Blake Pierce - Left To Run

They held eye contact across the room, watching each other for a moment.

Then Adele said, “You use too many emojis.” Some of her bad temper from earlier began to fade in the face of her old mentor and friend.

Robert sniffed. “I consider it an art form.”

“Mhmm,” said Adele. “Weren’t you the one who told me the advent of cartoons was the death of culture?”

Robert set his shoulders and with a prim wiggle of his chin replied, “A genteel man knows how to admit when he’s wrong.”

Adele’s smirk turned to a good-natured grin. Robert Henry had been like a father to her for many years. Her own father wasn’t a fan of affection, but Robert was the sort who went out of his way to make sure Adele felt welcomed and comforted. Robert owned a mansion, but he lived in it alone, and often welcomed the opportunity to have guests. Adele would be staying at his house for her time in France.

“Took you a while,” said Robert, glancing at his watch. The glistening silver timepiece looked like the sort of item that might’ve belonged on a banker’s wrist. Robert adjusted his cuff links and nestled the watch beneath the edge of his perfectly pressed sleeve.

Adele leaned her suitcase against the doorframe, placing her laptop bag on the floor. “Whoever scheduled my flight gave me a three-hour layover in London,” she said. “Then it took some time getting the car—we had to walk to the other side of the airport. Someone more petty might think she did it on purpose just to frustrate me.”

Robert frowned. “She? Who did Foucault pair you with?”

Instead of answering, Adele strode across the room and extended her hands, embracing the smaller man. She wasn’t particularly tall, but Robert was still three inches shorter. She hugged her old mentor, and felt a warmth through her chest. He was smaller than she remembered, though. Almost… frail. Though Robert dyed his hair and his mustache, Adele couldn’t shake the notion he was aging. She separated from her old friend and smiled again. “We’ll be working out of your office, I hear,” she said.

Robert patted her on the shoulder in a comforting way. “Yes—that’s yours.” He nodded to the desk with the name plate.

“You put it by the window. I appreciate that.”

“I remember how you liked the view last time you were here,” said Robert with a shrug. He lowered his hand and moved back to his own desk chair, emitting a quiet groan as he lowered himself, settling with a soft sigh.

“You all right?” asked Adele.

Robert nodded, waving away any further questions with a dismissive gesture. “Yes, of course. The old bones just don’t move like they used to. I’m afraid I won’t be in the field with you.”

Adele gave a noncommittal nod. “Figured you wouldn’t be. We just need someone to keep track of things back here, anyhow.”

Robert was no longer smiling. His gaze seemed heavy all of a sudden.

“You’re not sick, are you?” Adele blurted out. She wasn’t sure where the question came from, but it ushered forth before she could stop it.

Robert smiled and shook his head. “No, not that I’m aware of. But,” he tapped his fingers against his desk, and then glanced at the computer screen across from him, “I’m learning how to use it better. Email is hard. But I figured, well, for your sake…” He trailed off, glancing at her.

Adele felt a flush of gratitude. She knew how much Robert despised technology. Despite the number of emojis he used in his texting, he’d been stubborn on the advent of computers. Still, she had demanded Interpol allow Robert to be a part of her team. That was the deal she’d made with Ms. Jayne when hashing out the contract.

At the time, she’d heard whispers and rumors that the DGSI was trying to edge Robert out of his position—a mandatory retirement. She felt a flash of frustration. The thought of anyone taking Robert’s job was unconscionable. They’d built DGSI’s homicide division, in part, with his efforts. He had made a name at other agencies long before the DGSI had even formed, which had attracted many new recruits. Adele respected most of the agents who worked for France’s intelligence agencies, but there were none she respected more than Robert. He was clever in an intuitive sort of way, and he was rarely wrong. The last case in Paris, he’d insisted the killer had natural red hair, and he’d noted the vanity of it. She hadn’t been sure, but in the end, it had proven an accurate deduction.

Still, she remembered her interactions with Executive Foucault. The frown on his face when she requested Robert’s help. The agency was trying to whittle back personnel. Now, though, with his help on the Interpol attaché, she’d tied Foucault’s hands.

“I need you,” she said, simply. “You’re the best at what you do.”

Robert shook his head, sighing as he did. “I don’t know if that’s true, dear,” he said, his voice creaking all of a sudden.

“It is. Don’t worry about the computers; you’ll figure it out. I’m sure. We just need someone to touch base with, to coordinate from back here. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

Robert nodded again, his expression still glum. “I’m old, Adele. I know I might not look it.” He ran his hand through his clearly dyed hair. “But this agency, this place, I think it’s for the younger folk now.”

Adele’s brow dipped. “Why are you saying these things?”

Robert waved a hand. “It’s not important. I’m grateful. Likely, if you hadn’t asked for me, I would’ve been out of the agency within the week.”

Now Adele’s frown turned to a scowl. “You heard that? Did someone say they were trying to get rid of you?”

Robert just shook his head. “I am an investigator. I’m not meant to be stuck behind a desk. Sometimes you just know these things.”

“You’re thinking too much. You’re invaluable—trust me. And besides, if you go, then I go.”

Robert smiled at this comment and tapped his fingers together. “Fair enough. Computers aren’t my forte, but I’ll try my best. But you still haven’t said, who did the executive pair you with? John?” His eyebrows flicked up ever so slightly. A small glimmer of a smile edged the corner of his lips, but Adele shook her head, quieting his expression.

“Agent Paige,” she said with the gravity of a judge’s gavel.

Robert stared at her.

She shrugged.

He continued to stare.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she said.

“Sophie Paige?”

Adele glanced back out the door, checking that the hall was clear, then nodded. “Looks like. She was about as happy as I was.”

“Doesn’t Foucault know your history?” said Robert, his voice rising.

“It’s fine,” Adele replied in a hushing voice. “I don’t know what the executive does or doesn’t know. But it is what it is.”

“And what about John?” Robert demanded.

Adele waved a hand airily, as if the thought hadn’t really crossed her mind. “You mean Agent Renee? Well, I think he’s working another case. That’s what Paige said.”

Robert’s manicured eyebrows hung low over his eyes like dark clouds threatening a storm. “Paige,” he said with a grunt. “Now I know why Foucault didn’t tell me.”

Adele hesitated. There was something in his tone she couldn’t quite place. “What do you mean?”

Robert was still frowning at his fingers, though, and Adele had to repeat the question. His eyes darted up at last. “Oh, I mean, nothing, or—except, he knows how I feel about you. And Paige hasn’t exactly been the warmest towards you since the incident.”

Adele paused, studying her old mentor. She knew Robert would take her side. But there’d been something more to his tone. Something behind his frown that she didn’t quite understand. “Have you had words with Paige since I left?” she asked, slowly.