Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,56
you?”
“At this point, the only victims have been female,” said Adele. “So hopefully, he’s just lost somewhere, or went home without telling anyone. Though,” she said, bitter, “if it turns out he hasn’t, we’ll be the last ones notified.”
“Think we should talk with his friends? The ones who reported him missing to the search parties?”
“Definitely worth a shot,” Adele said. “But, by the sound of things, they didn’t see anything or hear anything. He went out to take a leak, and then vanished.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said John.
“What’s your compiler at?”
“Seventy-six percent. “Yours?”
“Eighty,” said Adele, with a slight clearing of her throat. For a brief moment, her frustration faded to a mild flash of enjoyment at the look of frustration on John’s face.
“Interpol gets all the new toys,” he muttered. “Your computer is just better.”
Adele winked at him and turned back in her chair, facing the screen, watching the progress bar extend.
Now that her back was to John, she heard the sound of another plane going by. “Is it really true,” she said, “Executive Foucault puts people up in bad motels if they annoy him?”
John snorted. “Best I can tell. Or else he just doesn’t really like me.”
“I don’t think he likes anyone.”
She heard a smack, like John clicking his tongue. “Not true. Sophie Paige. Executive Foucault has a soft spot for her.”
Adele shook her head but didn’t look back, her eyes glued to her screen, glazed over, waiting for the progress bar to move. It was stuck at ninety-five percent.
“Why do you think that is?” she said. “They’re not lovers, I’m almost sure of that.”
“I think it has something to do with Sophie’s kids.”
At this, Adele frowned. “She adopted all five of them, from what I remember,” said Adele. “There was some trouble with her husband. He was a suspect, it all turned out okay in the end. But Paige tried to cover it up. And I, well, I wasn’t aware at the time. I thought I was doing the right thing. Evidence was missing.”
John didn’t say anything. Adele wasn’t sure how she felt about turning in fellow agents. She knew it was important they stick together and have each other’s backs. But she also knew it was important they didn’t allow each other to get away with breaking the law.
Partnering with John was a constant area of growth for this very reason.
“Well,” said John, “Foucault went light on her. I remember that; it was all the talk a few years ago. I remember Sophie had it out for you for a while.”
Adele tapped the screen, willing the progress bar to move. Distractedly, she said, “So you think Foucault has a soft spot for her because of her kids? You don’t think one of them is his, do you?”
John grunted. “You mean like Sophie and Foucault had a one-night stand, and she never told her husband?
Adele shook her head again, her shoulders slumped over her computer, her eyes still glazed. “I’m telling you, I don’t think they were ever lovers. It’s not like that.”
“Well, then, your guess is as good as mine. Hey—one hundred!”
A second later, Adele’s computer also dinged. Both of them went deathly quiet, reading the results, their eyes scanning down the page. Adele’s mouse hovered at the bottom, and she clicked to the next page.
She frowned. There was a third page. A fourth. A fifth…
“John, how many names did you get?” she said, her voice urgent.
John didn’t reply. She turned back, looking at him. His eyes were wide. He was no longer leaning back, but was sitting up in the couch. The laptop was on his lap now, and he was staring, his eyes flicking from left to right as he read the results.
“John, how many names?
He looked at her, swallowed. “College age, mostly international, haven’t turned up, and missing in the last ten years,” he said, trailing off. He swallowed. “Adele, I’ve got two hundred names.”
She stared at him, stunned. “Two hundred?”
He shook his head. “I can run it again, but what did you get?”
She glanced over at her own screen, her eyes flicking to the top number—small red numerals. She blinked. “Two hundred and twenty-six,” she murmured.
John frowned at her, then shook his head again and reread his own results.
Adele felt a cold shiver creeping up her spine. She thought of Executive Foucault’s near premonition about the case.
“Obviously, not all of these can be our killer,” said John.
“No,” said Adele, quickly. “That’s unlikely.”
John glanced. “How come you have more names than