by Blake Pierce
“What do you mean?” John asked, his frown deepening, transforming from irritation to curiosity in a moment.
“I mean,” said the manager’s voice, “that Mr. Lafitte bought a ticket this morning.”
“This morning? Where?”
“Normandie Express again. Strange that. He got on for the French leg, then got off when the rail was sequestered, but now he purchased another ticket for the trip into Germany.”
“He just bought it you say?”
“Yes. He should have boarded only an hour or so ago. Also he purchased a room in one of the first-class sleeper cars. Room three, it looks like.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, perhaps it isn’t important. But our two previous trips with Mr. Lafitte, he rode coach. This time, though, it seems as if he has booked first class.”
“First class, you’re sure?”
“Certainly.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“I’m afraid we don’t keep an extensive deposit of client information. All we have is the name and ticket information. Is there any other way I can be of—”
John hung up, jamming his phone in his pocket and rising to his feet. Adele theorized the killer would strike once per day and perhaps, once per country. Which meant it was either a strange coincidence that Mr. Lafitte was back on the train for its German leg the day following the last death.
Or John had singlehandedly found the identity of the murderer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adele far preferred Agent Leoni’s first-class quarters to the solitary confinement of her hellish sleeper car room. She sat in a lavender love seat, listening as Agent Leoni listed off, in a quiet voice and with the door to his unit closed, what he’d found so far.
“Apart from the argument the first victim had,” Leoni was saying, “he also had a history of flaunting his cash. At least that’s what some of the other passengers said.”
“And you think it got him killed?”
“His wallet was missing,” said Leoni. “After he was found dead, maybe a half hour following according to the coroner, it was noted his wallet had vanished.”
“A crime of opportunity?” Adele suggested, leaning on the cushy bed and feeling, for the first time, some comfort on this train.
“Or a motive,” Leoni replied; he nodded seriously, glancing out toward the window framed by raised drapes as the train chugged along, having left the station and now moving toward the German border.
Adele studied Leoni’s silhouette, the scrunching of his brow, the way he spoke English nearly perfectly. Firsthand experience told her he was fluent in multiple languages, knew how to fly a plane, and was as professional as they came. It also didn’t hurt that he looked like he belonged on the front cover of a magazine at the grocery store.
She found her own lips curving into a smile as she watched him, the sunlight reflecting through the window, catching his face in a soft glow.
He noted her attention and looked over, smiling that crooked grin of his. Good-natured as ever, he said, “What is it?”
She shrugged but didn’t look away, watching him a moment longer, realizing now that though the compartment was first class, it wasn’t large enough to provide much distance between them. The door was closed, the room their own.
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.
As he pulled Lafitte away, Leoni glanced at Adele. “You all right” he asked, the concern in his voice cranking up a few notches.
Adele grunted, rubbing ruefully at her shoulder. “Fine,” she muttered. Then she flanked Lafitte and with Leoni at her side, they pushed him along in search of a more private space for questioning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Something about the way they smiled brought to mind the leer of a corpse. He strolled through the first-class car, his eyes ahead, not quite glancing to the left or the right. He kept an easy, carefree grin on his lips. Kind eyes.
That’s what some people said. They thought he had kind eyes.
But behind those eyes… what lurked in his thoughts… perhaps not so kind. No—not so kind at all.
He smirked to himself as if recollecting an inside joke; the authorities couldn’t find him. They were back on the other train. But that was the beauty of this: he never stayed on the same train. No. That would be too easy. This new train… this one provided all sorts of opportunities. He passed an older gentleman who was chatting with one of the waitresses who shuttled food from the dining car to those too lazy to get it themselves. The kind-eyed man felt a sudden jolt of disgust. He glanced over, frowning, appraising. Was this the next one?
Could it be?
The older man looked up, caught his eye, and then smiled. A frail hand gave a soft little wave.
No. Perhaps not.
The kind-eyed man continued on his way, giving a quick dip of his head in return greeting. He neared the back of the first-class car, near a felt-covered card table where a small group of players were shuffling a deck and preparing for another round of Texas hold’em.
He stepped forward, curious. The kind-eyed man always did enjoy poker, in all its variations. His life reminded him of a poker face. He knew how to bluff, deflect, how to hide what he was holding most of all. Certainly, hiding in plain sight was an acquired and crucial skill given his pastime. He’d finally summoned the nerve to start… Years of hoping, dreaming, of watching degrading images and videos on his computer late at night. But the thoughts were no longer enough; the pictures and movies—poorly acted—didn’t satisfy. Even some of the actual videos he’d found, of the real thing…
Revenge in its purest form… But it didn’t provide the same… satisfaction. The same fulfillment. Nor was it a true vengeance against the guilty parties.
