***
From the parkinglot, through the security checkpoints, Adele only paused once to drop offcoffee to Doug, one of her friends on the security team. By the time shereached the fourth floor, and Supervising Agent Grant’s office, she couldalready hear voices through the opaque glass door.
Adele pushed inand pulled up short.
Two large TVmonitors set in the wall depicted faces Adele recognized. On the left, overGrant’s desk, Executive Foucault, the DGSI supervisor. On the right, situatednear a blue-tinted window with a view of the city, Adele spotted Ms. Jayne, acorrespondent for Interpol who had first proposed the idea of a joint taskforce headed up by Adele.
Agent Lee Grant,who’d been named after the two generals in the Civil War, stood behind a metalstanding desk, her fingertips steepled beneath her chin, a troubled expressionon her face. She glanced up at Adele, waving her in with quick scatteredgestures. Agent Grant’s office was sparse, with a yoga mat in one corner and apile of workout DVDs hidden beneath a blue plastic binder next to her desk.
Agent Grantgestured to one of the empty stools in front of her standing desk and waitedfor Adele to sit. At last, she cleared her throat, regarding Adele with a nod,and said, “They need you back in France.”
Adele lookedbetween the TV monitors. Ms. Jayne’s and Foucault’s gazes were just a bit off,each of them glancing at the various screens at their disposal rather thanlooking directly into their cameras. Still, Adele couldn’t help but search thegaze of Ms. Jayne and the DGSI executive, trying to discern their motives.
“Is it bad?”Adele asked, hesitantly.
Ms. Jaynecleared her throat, and in a clear, crisp voice, said, “Only two victims sofar. I’ll let Foucault fill you in on the details.” Ms. Jayne was an olderwoman, with bright, intelligent eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. She had silverhair and was a bit heavier than most field agents. She spoke without an accent,suggesting she’d mastered the English language, but it didn’t seem as if itwere her native tongue.
On the otherscreen, Executive Foucault’s dark eyes narrowed over a hawkish nose; he shookhis head and seemed to be glancing down off screen—there was the sound ofrummaging papers.
“Yes, yes,” hesaid in heavily accented English. “Two dead. So far. Two Americans,” he added,glancing up at the screen. “Or, at least, were Americans.”
Adele frowned. “Whatdo you mean?”
Foucault’s gazeflitted across the screen one way then the other, not quite lining up withanyone in the room, but suggesting that perhaps he was glancing betweenportions of his own computer screen.
“Expatriates,”he said. “Americans now living in France. Both had visas, but were applying forcitizenship, or at least one of the victims did. The other only recentlyarrived.”
Adele nodded toshow she’d heard. “So why do you need me?”
Ms. Jaynecleared her throat. Her voice came clear, even through the crackle of thespeakers. “We need someone who’s familiar with the DGSI, but who America iscomfortable investigating their own. The unique nature of the crimes could alsouse someone with your expertise.”
Adele frowned. “Whatunique nature?”
Foucaultreplied, “Two dead so far. Throats slit, nearly ear to ear.” He adopted a grimtone and continued, “I’ll send the files along as soon as I’m cleared by thecoroner. Both young women, both recent arrivals. We’re investigating, ofcourse, and I’m sure our agents will come up with some good leads, but,” hefrowned again, glancing at his computer screen, “Ms. Jayne seems to think itwould be wise to involve you early on. I can’t say I fully agree, but it’s notmy hill to die on.”
Adele raised ahand while he spoke, waiting for him to finish. He noticed this, and nodded forher to speak.
“How longbetween the murders?” she said.
The executivereplied without hesitation. “Three days. The killer is quick. It’s worth notingthere’s no physical evidence at the scene.”
Adele shifted inher seat, realizing this chair didn’t make as much noise as the one back in herkitchen. “What do you mean?”
“I mean there’sno physical evidence.”
“None?”
Foucault’s frowndeepened, his bushy eyebrows pressing together. “None at all. No fingerprints,no traces of hair or saliva. No sexual assault that we could find. The cutsalone, according to the coroner’s initial report, were strange. Whoever didthis slit their necks, but did so without a quavering hand—a practiced motion.”
“And what doesthat mean?” Adele asked.
“If I may,” saidAgent Grant, speaking for the first time from behind her standing desk, “cutsand slicing wounds carry a sort of signature. Whether the attack wasleft-handed, or how strong they were, or how tall…”
Foucault noddedwith each passing word and cleared his throat. “Exactly. But these particularattacks were done by someone without much signature at all. There’s no physicalevidence. No sign of a struggle. No forced entry. Nothing suggesting any foulplay, except, of course, two corpses in downtown Paris.”
“Well,” said Ms.Jayne, peering through the screen now. Her eyes seemed to have readjusted for amoment, now fixating firmly on Adele. “Are you ready for your flight?”
Adele flickedher eyes to Agent Grant and raised her eyebrows.
Grant hesitated.“You sure you don’t want to spend another couple of weeks with Agent Masse?”she said, her tone betraying no emotion whatsoever.
Adele scowled.
Grant’s eyestwinkled in a morbid sort of humor. “I’ll take that as a no. Already signed foryour leave and reassigned Masse. You’re good to go.”
Adele tried tosuppress the sudden jolt of emotion—she was a professional, after all—but asshe pushed from her chair, she couldn’t help but feel excitement at the thoughtof returning to France.
“Is thereanything else I should know?” she asked, glancing at Foucault.
“I’ll send youthe reports,” he said with a shrug. “But they’re short. As I told you, not muchevidence. There is one thing. A strange detail, but certainly important…”
“What?”
“The firstvictim’s kidney was missing.”
A strangesilence fell over the room for a moment, and the two crackling screens and thetwo agents in the San Francisco office waited, all of them frowning.
“Her kidney?”said Adele.
“Just so,” saidFoucault.
“Is the killertaking trophies?”
The executiveshrugged, his thick brow narrowing over his sharp nose. “Well, that’s what you’rehere for, isn’t it? You provide the answers. It’s my job to provide thequestions. I’m told Ms. Jayne has already purchased your ticket. First
