history.
He rounded the car back to the driver’s side with slow, even steps. As he settled into the vehicle, he glanced over at Adele. “You seem in good health,” he said. He paused for a moment, rubbing the steering wheel, then, noticing the motion, he fell still. “Since you were last here… have things—”
“I’m fine, Robert,” Adele replied quickly, cutting him off before he could finish the sentence. Her tone fell somber on her own ears all of a sudden. She felt a slight flush to her cheeks. “Last time… The strain—it was—”
“You do not owe me an explanation.”
“No, perhaps not.” Adele glanced out the window back toward the milling passengers heading to parked vehicles. Her gaze turned back to the vehicle and traced the interior. She paused for a moment, glancing up at the visor above Robert’s seat. Two small, weathered photographs were tucked in the corner sleeve, in the same way taxi drivers throughout the city displayed photographs of their families.
Except, this photograph was of the DGSI headquarters, and, the second, smaller one was… Adele looked closer and felt a sudden lump in her throat.
The second photograph was of her and Robert standing next to each other—the first day on the job. She recognized her young, smiling face peering out of the dusty picture. She’d never had a home, never belonged anywhere… And yet, there, sitting in the small car smelling of cologne and cigar smoke, she felt more at home than she had in years.
“It is good to have you back, child,” said Robert, glancing over at her with a concerned expression. “Are you ready to work?”
Adele nodded, her eyes flicking away from the visor. “I’m not here for any other case besides this one. Understand?”
Robert’s eyebrows inched up. “I will not speak of it; I understand. But do you?”
Adele thought for a moment, watching as Robert started the engine and checked his mirror, pulling slowly away from the curb.
One case at a time. That’s all she had time for. One case.
She stared out the window as they left the airport, pulling toward the heart of the city. In the distance she could hear tolling bells. It was good to be home…
Her expression softened for a moment as she stared out across the city, her eyes tracing the river and darting across the many old structures. As her gaze flitted to the bridges, little more than arches on the horizon, her expression hardened.
This was home, but there was a rat in the basement, and it was up to her to find it and crush it before it could cause any more harm.
The Benjamin Killer had fled the States for a reason and had already killed once since he’d arrived in France. It would only be a matter of time before he killed again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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
