John followed the cursory information, pulling up the man’s file. He paused, rereading a line, and then went still.
The man’s name was Isaac Lafitte. Nothing stood out there. But one of the arresting officers in the assault had made a report… John reread the line in question and murmured, “Ah… Mr. Lafitte, what have we here?”
Isaac Lafitte’s wife had died the previous year, all of a sudden. She’d been young, too—in her forties. Died from a heart attack according to the report.
John stared at the name. He pulled out his phone, frowning to himself as he dialed in the number provided for Lockport Enterprises, the overseeing company for both train lines. He waited as the phone rang.
“Thank you for calling Lockport Enterprises,” came a robotic voice. “If you know the number of the extension you are dialing, please—”
“Let me speak with someone!” John growled into the phone.
The robotic voice continued, uninterrupted, listing the directory. “If you are calling the mailing office, please press one. If you are calling for—”
“Let me speak to someone!” John shouted, his voice rising.
“If you would like to speak with an agent, please stay on the line.”
John felt his knuckles clenching tight around the phone, his breath coming quickly now as he resisted the urge to crush the device in his hand.
At last, the robotic voice was replaced by a very human one which said, “Hello, Colette speaking, how can I help you?”
“Agent John Renee,” he said, still growling. “DGSI. I need travel itinerary for a client of yours.”
“Oh, well, I have a note here to transfer you to managerial. One second.”
“Don’t put me on—”
Music started playing over the phone and John found himself grinding his teeth, resisting the urge to scream at the ceiling. A minute passed with John sitting on the couch, then another—which saw his martini glass emptied of all contents—then a third, which saw his martini glass arching through the air and smashing against the far wall.
“Hello?” said a voice.
“Agent John Renee,” he repeated, grinding out the words through gritted teeth. “I need travel records. We already have clearance. And the number I’m using is logged as a federal line. Now give me the information I’m looking for, or I’ll make sure every tax auditor I know gets your name and the name of everyone in your bloody family!” John hadn’t realized he’d been shouting until the silence followed.
He exhaled slowly, and then waited.
“Ah, yes, I recently spoke with Executive Foucault. Would you mind providing your badge number for verification?”
John sighed and complied with the request.
“Excellent, thank you, Agent Renee. How can Lockport Enterprises be of service?”
“I need travel records for a previous passenger of your LuccaRail and Normandie Express.”
“All right, shouldn’t be too difficult. One moment.”
John heard muttered instructions in the background suggesting the manager wasn’t the one actually logging the information in their system.
“Name, please?”
“Isaac Lafitte,” John said. “Traveling coach.”
“I see in our records the last list requested was for first class, are you—”
“No, not first class. Coach. Well?”
“Ah, one moment.”
More muttered words, and the sound of a clacking keyboard far removed from the phone. Then the voice on the other end said, “Isaac Lafitte, you say? Yes, I have his records right here.”
“Any indication of how many times he’s traveled with you?” John asked.
“I’m afraid we don’t tend to keep information like that for more than a month, which is the billing cycle turnover. But… well, hang on… Interesting.”
John perked up, pressing his phone even more tightly against the side of his face.
“Mr. Lafitte did travel with us, yes, but he’s not done.”
“What do you mean?” John asked, his frown deepening, transforming from irritation to curiosity in a moment.
“I mean,” said the manager’s voice, “that Mr. Lafitte bought a ticket this morning.”
“This morning? Where?”
“Normandie Express again. Strange that. He got on for the French leg, then got off when the rail was sequestered, but now he purchased another ticket for the trip into Germany.”
“He just bought it you say?”
“Yes. He should have boarded only an hour or so ago. Also he purchased a room in one of the first-class sleeper cars. Room three, it looks like.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, perhaps it isn’t important. But our two previous trips with Mr. Lafitte, he rode coach. This time, though, it seems as if he has booked first class.”
“First class, you’re sure?”
“Certainly.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid we don’t keep an extensive deposit of client information. All we have is the name and ticket information. Is there any other way I can be of—”
John hung up, jamming his phone in his pocket and rising to his feet. Adele theorized the killer would strike once per day and perhaps, once per country. Which meant it was either a strange coincidence that Mr. Lafitte was back on the train for its German leg the day following the last death.
Or John had singlehandedly found the identity of the murderer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adele far preferred Agent Leoni’s first-class quarters to the solitary confinement of her hellish sleeper car room. She sat in a lavender love seat, listening as Agent Leoni listed off, in a quiet voice and with the door to his unit closed, what he’d found so far.
“Apart from the argument the first victim had,” Leoni was saying, “he also had a history of flaunting his cash. At least that’s what some of the other passengers said.”
“And you think it got him killed?”
“His wallet was missing,” said Leoni. “After he was found dead, maybe a half hour following according to the coroner, it was noted his wallet had vanished.”
“A crime of opportunity?” Adele suggested, leaning on the cushy bed and feeling, for the first time, some comfort on this train.
“Or a motive,” Leoni replied; he nodded seriously, glancing out toward the window framed by raised drapes as the train chugged along, having left the station and now moving toward the German border.
Adele studied Leoni’s silhouette, the scrunching of his brow, the way he spoke English nearly perfectly. Firsthand experience told her he was fluent in multiple languages, knew how to fly a plane, and was as professional as they came. It also didn’t hurt that he looked like he belonged on the front cover of a magazine at the grocery store.
She found her own lips curving into a smile as she watched him, the sunlight reflecting through the window, catching his face in a soft glow.
He noted her attention and looked over, smiling that crooked grin of his. Good-natured as ever, he said, “What is it?”
She shrugged but didn’t look away, watching him a moment longer, realizing now that though the compartment was first class, it wasn’t large enough to provide much distance between them. The door was closed, the room their own.