Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven)

by Blake Pierce

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were back on the train, sitting in the dining compartment with their backs to the glass cabinet full of immaculate china. The long, shining oak table was surrounded by cushioned, antique chairs with beautiful upholstery. Adele sat with her hands clasped, and—at her request—Mr. Rodin had been uncuffed and now sat across from her, hunched in his chair, his angled features and sharp chin all seemingly jutting like knives in John’s direction as the tall Frenchman spoke.

  “You were told not to leave the train,” John growled.

  Mr. Rodin snorted, rolling up his sleeves slightly as if against a sudden wave of heat. Beneath, he displayed various tattoos, including one of a small bunny munching on a heart-shaped carrot. The bartender reached up, rubbing absentmindedly at his lower lip, which seemed to have a hole for a piercing, but no lip ring.

  “I was told not to leave the station,” Rodin said. “My friend owns that cafe, I simply went to say hello. I don’t understand why you’re treating me like a criminal.”

  Adele watched John’s still red eyes narrow. He pointed a finger at Martin Rodin. “You assaulted two police officers.”

  Rodin winced, but quickly shook his head. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean—”

  “To spray them with a controlled substance?” Adele asked, quietly. “And did you mean to leave this back at your girlfriend’s place?”

  “She’s not my girlf—” Rodin began petulantly, but then trailed off as Adele plopped a large ziploc bag within a second bag on the table between them. She dusted off her hand and then motioned at the contents. “Speaking of controlled substances…” she said.

  John whistled and poked at the bag, causing it to make a sound like a couple of maracas. “That’s a lot of pills,” he muttered.

  “Those aren’t mine,” Rodin protested.

  “That’s not what your girlfriend said,” Adele countered. “You slipped them behind the counter when you saw the cops coming and then sprayed them to try and escape.”

  “She’s not my girl—”

  “Focus,” Adele snapped. She prodded her finger at the pills, and they again made a shaking sound. The many orange bottles contained within shifted about. “No syringes, I noticed,” she said, slowly. “No toxins as far as the police could tell.”

  He frowned at her. “Toxins? Why would I sell clients toxi—I mean, those aren’t mine.”

  “You’re a pill pusher,” said Adele. “Is that right?”

  “No.”

  “What better place to deal than in train stations, where you can be on the move long before any police show up.”

  “I didn’t,” he declared.

  “Martin,” Adele said, slowly, leaning in now. “I don’t care about the pills. Truly, I don’t. I don’t even care about you spraying the police.”

  “Assaulting a federal agent,” John added with a growl.

  “That’s not why I’m here,” Adele continued.

  Mr. Rodin squeaked, shaking his head and glancing between the two of them. “It’s not?”

  “No. I’m here because you are one of the only common points between both the LuccaRail and the Normandie…”

  At this, Martin Rodin looked actually flummoxed. He raised an eyebrow, then coughed delicately. “What does that have to do with anything?” His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know whose those pills are. Why are you treating me like a criminal?”

  “Because you are one, aren’t you?” John said, never one to mince words or step lightly. The large agent leaned across the table now, pointing a finger toward Rodin’s chest. “You were in Italy yesterday, weren’t you?”

  At this seeming detour in the line of conversation, Rodin frowned. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “I mean… yes. I work for multiple trains. I’m saving up to open my own restaurant.” He puffed his chest proudly.

  “Look,” Adele said, interjecting, “I’ll tell it to you straight. We believe foul play was involved in the death of one of your passengers in Italy.”

  “Foul play? As in murder? Hang on a second!” His eyebrows strained the confines of his face, but at last he looked away, out the window toward the marble fountain of the quaint sequestered portion of the larger station. “Impossible. And even if so, what does that have to do with me?”

  Adele went quiet, allowing the silence to speak for her and watching his expression closely. But Mr. Rodin was either slow on the uptake or a seasoned poker player, because he betrayed nothing. He simply waited, frowning from Adele to John.

