Left to Lapse (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Seven) by Blake Pierce (book club suggestions txt) 📗

long to struggle on top and then grip the man by thecollar, hoisting him to his feet.

“Noyou don’t,” he snapped, reaching out and ripping the pepper spray out of Rodin’strembling hand.

Thebartender slumped now, in John’s grip, stuttering and gasping, saying, “I—itwas an accident. I didn’t—sorry—please don’t…”

Johnsnorted and gave a little shake until Rodin quieted. He tested his weight onhis ankles, grateful to find his lunge off the roof of the train car hadn’tcaused any damage. Then he gave Rodin another little shake. “Think that was asmart move, do you?” he asked.

Martin’shead hung, and he looked glumly over at John’s still watering eyes. John sighedat how miserable the man looked and eased his grip—if only a little. He growledand began to tug at Martin. In the distance, between the trains, he could seewhere Adele had emerged from the cafeteria and was now watching the two ofthem, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

Johnfelt a flash of delight she’d witnessed the snare. Just as quickly, though, hehid his expression. He’d hoped things could be smoothed over between them. Butshe hadn’t even been waiting for him outside Foucault’s office. He’d seen herenter the building, but then for some reason got off on the second floor. As ifperhaps she was trying to avoid him. Then, when she’d entered the Executive’soffice, her tone had been cool as ice.

Clearly,she still hadn’t forgiven him for letting her mother’s killer escape.

Johnsighed at the thought, feeling a twinge of regret. Some things, though, wereoutside his ability to fix. He looked between the trains at Adele, wishing fora moment that he could just talk to her. Like they used to. Could go back towhen things were good between them.

Butmaybe that would never happen again. Besides, did he really blame her? He’d lether mother’s killer escape. He’d thought he’d been doing the right thing at thetime, saving the victim. Now, he wasn’t so sure. If it meant Adele hated him…was it worth it?

Johnshook his head, muttering to himself and then pushing Martin Rodin along. Hekept a firm grip on Martin’s collar and began leading him back around thetrain, toward one of the crossing bridges. In a growling voice, over the soundof Mr. Rodin’s protests, John said, “You have some explaining to do.”

CHAPTER TEN

Theywere back on the train, sitting in the dining compartment with their backs tothe glass cabinet full of immaculate china. The long, shining oak table wassurrounded by cushioned, antique chairs with beautiful upholstery. Adele satwith her hands clasped, and—at her request—Mr. Rodin had been uncuffed and nowsat across from her, hunched in his chair, his angled features and sharp chinall seemingly jutting like knives in John’s direction as the tall Frenchmanspoke.

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

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

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

Adelewatched John’s still red eyes narrow. He pointed a finger at Martin Rodin. “Youassaulted two police officers.”

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

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

“She’snot my girlf—” Rodin began petulantly, but then trailed off as Adele plopped alarge ziploc bag within a second bag on the table between them. She dusted offher hand and then motioned at the contents. “Speaking of controlled substances…”she said.

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

“Thosearen’t mine,” Rodin protested.

“That’snot what your girlfriend said,” Adele countered. “You slipped them behind thecounter when you saw the cops coming and then sprayed them to try and escape.”

“She’snot my girl—”

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

Hefrowned at her. “Toxins? Why would I sell clients toxi—I mean, those aren’tmine.”

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

“No.”

“Whatbetter place to deal than in train stations, where you can be on the move longbefore any police show up.”

“Ididn’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.”

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

“That’snot why I’m here,” Adele continued.

Mr.Rodin squeaked, shaking his head and glancing between the two of them. “It’snot?”

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

Atthis, Martin Rodin looked actually flummoxed. He raised an eyebrow, thencoughed delicately. “What does that have to do with anything?” His eyesnarrowed. “I don’t know whose those pills are. Why are you treating me like acriminal?”

“Becauseyou 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’schest. “You were in Italy yesterday, weren’t you?”

Atthis 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’msaving 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 playwas involved in the death of one of your passengers in Italy.”

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

Adelewent quiet, allowing the silence to speak for her and watching his expressionclosely. But Mr. Rodin was either slow on the uptake or a seasoned poker player,because