Left To Die

“Yes?” Adele said, turning her back on John. “Can I help you?” She peered up, squinting in the sunlight that dappled the stairs and guard rails leading to the sidewalk above.

The elderly couple were well-dressed, with long overcoats and thin gloves. Their silver hair was trimmed neatly: the man with a military cut, not unlike John’s—minus Renee’s overly long bangs—and the woman with shoulder-length locks that reminded Adele of her mother’s.

She swallowed at the thought, but pushed it quickly aside as she ascended the bottom steps, pulling within hearing distance.

“Pardon us,” said the man in a rumbling, creaking voice. “But is this where it happened? Where the young girl died?”

Adele watched the man and her gaze flicked to the woman. She hated that her immediate thought was one of suspicion—an instinct honed over years of confronting the worst humanity offered. But, just as quickly, she discarded the notion. Nothing in the killer’s crimes suggested a duo.

She kept her expression pleasant, quizzical. Her French, the same as her English, and the same as her German, sometimes carried an accent. She did her best to hide it, but hadn’t been in practice as much as with English. “You knew the girl?” she said, carefully.

The old couple shared a glance, peering past the uniformed officer who stepped back once Adele approached.

The old man eyed her up and down. “You are not police,” he said, cautiously.

Adele glanced at her slacks and self-consciously tugged at her sleeves. “Er, no—not exactly. I’m working with DGSI, though.”

The old woman frowned, clicking her tongue quietly in disapproval.

Adele decided that mentioning the FBI would only have made things worse. The DGSI had only become an autonomous office a couple of years before she’d joined, and there were some in the public who didn’t approve of the agency’s reputation.

The old woman began tugging at her husband’s arm as if to lead him back up the few steps. “Sorry,” the woman said, still peering disapprovingly at Adele. “We made a mistake.”

“I don’t work with DGSI anymore,” said Adele, thinking quickly in an effort to save the situation. “I’m consulting. Because of Marion—the girl who died.” She made a face like sucking lemons. “Oh, apologies, I-I don’t think I was supposed to mention her name.” She stepped back, peering down the stairs, but also positioning her body in just such a way so that the bloodstains beneath the bridge were visible over the barricade.

She waited an appropriate number of seconds, then turned back, shielding the crime scene again with her body. “A nasty business,” Adele said. “The girl’s mother is inconsolable, as I’m sure you can imagine. She’s from Paris, too. Living all alone now in her apartment. Such a pity—one should never be cursed to see their child leave the world first.”

The old man was peering past Adele, his face turning pale as he surveyed the underpass beyond. The woman had stopped tugging at his arm and her expression softened as she mulled over Adele’s words. The woman made the same clicking sound with her tongue, but then sighed. She shook her husband’s arm in a permissive sort of way.

“Go on,” said the old woman. “Tell the lady.”

The man continued to stare past Adele, over the barricade, his eyes fixated like he’d seen a ghost. After another tug on his arm, though, he cleared his throat and his dark eyes leveled on Adele.

“The girl—Marion—we saw on the news. Recognized her from the apartment. She lives on Rue Villehardouin as well.”

Adele nodded carefully, her eyes flitting back down the stairs in John’s direction, but he was out of sight beneath the underpass. “You knew Marion?”

The old man was staring off again and his wife tugged sharply at his arm once more. “Ahem, yes,” said the man. “We would cross paths occasionally on our nighttime walks. A friendly, nice, pretty—er, nice young girl.” He cleared his throat and retrieved his arm before his wife could pull it off. He leaned over the sawhorse, white knuckles straining where they gripped the barricade.

The gendarmerie reached out to push him back, but Adele gave the quickest shake of her head and leaned in, staring intently into the old man’s dark eyes set in his wrinkled face.

“She walked alone,” said the old man. “Said she was going to visit friends—she should not have been alone. Paris is not what it once was.”

“No. Most places aren’t,” said Adele. “You saw her leaving her apartment then. What time?”

“Eight? Nine?”

“Half past seven,” the woman chimed in from behind her husband.

Adele nodded. “Did she say anything? Besides that she was off to see friends?”

“No,” said the old man. “She said goodnight is all. But…” Here, his fingers gripped the sawhorse even tighter. “Perhaps it isn’t my place to say… But—but—”

“—just tell her, Bernard,” the woman snapped.

“I do not mean to cause anyone trouble,” the old man said.

Adele prompted him with a tilt of her eyebrows. “But…”