  At last, she sighed and said, “Look, Mr. Rodin. You were in Italy and a man died. Now you are here and a woman died early in the morning. None of these,” she shook the pills, “are toxins as far as we can tell. But the lab will be checking them. Every single one. Do you see why we might be wanting to speak with you?”

  Suddenly, it seemed to dawn on him and his mouth widened in surprise. He began to stammer, tugging at the hole in his lip with one manicured finger, the tattoos on his forearm shifting and then slamming to the table with his arm. “I didn’t do anything!” he said. “It’s a horrible coincidence. That’s all!”

  “You had an argument with the first victim,” John said, staring out from beneath hooded eyes. “You were overheard.”

  “I-I…” he stammered, shaking his head. “I don’t even remember the man’s name.”

  “Joseph Dupuy,” John said, firmly.

  “Oh… All right, yes, I remember him. And…” The ferret-faced man trailed off, trying to catch his bearings. At last he sighed and, lowering his voice as if confiding, said, “I did have an argument with him. I remember that. But this man…”

  “Mr. Dupuy,” said John.

  “Right. Mr. Dupuy was angry we didn’t stock peach schnapps. That was it. He said it was his favorite and started yelling at me. And… look,” he said, slowly, his eyes shifting toward the large bag of pills, then to John and back. “Everything in there… now I’m just guessing, but I think everything in there is perfectly harmless. Just a little mood alteration. That’s all. Definitely not something that could,” he coughed and squeaked, “kill anyone. And as for the woman early this morning, she never visited the dining car. Ask anyone. I never served her.” He said this last part with a flourish of his tone like someone laying down a trump card. And on top of it, he added, “Besides, why would I kill them? Over a little spat around alcohol? I have worse than that six times a day with most of my customers. You don’t tend bar if you’re a sensitive sort, I’ll tell you that.”

  Before he could continue, Adele’s attention was caught by movement in the back of the room in the direction of the dining car.

  Allard was standing there with two other officers behind him. They wore white gloves and had empty plastic bags in their hands. Allard was shaking his head.

  Adele frowned. She raised her voice. “Find anything?”

  Allard said, “Nothing,” glancing hesitantly at Mr. Rodin, then back to Adele. “We looked through all the bottles, his room, his belongings… No poisons of any kind. Coroner gave a preliminary report of the pictures we sent of the pills and labels. Some Vicodin, a few Adderall—nothing dangerous.”

  “You went through my things?” Mr. Rodin said, his voice rising.

  “You knocked me over after dousing everyone with pepper spray,” John returned. “Call us even or take it up with the company.” John looked to Adele, and she volleyed the glance back to Allard, who shrugged helplessly again.

  Adele returned her attention to Rodin, considering his words. A brief argument at a bar wasn’t unheard of. And though they’d been informed there’d been words, no one had been able to verify what the argument had been about. Right now, all she had to go on was Rodin’s own testimony. Not only that, but the death of Ms. Mayfield had occurred early in the morning, only a few hours after the train had departed. Someone like Mayfield likely wouldn’t be visiting a bar so early, which meant Rodin was likely telling the truth—he’d never even served her. Plus, if the pills on him were m
ild at best… where did that leave them? Ms. Mayfield didn’t seem the sort to take up with some pill pusher, either. This, coupled with the failed search, didn’t sit well with Adele.

  “Mr. Rodin… I don’t know what to make of you,” she murmured. “You assaulted police officers, ran from a federal agent, have more than one controlled substance, and are sitting across from me lying through your teeth. Why should I believe you?”

  Martin stared back, blinking and shaking his head. “I… I—I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t!”

  Adele sighed. She stared at Mr. Rodin, reading him, trying to find a crack in the facade. But while he struck her as a bit of a rat, he didn’t seem the killing sort. Too squirrelly, too scared. But then again, looks could be deceiving.

  “Hang on,” he quickly interjected, eyebrows rising. “What time?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What time did this woman die? When exactly?”

  “It’s hard to say exactly,” Adele countered, “but probably around nine a.m. Why?”

