Then John twisted the handle, pushed it open, and both of them started shouting at once.
“DGSI! Show your hands!”
“FBI! Don’t move!”
Their voices blared into the room, and they stepped in, one after the other in perfect synchronicity, both of them immediately sliding past the door frame and putting their backs to the nearest portion of wall.
Adele found her shoulders scraping against the wooden knobs of a cabinet, but her eyes swept the bedroom.
A man crouched over a suitcase at the base of the bed, his silhouette framed by the light gleaming through the bedroom window.
At the shouting, the man whirled, startled, and reeled back, his face turning pale. The man didn’t have red hair, but he matched the photo in the employee records of Peter Lehman.
“Show me your hands!” Adele shouted. “Now!”
Lehman didn’t hesitate, and his hands shot to the sky, his fingertips illuminated by the fluorescent bulbs in the fixture above.
John quickly scanned the room and sidestepped to look into a closet, making sure all threats were contained. Then he reached for his cuffs, and in a couple of deft motions stepped over and handcuffed the chemist.
The German grunted as John handled him, and the breath left his body as he was knocked into a sitting position on the bed. Vaguely, Adele wondered if she was supposed to check with Agent Marshall when arresting someone—but it had all happened so fast.
“Don’t move,” John snapped, kicking at the man on the bed.
Adele walked over and noted the suitcase. “Returning from somewhere?” she said. “France, maybe?”
Peter Lehman was trembling now, his mouth quavering, his lips trying to form sentences, but failing. “Who are you?” he demanded at last.
“I said be quiet,” John shouted in French.
But Peter glanced up with a look of confusion on his face.
John glared down at the man. “Don’t pretend you don’t speak French. That’s how you lured that poor girl into the underpass, isn’t it?”
Peter looked even more flabbergasted. He replied in German, “I don’t understand. German. Do you speak German? Who are you?”
Adele flashed her FBI badge. At that moment, Agent Marshall also joined them, her own weapon raised in trembling hands. She surveyed the scene and released a small gasp of relief, quickly holstering her firearm as if she were discarding a hot coal. “BKA task force with Interpol,” she announced, importantly through the room. “You, Peter Lehman, are under arrest for the murder of five US citizens and one French national.”
At this, Peter’s pale face turned downright ghostly. Sweat broke out across his forehead beneath his fading gray and brown hair. “I didn’t kill anyone!” he said, sputtering. “What is this about? A drug I worked on? I assure you, anything in my capacity for Lion Pharmaceutical is covered by the company’s liability. If any patients are suffering side effects, we have a shield of immunity from prosecution as individuals. Which project is the issue?” He was shaking his head. “I know that hair regrowth cream isn’t the best. But it wouldn’t have caused anyone’s death.” Peter was talking rapidly now, the words spilling from his throat. He shook his head side to side, looking pleadingly from John to Adele and back to Agent Marshall.
Adele had to hand it to him. He was good. She could understand why Marion would’ve gone with him into the underpass. There was a sincerity in his words and his expression that would have put anyone off guard. Still, facts didn’t lie.
“Check his suitcase,” she said, pointing at John.
The large agent pushed Peter roughly in the chest, causing him to collapse backward, lying down against the bed. Then John dropped to a knee and unzipped the suitcase.
A pile of folded clothes and neatly arranged toiletries comprised most of the compartment. Adele frowned, wondering if they would find the knife. But as John tossed clothing from the suitcase, causing a couple of shirts to land on Peter’s face, the tall agent froze.
“Sharp, look,” he said, pointing.
Adele stepped further into the room and peered down into the case. She spotted a small white container with translucent glass. Sealed within the container, six small test tubes protruded from circular compartments, secured by rubber clasps.
“Project 132z,” said John with a growl. He tapped the side of the glass with a long finger.
“Please, be careful with that!” Peter said, trying to sit back up.
John reached out an arm and pushed Peter back down on the bed.
“What do you know about the paralytic?” Lehman asked between hyperventilating gasps from where he lay, facing the ceiling, his hair sticking wildly out around him, jutting against the bed sheets.
“We know you used the drug to incapacitate your victims,” snapped John. “We know you stole it from the lab, even though it was slated to be destroyed. And we know that the five weeks you’ve been absent from your company, you’ve been vacationing in the United States and France, killing citizens.”
Agent Marshall pursed her lips, shaking her head side to side. “Mr. Lehman, I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”
Adele helped John back to his feet and patted him affectionately on the back.
As Agent Marshall muttered beneath her breath to Peter, advising him of his rights, Adele smiled at John. “Good job,” she said.
Renee holstered his weapon, and his smirk returned like flowers in bloom. “Same to you.”
Adele shifted her shoulders. “I have to say, I’m a little disappointed he didn’t have red hair.”
“You’re a strange one, American Princess. Not bad in a day’s work. Think we’ll get a confession?”
Adele frowned, glancing over at the two Germans by the bed. “I’m—I’m not sure…”
“What is it?”
“Nothing… Just a thought, but… no, really, it’s nothing.” Robert had often told her to trust her hunches… but this time, she didn’t want to. Peter Lehman seemed… so normal. He had to be the killer though, didn’t he?
Adele frowned, scratching at the side of her chin.
Together, the three agents led their handcuffed suspect out of his home and over to the waiting police cars at the end of the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
In Adele’s opinion, all police stations, no matter what country they called home, shared a certain recognizable uniformity immediately apparent to anyone who’d spent much time around cops. There was a quiet order among the men and women of a police force. The arrangement of their offices would be different, the interrogation rooms might be in a basement or down a hall. But eventually, all police stations could be interpreted through the same grid.
Adele wasn’t surprised they hadn’t been taken back to a BKA headquarters. While Germany might’ve decided to play nice, allowing a DGSI agent and an FBI agent into their base of operations without preparation would have been a laughable proposition.
Still, the local police station would do well enough.
Adele stood in front of the vending machines, scanning the items.
She inserted a euro which she’d borrowed from Agent Marshall, clicked the button, waited for the tumbling sound, then retrieved an iced tea from the vending machine’s slot. Clutching the cold beverage, she sidled past the desk clerk, and toward the long hall which led to the interrogation room.
She pushed open the door and stepped beneath the bright fluorescent light.
The naked room housed only two chairs, a long metal table bolted to the floor, and a glass mirror across the back half of the wall.
It wasn’t a one-way mirror, but it served to convince the suspects, who’d seen enough TV, to assume that every police station had someone on the other side of that glass, watching them. In this case, though, it was just a mirror.