He continued smiling, either clueless or unperturbed by the thoughts now moving through her mind.
“Leoni,” she said, carefully. “I wanted to ask you something—”
Before she could finish, her phone began to buzz and she jolted. Adele glanced down as she fished out the device and then went stiff.
John was calling.
Strangely, her first emotion was panic. It took her a second to realize how silly this reaction was.
Adele cleared her throat awkwardly, pushing off where she sat on the edge of the first-class bed to go stand by the shut door as she answered the call. Her gaze fell on Leoni, who raised a quizzical eyebrow, but her attention was directed to her old partner.
“I have a lead,” he said, gruffly. “Have a second?”
“I’m—yes, a lead?”
John paused for a moment. “Are you alone? Can you speak freely?”
“I’m—no, I’m with another agent. But yes, I can speak freely.”
“Another agent? Foucault didn’t mention anything about—”
“Not DGSI. It’s Agent Leoni from Italy. He was the one working the other half of this case.”
“Oh. Right. Christopher, yeah?”
“Mhmm. What lead?”
John took a moment, it seemed, to gather himself but then said, in a slow, careful tone, “I suppose you can share this with Lenny too, if you like.”
“Leoni,” she said.
“Whatever. There’s a train-hopper on board with you now. He has an arrest record for assault, and his wife died last year of—get this—a heart attack. On top—he was on both the LuccaRail two days ago, and the Normandie Express yesterday.”
Adele frowned, pressing her back against the door. “Hang on,” she said, “he’s here today? The passengers were put on other trains when we sequestered the staff.”
“Right,” said John, “which makes it strange, doesn’t it? He bought another ticket for the same train. Looks like he moved up from coach to first class.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Isaac Lafitte.”
Adele pressed the phone to her shoulder, muffling the speaker, and looked at Agent Leoni. “Do you know anyone by the name of Isaac Lafitte?” she asked, hesitantly.
The handsome Italian agent thought for a moment, but gave a faint shake of his head. “Was he first class?”
Adele shook her head, phone still pressed to her shirt. “Not on the LuccaRail. In Italy, it sounds like he was in coach, but he was also on the Normandie.”
Leoni’s eyebrows ratcheted up and Adele gave a significant nod. She lifted the phone now and said, “When did he board?”
“Just an hour ago,” John replied. “He’s in first class right now. Car two, room three.”
“Excellent. Thank you, John.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, his tone strained.
Adele hesitated, wondering if she should say anything else. Wondering if he was expecting her to. She hadn’t expected John to take this case seriously, but then again, he’d been an agent long before she’d shown up. Just because she didn’t approve of his methods didn’t mean he wasn’t effective. Still…
“I…” she began.
But she’d left it too late. John spoke over her at the same time, “See ya around.” Then he hung up.
Adele sighed, holding her phone for a moment in a still hand, and then, shaking her head, she turned away and regarded Leoni. “Isaac Lafitte is in car two,” she said with a significant tilt of her eyebrows.
“That’s…” His frowned followed. “Hang on.”
Leoni pushed off the bed quickly, wearing an immaculate Italian suit, like he was heading out to some dinner party. The suit was clearly tailored and he had twin panther-eyed silver cufflinks on either wrist. He pushed open the door and Adele quickly followed, both of them moving down the car.
Adele stopped in front of the third door, furthest from Leoni’s room. Car two.
Adele shared a significant look with the Italian. “This is it,” she murmured.
He nodded, raised a fist, and then knocked three times. “Hello, Mr. Lafitte!”
“DGSI!” Adele called, knocking as well, framing the door by standing opposite Leoni, her shoulder pressed to the wall in case the door was flung open.
“Quit your yelling!” came a cranky voice from within the compartment.
Adele gestured quickly at Leoni and he took a step back from the door, distancing himself in case Isaac Lafitte was armed.
“Open your door, sir!” Adele called. “We need to speak with you.”
More grumbling from within and then, eventually, with an air of much reluctance, the door was pushed open, half an inch at a time, by a familiar man. The same loud-mouthed passenger who’d refused to relinquish his luggage earlier and who’d cursed out the valet. She blinked in surprise, but covered quickly. Robert had always said: trust your instincts.
The man’s expression hadn’t altered at all in the last hour. In fact, he seemed even more cantankerous than when they’d first interacted.
“What?” he snapped.
Adele flashed her credentials and mimed pushing the door open even more. “Mind if we chat?”
The door stayed exactly where it was, half ajar.
“Bug off,” he snorted. “You got a warrant?”
“No warrant,” said Adele, testily, “but we need to speak with you in regards to an ongoing—”
The door was pulled shut, cutting her off. Adele blinked and glanced at Leoni, who shrugged back at her, then looked to the door once more. “Excuse me?” she called, knocking even more loudly this time.
By now, the couple who’d bordered the train first were peeking out from the room between Leoni’s and Lafitte’s. They were standing in the hall, eyes wide, watching the spectacle. Adele made a faint shooing motion, and the couple ducked back into their room, but kept the door open, apparently wanting to catch all the details.
“Mr. Lafitte!” Adele called. “Open up or we’ll have to get the conductor, sir!”
This time, the door slammed open and caught Adele across the shoulder, sending her reeling back into the cool glass of the near window. “Leave me the hell alone!” Mr. Lafitte shouted, shaking a fist at Adele. In one hand, it looked like he was now holding a hefty silver pitcher which he was wielding like a cudgel.
Leoni took a step toward Adele as if to see if she were all right, but Lafitte seemed to interpret this as an aggressive motion. He swung his pitcher, aiming for Leoni’s skull. The Italian agent moved like water over marble. In one swift motion, he ducked under the blow, his left arm rising, catching Lafitte on the other side of his swinging arm. The first-class passenger cursed as the pitcher was sent clattering to the ground, but the sound died a second later as a swift open-handed strike to his throat sent him doubled up and gasping at the floor.
Adele stared, impressed—she hadn’t realized Leoni could move that quickly.
Lafitte wheezed, both hands now reaching toward his neck, and he stumbled, nearly slamming his head into the open door.
“You’re all right,” Leoni said, in a strangely comforting sort of voice. “Take deep breaths, you’re fine.” He patted Lafitte on the back, but used the same motion to grip the man firmly by the collar and drag him away from the silver pitcher and the open doorway of his room.