  “Because,” he said, breathing a sudden sigh of relief and leaning back in his chair, “I was with a,” he coughed, “client from eight until nine. Not Ms. Mayfield. A client in the dormitory car. A Mr. Steter. He works in the dining car with me and purchased a decent amount of,” he coughed again, “merchandise.”

  “What sort of merchandise?” Adele pressed.

  But at this Rodin looked pointedly away from the pills and shrugged. “Things and stuff,” he muttered. “Just ask Mr. Steter. Johnny. I was with him all morning. He took a damned time picking out his usual supply, I might add.”

  Adele shared a look with John, who shrugged. “We’ll be checking up on that,” she said, directing the comment toward Mr. Rodin.

  “I’m counting on it,” he countered, a new confidence in his tone, carried by a swell of relief. “I never even saw the old lady who died. Ask anyone. No one will have even seen me near the first-class compartment. I was in the dormitory car all morning. There were at least two other valets there as well. Just ask around. It’ll check out.”

  “It better,” John said.

  “It will,” Rodin insisted.

  Adele massaged the bridge of her nose, then glanced at Allard. “Think you can double-check his story?”

  The cheerful policeman nodded a couple of times. “Of course. We need to take him in anyway,” he added, wincing sympathetically toward Rodin. “You know for all the…” He mimed a spraying gesture and tipped his head toward the pills.

  Adele paused for a moment, thinking, glancing back at Rodin, who’d gone rigid again at Allard’s words. But then she sighed and made a shooing motion. “He’s all yours,” she said. “Just tell me if his alibi fails to check out.”

  “You got it!” Allard said, happily. “And, umm, Martin, if you don’t mind, please come with us.” The policeman stood in front of the other officers, gesturing politely at Rodin.

  For a moment, Adele thought he might make a break for it. But then the weasel-faced man sighed. Rodin didn’t say anything as he pushed away from the table, got stiffly to his feet, and marched indignantly away from the agents, toward where Allard and a pair of handcuffs stood waiting.

  As Rodin was cuffed and one of the officers came over to retrieve the bag of pills and follow Allard off the train, Adele leaned back, glancing up at the ceiling again.

  “Think it’ll check out?” she murmured.

  John looked over. “His alibi? Dunno. Nothing toxic on him. Except maybe his personality.”

  “Right. I was worried you’d say that. I… I don’t think he’s our guy.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty damn. I mean, if he was lying about being in the dormitory car…”

  “Think he was?”

  Adele shook her head. “You?”

  John shook his as well.

  Then, in near synchronization, they both emitted belly sighs and stared out the window. As they sat in silence, Adele felt a sudden shiver along her arms. She closed her eyes, staving off a rising tide of anxiety all of a sudden. Something just felt off about the case… She remembered the same sense she’d gotten from Executive Foucault. He’d been cagey, strange… But the sense of foreboding she’d felt around him had been different than usual.

  Or maybe he’d simply tried to quit smoking and it had affected his mood. Now, Adele had the same sense… Something was off—something didn’t sit right. But what? Had Rodin been lying? She didn’t think so. He seemed a coward—a low-level pill pusher. He’d had pepper spray as his weapon of choice. A hardened killer would certainly have had a better out, wouldn’t they have? And the way he’d claimed he’d been in the dormitory car, the sheer expression of relief… She didn’t think he was lying. Allard would have to confirm it…

  But if Rodin wasn’t the killer, then who was?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Night had fallen, and through the thin glass sunroofs of the sequestered part of the station, Adele glimpsed moonlight brushing the windows. She sat in the lounge car of the train, staring up and out of the window where she reclined in the chesterfield.

  Her phone sat on the table in front of her, the speaker squawking as she listened to Foucault, his instructions uttered brisk and clear.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Sharp, but there is no alternative,” he said. “We are under immense pressure from the train company to allow them to embark again. We can’t keep them stationary any longer.”

