“What are you doing here?” she said, moving along with Leoni away from the ticket collector and the other first-class passengers toward one of the sleeper cars.
He glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure no one was listening in, and then said, beneath his breath, “I managed to talk to one of my superiors and show him the merit of my theory.”
Adele’s eyebrows rose. “So we’re both still thinking murder?”
“I’m certain of it,” he said. “You look lovely as ever, by the way.” He grinned.
Adele pressed her lips, trying to hide her smile. “Oh? You too.” She chuckled. “Not to be a bore, but did you get the toxicology report back?”
The Italian agent shook his head. “Not yet. But I know that when we do, it will confirm what I think.”
“How do you know?”
Leoni said, “Thirty-year-olds don’t die of heart attacks. Not one day before someone else dies in a similar way. Call it a hunch, call it instinct. I seem to remember you went off that quite a bit last time we worked together.” He gave a good-natured chuckle, which she returned.
The two of them had come to a halt outside an open door to one of the first-class sleepers. Adele glanced in and felt a jolt of jealousy. In a forlorn way, she said, “That’s like three times the size of my room.”
“The benefits of being an Italian,” he replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows. He stepped in, pushing his suitcase into the spacious compartment beneath the bed.
Adele stood in the doorway, then glanced over her shoulder and watched as another couple began moving down the car toward another open door.
“It’ll be good to have the backup,” she said quietly, “but if you’re right, there was no death last night… which means…”
“A murder every day,” said Leoni. “I would’ve been surprised if they struck twice yesterday. If they kill again, it’ll be today.”
“Maybe… I was thinking it could be a murderer in each country.”
The Italian winced. “Either way, we’re nearing the German border. The killer will strike again today.”
Adele crossed her arms, leaning against the frame. “You’re certain of it?”
“As certain as I can be,” he said, softly, looking up at her. “Why? Have you found something different?” His eyebrows rose. “Any thoughts on the killer?”
Adele just shook her head, sighing as she did. “Afraid not. Dead ends so far. Ms. Mayfield and Joseph Dupuy had very little in common from what I’ve seen. Another murder might be the only bread crumb we have left to guide us to the killer unless we find something now. Another death simply isn’t an option!”
Leoni slowly pursed his lips. “Let’s both of us hope, together, it doesn’t come to that.”
“Either way, today will be the next attack. If we don’t find him soon, we won’t be able to do anything about it. Someone’s going to die.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Agent John Renee leaned back in the soft, frayed couch down in the basement of the DGSI. He detected the faint odor of what some might mistake for cleaning solution, but really originated from the bubbling distillery he’d set up here nearly three years ago. On the wall, two pictures were tacked to the chipped paint, displaying images of his old military buddies.
John frowned as a memory resurfaced.
A bleeding body on a bleeding table. A killer hiding in the pantry, laughing at him. A small, skeletal frame of a man. One of his eyes dead, dull, gleaming out from beneath an upturned hood.
The man had said, “Gerard; he was your copilot, wasn’t he? Six of you in total, wasn’t it? Does it weigh on you? You call me a monster, Agent Renee. But you’ve killed more people than I have. And you enjoy it, too, don’t you? I can always tell. You dirty dog.”
John clenched his teeth, glancing once more at the picture tacked to his wall. How had the monster known his co-pilot’s name? What else did he know? The same killer who’d taken Adele’s mother. The same killer who’d escaped him in Paris.
He remembered Gerard. A man of the hills, a rough man. A man after John’s own heart. They’d flown more missions together than the rest of the team combined, both of them having signed up at a young age. John at sixteen, with forged papers, in between stints as a ferryman; Gerard at seventeen, the same year.
John swallowed, shaking his head softly. Gerard was the brother he’d never had. More of a father, really. Though only a single year had separated them, Gerard had been John’s protector in the military. Saved his life on more than one occasion, and when all was said and done, John hadn’t been able to repay the favor.
The only survivor of the helicopter crash. Sabotage, some said. Others had whispered the bird had been damaged in base. John had looked into the allegations, but why would someone in their own crew sabotage the helicopter? He’d decided it was just a rumor. Either way, it wouldn’t bring back his brothers. Wouldn’t bring back Gerard, or the rest of their tight-knit family.
He hadn’t lasted long in the military following it.
John grunted and shook his head, trying to focus on the task at hand. In one hand he clutched the cool shell of a martini glass filled with moonshine. The other steadied a laptop on his long legs.
Adele might think he’d phoned it in—she might assume he wasn’t interested in solving the case. But nothing could be further from the truth. The fact that Elise Romei’s killer had escaped from him haunted him still. Andrew Maldonado, the sole witness to the crime scene, was still in a coma.
John needed to prove himself and yet… next to Adele, trying to solve a case with her again—it had felt different. She’d gone cold, it seemed. She hadn’t laughed at his normal humor, nor had she wanted to talk to him, it seemed.
Now she was back on the train and he was back at headquarters.
He sighed, pressing even further back into the well-used couch.
“What have we here?” he murmured to himself, prying his gaze away from the photos on the wall and glancing at the progress bar on his computer screen above the compiler he’d run.
Names. Names from Italy. Names from France. Names from the train company and names from ticket booths.
Not first class this time. John was sick of the first-class passenger list. Now, he’d decided to go back, to check coach, to check layovers, to check everyone. The murders—if that’s truly what they were, and he still wasn’t certain—had occurred in the first-class compartments. But that didn’t mean the killer was also there.
He took another chug of bitter beverage and then lowered the glass, rubbing at his eyes. He hadn’t slept, instead combing through the names through the night, pulling them apart a piece at a time, narrowing down the passenger list. And checking it mostly manually.
Now, the progress bar of the final compilation, which he’d originally sorted, came to an end. Only one name. One name from coach who’d been on LuccaRail and the Normandie Express on the given dates.
One lead.
John’s bleary eyes narrowed and he leaned into the white and blue light emanating from his computer. A retired train-hopper. An arrest record. Arrested for assault but the charges were lowered to disturbing the peace…