Adele had spent years trying to shed the accent developed over a life lived overseas. But when she got upset or angry, traces of her heritage would peek through, making themselves known in the lilt of her words. “Damn it,” she muttered, slowing her speech, flattening the vowels. “Damn it,” she repeated, more precise, more careful. No emotion. No accent. “Damn it,” a final time. Hours like this, in front of a mirror, had all but chased the reminders of her past from her speech.
She nodded in satisfaction, then glanced over and realized the woman in the lane next to her had her window down and was staring at Adele, her plucked eyebrows high on her fat-injected forehead.
Sheepishly, Adele rolled up her own window. She flashed a smile and a wave, then stared resolutely ahead for the rest of the slow, snail’s pace of a drive. She made one more stop just before reaching the office—pulling through a Starbucks drive-through and grabbing a large black, no sugar.
She reached the private lot for the San Francisco field office a half hour later. The two layers of security hadn’t caused trouble once she flashed her ID. She adjusted her jacket and doubled-checked the buttons as she hurried into the east branch through the elevator from the car park.
Another row of metal detectors and men in suits with bored expressions, who smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes, eventually gave way to a long, beige hallway.
“Agent Sharp,” said one of the older men, tipping an imaginary cap in her direction from where he squatted on a three-legged stool between the metal detectors.
“Hey, Doug,” she greeted him with a wave. She smiled at the man, admiring the neat press of his collar and the shine of his shoes. “Looking sharp as always.”
He chuckled, a low, rasping sound. Doug had been a field worker about twenty years ago, but had taken some shrapnel on his last assignment which had confined him to the office. His inability to make rank, however, had nothing to do with shrapnel and everything to do with a complete disdain for office politics. Some in the office thought the elevators needed a “Beware of Doug!” sign. He rarely played nice with others, yet had taken a fondness to Adele that had nothing to do with her gender or her looks. She extended the black, sugarless coffee on top of the X-ray machine, leaving the steaming liquid next to the security officer’s scarred hand—two fingers were missing, also courtesy of the car bomb that had claimed his career.
“Just how I like it?”
“Thick and bitter with a little bit of caffeine,” Adele said, stepping through the security checkpoint and retrieving her briefcase on the other side.
“Just like you, Doug,” said one of the other men with a snorting laugh.
“Shut your mouth, slick,” retorted the guard. His expression soured, but he turned so the other man couldn’t see and winked at Adele, a twinkle in his gaze.
She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m enabling you. Caffeine is a killer—mark my words. Give it fifteen years and the FDA is bound to—”
“Yada, yada,” Doug said, and then he tipped the coffee, downing half the cup in two gulps. “Feel free to enable me all you want. Anyway, don’t let us old fogeys keep you, sport. You got the shimmer.”
She turned to leave with a farewell wave, but then paused, heel half raised. “The shimmer?”
“In the eyes. Something’s brewing, right? No—don’t tell me. Might bump my head.”
“Not enough clearance. I get you. But you’re right. Something is up. I’ll see you fellas around—Doug, Steve.” She nodded to both men in turn and then hastened up the beige hallway, her shoes tapping against the marble floor and squeaking every few steps.
She took a turn past an old-fashioned water cooler and some potted plants, then hurried along a row of tight cubicles. The familiar sound of polite murmuring as folks went about their business, answering calls, printing, faxing, clicking away at their keyboards—all of it filled her with a nauseating sense of dread. There were those in the Bureau who wanted her behind a desk. The thought alone terrified her more than any bullet or case.
She reached an opaque glass door set behind a large, rectangular pillar, which nearly completely obscured the door from view. She swallowed, her hand reaching for the handle. For a moment, she paused, listening, gathering her thoughts. Who was this latest victim? Why had he taken a month-long break from his killing? She’d done good work, but he’d slipped through her fingers before. The bosses had to realize that, right?
From the room, she could hear a quiet murmur of voices—one of them soft, even-toned, the other fuzzy and diluted through the glass.
She turned the handle, tapped a courtesy knock with the hand carrying her briefcase, and then pushed into the room.
Three figures waited for her. One sat by the window, a balding man with a long nose, down which he peered into the street below. Another man, taller than average with a strong jaw and a pen behind one ear, sat by a desk, eyeing a large fifty-two-inch TV screen over a conference table.
The other woman in the room was also sitting, but on the edge of the table, her suit pants stained just over the pocket. All three of them, including the face on the TV, reacted to Adele’s entrance.
“Sharp,” said the tall man with a nod. “Glad you could make it.”
“Sam,” she said, returning the gesture of greeting. “What did I miss? And who’s the pixels?”
“Sharp,” said the woman seated at the table, turning slightly so she faced the door. Lee Grant was one of Adele’s few friends in the department, and though she kept her tone professional, there was a weight of concern behind her glance. “How was your flight?”
Adele shrugged. “Long, boring. Sleazy lawyer in business.”
Grant rolled her eyes. “The usual then?”
Adele chuckled softly. “About the sum of it.”
“Well,” said Agent Lee, “we were waiting for you to get started. The pixels, as you put it, belong to DGSI exec Thierry Foucault. I believe you two have a history.”
Adele’s eyebrows invaded the personal space of her hairline, and she circled the table, setting her briefcase down and turning for a better look at the screen. A hawk-faced man with thick eyebrows and even thicker cheekbones glared out from the screen, his eyes flicking around the room. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said, slowly, racking her brain for any memory of the man’s face.
“The young lady—this is Sharp?” said the face on the screen, still giving the appearance of scowling, though Adele was starting to suspect this had more to do with the arrangement of his features than of his current mood.
Adele tilted her head in a nod.
“I was still at the embassy when you worked for DGSI.” The speakers crackled for a moment, and Adele leaned in, straining to hear. The sound cleared a moment later as Foucault continued. “Four years? Five? A pity you left. France can always use talent like yours.”
Adele had no doubt her file sat in front of the executive, but she kept her smile polite. “It was four. I learned a lot in my position in Paris. I doubt the FBI would have recruited me without the experience.”
“This is the way of it, no?” said Foucault, smirking through the screen. “France creates the things most valued by America, hmm. It is no matter…