  Adele exhaled through her nose. “Bureaucrats already involved?”

  “Of course.”

  “They realize we probably have a serial killer on our hands, don’t they?”

  If a tone could sound like a shrug, Foucault’s did. He said, “I’m not sure they’re looking too closely at that. The train has lost tens of thousands of euros just sitting still like it has. I suspect the cost of any further layover is being weighed. This Mr. Rodin—did his alibi check out?”

  Adele exhaled deeply, nodding, then realizing he couldn’t see, she said, “Yeah. Allard called before I called you. Martin Rodin was in the dormitory car all morning. Three separate witnesses. No way he touched Ms. Mayfield…”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Adele frowned in frustration. “So what then? We continue investigating from back at headquarters? A moving crime scene is hard to track. Moving passengers and staff notwithstanding, our suspects will be on the move.”

  “Yes, well, I thought about that, Agent Sharp. One of you needs to stay with the train.”

  Adele flinched. She glanced over her shoulder now, across the car to where John Renee was now reclined against the couch furthest from her, his eyes closed, his arms over his chest as he breathed heavily.

  “One of us?” she said.

  “We don’t have the funds for both, and the company refuses to discount. They already think we’ve cost them enough as it is.”

  “Your bureaucrats? Are they no help?”

  “They’ve set aside one sleeper car. Either Renee or you will stay on. I know my pick.”

  Adele waited, but Foucault didn’t provide this information. She considered the case, and glanced out toward the station’s skylights again, her eyes drinking in the reflection of the moon. Still early in the night, but plenty more time for another victim to fall. Plenty of time for the killer to strike.

  But she also thought of Paris, thought of her mother’s killer, loose and about. She wanted to hunt that bastard, but she knew if she left, then no one would remain behind on behalf of the passengers…

  Not only that…

  But as she sat there, the same feeling of foreboding she’d sensed back in Foucault’s office, and again in the lounge car—it filled, rising like a tide in her chest and threatening to cut off her breath.

  She exhaled slowly, trying to place the source of the emotion. She was talking to Foucault again, but was now starting to wonder if perhaps her sense was coming from internally. Maybe she’d misread the Executive… She couldn’t quite place the feeling
, but it clawed and cloyed at her chest.

  She glanced over to where John was still napping on the couch furthest from her. Perhaps it was good they were separated for now. Things hadn’t gone back to the same. Perhaps they never would.

  She wasn’t sure she could allow John to take the case over… It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him to solve it, but the last time she’d left a case in his hands, a killer had escaped. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to think like that, but Adele had a job to do—lives were on the line. Then again, if she stayed, then who would find her mother’s killer?

  She thought of Ms. Mayfield, of Mr. Dupuy. Two victims, two trains, two countries…

  And again, the same clawing sensation of deepest foreboding…

  “I’ll stay,” she said at last. “Sleeper car, you say?”

  “Not much to look at—certainly not first class. But it should suffice.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said, sighing. “I guess there’s no chance at going for a morning jog on a train.”

  “I hear they have a gym. Are you certain, Adele? I’m sure Agent Renee wouldn’t mind—”

  “I’m fine, sir. I don’t need any more time off. I’ll stay.”

  “Well, good luck. And Adele, be careful… As you’re aware, the worst part about a killer you don’t see is if they see you. And on a train, in such close quarters, there won’t be the protection of other agents, of places to run, to hide, to call backup. You’ll be on your own until we can stop the train and send help. It’ll be different protocol than you’re used to.”

  “Got it,” she said. “If the killer knows I’m trying to find him, and if he’s here, he’ll take a shot at me. I expect it, sir.”

  “Just so long as you’re aware. Good night, Adele.”

  “Yes sir. You too.”

  ***

  She listened to the quiet chug of the train as it moved through the night, finally released from its station and allowed back on its merry way in the North of France as it continued toward Germany. She twisted, remembering in her mind’s eye the look of hurt on John’s face when she’d woken him and told him she’d be working this one alone. That Foucault wanted him back.