would’ve bet it wasn’t many at all.