Or perhaps her own instincts were trying to tell her something.
But what?
He couldn’t be innocent, could he? It was far too damning of evidence for him to have stolen the drug, have a packed suitcase, match the employee records, request a leave of absence…
“Adele,” said Agent Marshall, waving her phone.
But Adele held up another quieting finger and stared at Peter, studying the side of his face. “All right, let’s say you took the drug. Where have you been for the last five weeks?”
“Here, in Germany! I swear it. I’ve been with my family; you can ask my wife, my kids! I was at my daughter’s soccer practice last Wednesday. Everyone can tell you!”
“BKA is running your credit cards and passport right now,” said Adele. “You’re convincing, I’ll give you that. But this charade is pointless. If they find that you’ve been spending money in France, or that your passport was spotted at any of the borders, you’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars. I hope you know that.”
Peter Lehman’s voice broke, shuddering with a sob. “I didn’t kill anyone. I took the five weeks because of the politics. Like I said. Those bastards at Lion wouldn’t stick up for us. I’m a chemist, not a killer. I was leading my team as best I could. I made promises, promises that they should’ve seen fulfilled. We all worked so hard…”
His voice strained, and he emitted another defeated sob. At last, he turned, meeting her gaze, his eyes laden with sadness. “I needed the time off to recover. I took the drug. I admit that. There’s no sense pretending, you found it. But I took it to sell it.”
He hesitated for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he realized what he’d said. But, shaking his head, he tried to steady himself. Then, soldiering on, with a grim look of determination like someone plunging into an icy river, he said, his voice strengthening with each word, “I was going to travel. I did pack a suitcase, but it wasn’t because I’ve returned from France, but because I was going to leave for Switzerland. I told my wife there was a conference, but really, I was going there to meet a Swiss pharmaceutical company. I told them about the drug. I offered to sell it to them. You have to understand; I’m not a bad man. But I spent three years working on this project.” He reached up as if to rub at his forehead, but his hand couldn’t make it the full way. The chain rattled as his hand dropped limply back to the table. “To throw it away, so callously, with Director Mueller not even taking a second to try to salvage it…it’s a crime. That’s the real crime!”
Adele still sat on the edge of the metal table, her legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulder brushing against Lehman’s waving forearm as he gesticulated wildly, causing the chains to rattle back and forth and his hands to move up and down like a seesaw through the metal bracket holding him tight.
“Agent Sharp,” Marshall repeated again, waving with her phone.
Adele sighed, and finally glanced over at the young BKA agent.
“Yes?” she said.
Marshall winced apologetically. “He’s telling the truth,” she said, shaking her head. “BKA can’t find any record of credit card purchases or travel outside the country. And the officer sent to speak with his wife has her swearing up and down that he’s been home for the last five weeks, wallowing in it, in her words, but home.”
Adele felt a pit forming in her stomach. She stared at Agent Marshall. “You have to be kidding.”
The German agent winced again, shaking her head.
Adele glanced at Peter, who was hunched over now, crying, his forehead resting against his hands.
She turned to John, her expression grim. “There was no one else? No one in the employee records who worked on the project? Who requested absence? No one with red hair?”
John scowled. “Would you stop it with the red hair? He doesn’t have red hair.” He jabbed a finger toward Peter again. “He’s the killer!”
But Adele shook her head and translated what Marshall had told her as well as what Peter had said. As she relayed the facts, John’s expression morphed from one of anger to sheer contempt. He flung out a hand and grunted as if waving away everyone in the room. “He has to be the killer,” John said, mulishly. “He had the drug on him, in the suitcase. You saw!”
“He does have a ticket for Switzerland,” said Agent Marshall, once again waving her phone like a child raising their hand to catch the attention of a supply teacher.
John growled again and opened his mouth to protest, but Adele interrupted, “No credit cards or passport out of Germany, John. He’s been here.”
“Can anyone else vouch for his whereabouts?” John demanded.
Adele turned to Peter. “Can anyone else corroborate that you’ve been in Germany?”
Peter hesitated, but then nodded wildly. “Yes, of course! My team. We met up for drinks only two weeks ago after the project was officially canceled. It was a wake, a sendoff, if you will. There were nearly twenty people there. They’ll all be able to vouch for me. Please, just ask them!”
Adele felt her shoulders slump in defeat. “We’re going to need names,” she said softly. She reached out and patted Lehman on the shoulder, and then pushed off the table, turning toward the door to the interrogation room. “I need a breath,” she said. “I’ll be back.”
As Adele pushed out of the cramped space, the smell of iced tea and sweat was replaced by cheap cologne and scented air freshener. She kept her eyes ahead as she walked down the hall, mulling over the possibilities. Either Peter was an Oscar winner, or else the real killer was still out there. For all she knew, he was preparing for his next victim.
Adele paused in the doorway of the police station, letting a couple of officers past, both who glanced at her with mildly confused expressions. She ignored them as she stared out into the street. The same ominous shudder she’d felt back at the DGSI headquarters crept up her spine—the same sense of foreboding, like a gust of chill breeze.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The man sat on the floor, leaning against the footrest of the grandfather chair, resting his head against the seat. He preferred the floor; chairs like this one were too comfortable. But he couldn’t give it up. It had once belonged to his aunt, and she’d been kind to him once upon a time.
Still, comfort was for the weak.
The man stared at the TV screen, watching the events unfold.
A shakily held cell phone captured the moment when the chemist was escorted from his house in handcuffs.
A very tall agent with burn marks just below his chin was glaring at everyone within sight. A special glare was reserved for whoever was holding the camera.
The seated man returned the glare on the TV screen.
Next to the tall agent, he recognized the woman in the neat suit with the pretty, blonde hair.
“Agent Sharp,” he murmured, tipping his head in mock greeting.
She was in Germany. The man kept his calm for a moment, counting in his head, but then his emotions bubbled over and he screamed, launching the remote at the glass cabinet across the room. He howled, cursing at the ceiling as the sound of shattered glass only further sparked his rage.
With heaving, huffing breaths, he managed to regain control of his temper, glaring toward the TV once more.
How had they followed him? He thought he’d been careful. Reaching the US had been easy enough. He’d traveled to Canada first, and then slipped through the border. It wasn’t his first time.
Avoiding detection in France had been even easier; a matter of false papers. The government thought they were so clever. Yet in Germany, the US, and France, teenagers with fake IDs could fool even the most attentive of bartenders.