But the pale, bearded fellow squeaked, and then held up his hands. The clipboard jutted toward the gray ceiling above, and in the distance, the whir of the machines and conveyor belts drowned out the first of Mr. Maldonado’s words.
John lifted his own hand from his weapon and put it to his ear. “What was that?”
Maldonado raised his voice, breathing heavily. “Why are you chasing me? You’re not going to yell at me too, are you?”
John blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a fed, yes?” the disgruntled factory worker said, frowning now. His hands were still raised, but they began to dip.
“You seem mighty nervous to talk to me,” John said, allowing the growl to return to his voice.
Mr. Maldonado gave a quick shake of his head. “I’ve had a bad experience talking to you guys. The last time I got yelled at. My hours were reduced. Lost half my pay.”
John felt a jolt of sympathy all of a sudden. He winced. But then he steadied himself. Suspects were often good at coming up with stories on the fly. Compassion was all well and good, but it didn’t often help to uncover the truth. “That’s why you’re running?”
The factory worker sniffed, rubbing equally pale fingers against his pallid cheek. “I wasn’t running.”
“Fine, walking briskly,” John said, waving a hand toward the shelf they had circled around. He spotted the small, twitchy form of the overseer emerge behind the shelves as well. The small man had another factory worker next to him, this guy nearly twice the size of the overseer. He was also carrying a wrench.
John glared between the two of them. They just stood at the edge of the shelves, watching. Andrew Maldonado growled now, returning John’s frown, and muttered, “Great. They’re going to think I’m causing trouble again. Can’t you guys leave me alone? I haven’t done anything.”
John shook his head. “Why was my partner yelling at you the last time she was here?”
Andrew Maldonado waved his clipboard, his hands now dropping to his sides once more; they hovered just above his thighs, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to lower his hands. But when John made no sound, he relaxed a bit more until the clipboard pressed against his thigh, smoothing the front of his gray work pants.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She was upset about one of our products. Some old candy. Not even the most popular one.”
“Carambars,” John said.
Mr. Maldonado nodded. “Exactly. I’m not sure what she was upset about. She just started yelling at me.”
John’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m telling the truth,” Maldonado insisted, whispering, glancing over John’s shoulder toward where the overseer and his goon waited, watching. Whether they were here for John’s sake or Andrew’s, Agent Renee couldn’t tell. He knew the blue-collar sorts, especially factory workers. They didn’t trust the government. They didn’t trust anyone outside. Talking to the feds, about anything, was often considered a cardinal sin. Obviously, this wasn’t the place to interview people. He needed to compile that list, but he needed information.
“Look,” John said, a little more sympathy creeping into his voice, “I’ll get out of your hair. We don’t have to talk here.”
“We don’t have to talk anywhere. I don’t know what you want. She was just upset about one of the delivery trucks. I don’t even know. She was talking about something ten years ago, but then talking about something as if it were happening last month.” The man shrugged helplessly. “I think she thought I was being intentionally stupid.”
John tried not to grin at this. He knew Adele had a way of demanding excellence from people who had a difficult time even fastening their pants on the right way. Adele was a bloodhound, determined, a pursuer of excellence. But sometimes, for the average folk, this seemed more like condescension.
John ventured, “Look, the agent you were speaking to has a personal interest in this case. Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”
Maldonado opened his mouth and rubbed his chin, his bushy beard bristling beneath his hand. Before he could reply, though, the overseer called out, “Andrew, your shift is still on. I’m afraid you’ve spent enough time away. They’re waiting for you.”
“Coming, sorry, boss!”
He gave an apologetic shrug toward John and muttered, “Look, I can’t tell you much,” he said, quickly, in a quiet whisper as he stepped around John, moving back toward where the overseer waited. “But after she yelled at me, a lot of people were talking. Like a lot. Everyone in the factory heard about it. But especially the people who were here that day. Everyone seemed to want to know what was happening. Some people had a little bit too much interest. If you know what I mean.”
John stared. “I’m not sure I do.”
Mr. Maldonado shrugged. “Look, I’m not here to do your job for you. I’m just saying, if you want to get to the bottom of this, you might want to check into the people who were here at the time of that interaction. I don’t know anything else.”
He brushed past John, his shoulder grazing against the taller, larger man. John frowned as Maldonado retreated back toward where the overseer was waiting. He couldn’t get a read on the man. He could tell Andrew was scared. Was that because of John, because of Adele, or because of the overseer, watching them? Mr. Maldonado was still on the list. But so was the overseer, and the security guard.
“Excuse me, sir, yeah, you with the wrench. What’s your name?”
At the question, the man glanced toward the overseer, then back at John. The overseer answered, “John,” he said.
John raised an eyebrow.
“Does your John have a last name?”
“Smith,” said the overseer.
Renee frowned, deciding that whether the name was fake or not, the thug would have to go on the list as well. He couldn’t afford to rule anyone out, not yet. Adele had kicked over a hornet’s nest and someone had noticed. Someone at this factory. Someone involved in the killing of Adele’s mother. And, perhaps, the best way to find a hornet was to keep kicking the nest until it came out to try and sting him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flashing lights ahead, flashing lights behind. The Greek police had come out in force to escort Adele and Agent Leoni to the crime scene. This, in one sense, left Adele with a feeling of expediency, and she was nothing if not directed in her efforts. But also, it left her with a bad taste in her mouth where she sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, tearing through traffic beneath pulsing blue and red lights in a caravan of police cruisers.
The Greek authorities didn’t seem to care who was watching, or who knew they were en route to the Parthenon. Which could only mean one thing: the media was already involved.
Adele felt the twisting sensation in her stomach that used to come solely from flying when she was a younger agent, but now hearkened a far more dreadful form of nausea. Eyes were watching. A third body had dropped in the Acropolis. And Adele was now center stage.
This premonition only proved even more accurate as the cruiser pulled sharply outside the barrier of sawhorses against the backdrop of ancient stone architecture at the foot of a rising hill dappled by trees. The Acropolis culminated to the south ruins in the Parthenon. Already, around the sawhorses, Adele spotted more flashing lights, some coming from the scores of reporters gathered around, microphones like swords, pointing out the direction of their invasion toward the old structures.