She felt a chill shiver shudder down her spine, even though the sun was out and the air was warm. The conversation from her two partners and the German police officer seemed to have finally wound down. Judging by the look of resignation on the German officer’s face, it seemed he’d finally conceded to be the one to shuttle the killer back to their precinct and finalize any paperwork.
Leoni turned, glancing around the parking lot for a moment, and then he spotted Adele once more and beamed.
“Well,” he said, approaching her—though still limping—and taking both her hands. His fingers were smooth against hers and he eased his weight off his injured foot. His hands were warm and tender to the touch; she met Leoni’s smiling gaze. For a moment, the sheer kindness emanating from his eyes seemed to swallow her. A kindness so unfamiliar, she almost missed it. There were no demands in those eyes—no requirements. Simply an odd affection. She felt butterflies flutter in her stomach and could feel her cheeks heating up.
“Two for two,” he said with a nod. “We make a good duo, yes?”
Adele hoped desperately she wasn’t blushing all of a sudden. She smiled quickly, nodding once and coughing delicately. Then she began to turn, leaving the chill emanating from the SUV behind her as she moved, leading the two men away from the German cruiser. “We do make a good team,” she said.
Leoni released one of her hands but held the other, as if they were simply strolling through a park. “Ah,” he said, in a tired voice. “It will be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”
Adele tried not to think too much about anyone sleeping in Leoni’s bed. “I understand that,” she said. “You’re heading back to Italy?”
“Right away, I’m afraid. The job never sleeps.”
She smiled genuinely now, pushing aside her other emotions. “Neither does the agent, it seems.”
Leoni let out a delicious crow of laughter, which creased his features in laugh lines. John stalked along behind both of them and his expression wasn’t quite a glower, but seemed close. Adele felt uncomfortable all at once, and released Leoni’s hand. She said, “Well—I certainly hope to see you again soon.”
“A shared sentiment. Well, here’s my ride. Do you need a lift to the airport?”
“We’ve got our own,” John said before Adele could answer.
Leoni shrugged, indicating the black limousine that had pulled up outside the train station. A man in a white uniform stood by the doors, glancing around and pulling out a cigarette. When he noted Leoni walking over, the driver sighed, stowed his cigarette, and moved around the vehicle to open the passenger door.
Leoni waved one last time before entering the car.
Adele watched as he did, and John looked away nearly instantly, glaring at his phone and muttering to himself about damned reception.
“Everything okay?” Adele asked in as innocent a voice as she could muster.
“Fine,” he retorted. “Taxi is on its way.”
“To the airport?”
“Unless you want to take a train…”
Adele shook her head adamantly. “I think I’m done with trains.”
“That we can agree on,” John said.
They stood next to each other on the curb, facing the street outside the train station. For a moment, the silence stretched between them and Adele was reminded of how obnoxious she’d found Agent Renee when they’d first met. He had a prickly nature. If John decided someone was cut out of his life, he did everything in his power to keep them out.
And yet, as she stood next to the tall Frenchman, other images and memories flashed through her mind. Thoughts of when she’d first heard about Robert’s illness… The way he’d comforted her, the shared moment of solace. The time when she’d been in her father’s house, attacked by a killer. He’d come then too, rescuing both of them. He’d been there when they’d chased the exsanguinator, and had been there when she’d wept at the new evidence in her mother’s case.
The only reason he’d been the one to glimpse her mother’s killer had been because he’d wanted to solve the case… for her.
She shivered and took a half step closer to him. More a subconscious gesture than anything. She watched as Leoni’s limousine pulled onto the highway, disappearing from sight.
“You all right?” John said, at last, a tinge of gentleness to his otherwise rigid tone.
“I think so,” she replied, softly. “And you?”
“Fine. Taxi should be here in five.”
Adele nodded softly. The sense of foreboding she’d felt had come to nothing. Maybe she really was losing her edge. The thoughts of John, the memories, came as a comfort. But also a reminder. The time she’d cried in his arms in that hotel room, learning about Robert’s illness.
Robert… she needed to speak with him, and soon. She’d forgotten to touch base before leaving. He hadn’t been at headquarters. She made a mental note to visit him first thing back.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The painter shivered in giddy delight, his eyes once again fixed on the mansion settled behind the black gate and hedges, winking with the white marble of statuary arranged around the lawn. The lights were off now inside the mansion, though glowing orange coals could be seen, distorted through the lowest window peering into the study.
Tonight was a night of friendship. Tonight was a night of artistry.
And the savant of the Seine had eyes on his next masterpiece.
He adjusted the metallic mask he’d affixed to his face—a spit shield more than a disguise. Disguises were only needed for those who might tell tales. And the occupants of the French mansion wouldn’t be speaking to anyone but the painter himself following tonight.
The painter hefted his black bag, striding forward now, feeling the odd way in which the fabric of his two sweaters rubbed against each other and against his hairless arms. His eyebrows were gone, his legs waxed. No DNA evidence left behind.
The painter didn’t believe in half measures. A man of finality knew the risks, weighed the cost, and then set the bid.
And for him, the bid was well worth it.
He didn’t hum, he didn’t whistle, he didn’t speak at all as he moved to the old black gate. His small, fragile form might—on the offset—look ill-suited toward acrobatic ventures. But while the painter was wire-thin, he was also fit, in a reedy sort of way, like an insect or the rigid bones found in an unearthed tomb.
He climbed the gate in three quick motions: one—a foot to the ivy-strewn wall. Two: a hand latched on the cool black metal. And finally, a pull, bringing his light form up and over, tumbling to the other side where he landed, bracing against his small, black bag.
For a moment, his single good eye fixed on a marble statue. An angel with a missing wing and a half halo stared sightlessly back at him.
The painter paused, rising slowly to his feet, staring at the statue. Then, with a snort, he reached out, shoving the angel down, burying its sculpted face into the mud, before stalking around the side of the mansion, moving toward the windows of the study. Already, his gloved fingers dipped into the satchel on his hip, moving about for the tools of the trade.
***