men. “Lab gave us the results. The body we recovered does indeed belong to Marion Lucas. They found something in her blood.”
“That would be the paralytic. Do they know what it is?”
John shook his head, opening the door and stepping through it before her. Robert frowned from within the room and gave a small nod in Adele’s direction.
“No,” said John. “But they’re looking. We had hoped the FBI might know.”
Adele quickly returned Robert’s farewell, then winced at John. “Afraid not. Never enough of a sample to narrow it down, unfortunately. No matter. How far is the crime scene from here?”
“Follow me, American Princess,” said John. “I know a shortcut.”
Adele hurried after the brash man as he maneuvered quickly through the halls, leading her toward the elevators set at the end of building. She stepped into the first car that opened with John. The crime scene would have answers. It had to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Adele inhaled the river air, the same air that had now gone stale in the corpse’s lungs. Marion’s body had long since been taken to the morgue, but her blood still stained the concrete in haphazard patterns, smothering the dust beneath the bridge in tendrils of crimson.
The area remained cordoned off, with sawhorse blockades obstructing the stairs and the walkway on either side. Two gendarmerie stood sentry, but otherwise, Adele and John had the crime scene to themselves.
Adele dropped into a crouch, pointing her finger at the blood. “Why do you think he bleeds them?” she murmured, then flicked her gaze back toward the stairs.
John gave a noncommittal grunt. “Psychos and freaks do psychotic and freakish things,” he said.
Adele pushed off her knees and moved over to the stairs, peering up beneath the blockade toward the sound of traffic and pedestrians above. “She lives on Rue Villehardouin?”
Another grunt. “That’s what her mother said.”
“She must have come down the stairs then. Shops with surveillance cameras?”
John frowned, testing the word in English. “Surveillance?”
“Security,” Adele said in English, then repeated the word in French.
“Still checking.”
Adele nodded. “Waiting for the warrants?”
John snorted at this, giving her a long look. He scratched at the burn mark beneath his chin as he wagged his head side to side. “How long has it been since you worked here? DGSI does not need warrants.”
Adele tucked her tongue inside her mouth and turned back toward the underpass, nodding slowly. He was right, of course. How could she forget? There were those who felt the reach of the DGSI extended far longer than their purpose. She supposed she didn’t disagree. But, from the law enforcement side of things, she certainly wouldn’t complain. Less red tape meant less time wasted, which meant more criminals behind bars and more citizens kept safe.
Adele shook her head in disgust, glancing around the scene once more. “Nothing new,” she said. “Any insights?” She turned, but found John staring across the river, watching the boats pass, a distant look in his eyes. “Hello?” she said. “Is our case boring you?”
He snapped out of his reverie. For a moment, his handsome features hardened, his eyes narrowing over his roman nose. “Yes,” he said. “A stupid girl allows herself to be lured beneath an ugly bridge. And now her insides are staining my shoes. So, yes, American Princess, I am bored, and I am tired. Does this count as insight enough for you?”
Adele refused to allow her reaction to play across her face. She knew men like John—men who uttered callous, obnoxious opinions to throw others off guard.
John rolled his eyes, turning back toward the crime scene and facing away from the river. Agent Renee was nearly a head taller than her. His height alone had earned sidelong glances as they’d taken the stairs into the underpass. But Adele refused to let this intimidate her. She stepped right up next to John, surveying the bloodstains.
“The killer must know French,” said her partner after a moment.
Adele pursed her lips. “I thought the same. To lure her down here, he had to communicate somehow. Did Marion know English?”
“No. I asked her mother.”
Adele jerked her head in a short, choppy motion. “Good. So our killer knows English and French.” She exhaled deeply, shaking her head. “Why is he here, though? In France, I mean. Is he French? Vacationing and killing in America?”
“Why must he be French?” John snorted, his accent thicker than ever. “Probably a fat American, eh? Fled to my lovely country like a rat leaving a sinking ship.”
“Either way, why continue killing? He got away with it. The killer escaped the US. Why strike again? He could have gotten away.”
“Eh. He speaks French and English, but he is not so smart, hmm?”
Adele glanced over. “Perhaps it’s you?”
John shot her a sidelong glance, then a smile broke his face. He turned back to the stairs, waving at her to follow. “I wonder that myself, sometimes,” he said. “Come—we go speak with her friends.”
As Adele cast about the bloodstained ground one last time, a voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Hello!” said the voice in French, echoing down the stairs. “Hello, please, may I speak with you, madame?”
Adele turned to find the gendarmerie blocking the path of two elderly folk who were leaning against the wooden barricade and peering into the underpass, waving at her. John had paused on the opposite side of the crime scene, facing a different set of stairs. The tall man rubbed absentmindedly at the burn mark along his chin and flicked a questioning eyebrow in Adele’s direction.
“Yes?” Adele said, turning her back on John. “Can I help you?” She peered up, squinting in the sunlight that dappled the stairs and guard rails leading to the sidewalk above.
The elderly couple were well-dressed, with long overcoats and thin gloves. Their silver hair was trimmed neatly: the man with a military cut, not unlike John’s—minus Renee’s overly long bangs—and the woman with shoulder-length locks that reminded Adele of her mother’s.
She swallowed at the thought, but pushed it quickly aside as she ascended the bottom steps, pulling within hearing distance.
“Pardon us,” said the man in a rumbling, creaking voice. “But is this where it happened? Where the young girl died?”
Adele watched the man and her gaze flicked to the woman. She hated that her immediate thought was one of suspicion—an instinct honed over years of confronting the worst humanity offered. But, just as quickly, she discarded the notion. Nothing in the killer’s crimes suggested a duo.
She kept her expression pleasant, quizzical. Her French, the same as her English, and the same as her German, sometimes carried an accent. She did her best to hide it, but hadn’t been in practice as much as with English. “You knew the girl?” she said, carefully.
The