No, now that he’d summoned up the nerve, this—he realized—was far, far better. Anyone who’d ever said revenge wasn’t satisfying had never experienced it or were simply lying through their teeth. It satisfied more than sex, more than drugs, more than power. It satisfied in a deeper way than any might imagine. So deep, it almost felt like it welled from his soul.
A woman caught him watching and for a moment, she got a glimpse of his eyes. He cursed, glancing sharply away, trying to shove his thoughts down, to focus on smiling, nodding. But the woman stared at him, then sniffed, raising an eyebrow and turning to mutter darkly to a friend next to her.
The kind-eyed man heard the words “leering… creep…”
He frowned, fixing his gaze on her for a moment. She glanced up and scowled even deeper and turned promptly to mutter to her friend some more.
The kind-eyed man smiled widely now. He’d found his next message. Those pretty lips, painted with lipstick more expensive than some people’s rent, those manicured fingers which likely hadn’t done a real day’s work in their life—eventually, soon, they would be before him on a seat of judgment. And he’d already decided the verdict.
Guilty as sin.
The judgment would have to wait. Not yet—preparations were in order. But soon—tonight, perhaps? Yes, very soon.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Adele, Leoni, and Isaac Lafitte had sequestered in the staff break room in the dormitory car for the train employees. The break room had been cleared, and the large television was now off, its blank, black face staring down at the table where Adele, Leoni, and Isaac sat.
Isaac wasn’t in cuffs just yet, and he was still ruefully massaging at his throat where Leoni had jammed his thumbs.
“Do you know why you’re here?” said Adele.
“Bitch, do I look like a clairvoyant?”
Leoni frowned. “Careful with your words.”
But Adele held up a hand. “No, it’s fine,” she said. “Let him express himself. Just know, Mr. Lafitte, right now, all that’s standing between you and a prison cell back in Paris is me. I’m here to determine if you’re a person of interest.”
“A prison cell?” he spat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t do anything.” The man’s face was now beet-red, and he had a thin unintentionally monk-like circle of hair due to male-pattern baldness. His nose was bulging, his chin jutting in defiance. Everything about the hue of his skin suggested it had been well treated with more than one drink from the dining car.
Adele held up a finger. “For one, you slammed a door into me.”
“Didn’t know you were cops,” he replied.
“I announced myself when I came.”
“You said Deegee sigh. What’s that supposed to mean?” He seemed ready to add another expletive at the end, but Leoni raised an eyebrow and the man left the sentence as it was.
“DGSI,” Adele said. “Federal investigations.”
“Pshaw. I don’t kn
ow anything about that. Why should I? Do I look like a government employee to you? Crooks, the lot of you.”
Adele massaged the bridge of her nose. Why couldn’t these interviews ever be easy? “Look,” she said, “Mr. Lafitte, I’m investigating two murders.”
“Likely murders,” Leoni inserted.
“Right. Likely murders. And you…” she emphasized the word, “are the one common point between the two.”
He snorted. “Impossible. Get better at your job.”
“I’d really like to. Do you think you could help me with that?” Adele said, proud that she’d managed to keep most of the exasperation from her tone. “Were you on the LuccaRail two days ago?”
“Course,” he spat again. Then he dipped his head and massaged his temples, shaking his head. “Not good to be cooped up like this,” he said, tugging at his collar again and glancing around. “Not good at all.”
Leoni frowned at Adele but she pressed. “Sir, LuccaRail, were you on it two days ago?”
“Yeah, so what? I was on it two weeks before that as well, and two weeks prior to that in addition. What of it?”
Adele blinked. “Hold on, you were on the LuccaRail three times in the last month?”
“Six,” he retorted. “I ride the train. Often.”
“How often?”
“Every day sometimes. Depends.” He pulled at his collar again, his face reddening further, and he shook his head, causing his sweaty hair to shift and sway. “It’s too hot in here,” he murmured. “Can we open a window?”
To her surprise, Leoni hopped to his feet, moved over to the nearest window, and cracked it a bit. Lafitte didn’t provide much in the way of a thank-you, but at least he didn’t curse them out again. He inclined his face toward the open window, breathing softly as if taking in the breeze.
“Sir, are you all right?” Adele asked, slowly.
The man glanced back at her and swallowed. He returned to looking out the window at the passing countryside as the train finally moved from France into Germany. As he watched the rolling hills and the green flatland, his eyes seemed almost to mist over and his breathing came more regularly.