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“Why, though? It seems like there had to be more to it than that.”
I had to admit that Siren’s abrupt departure stung. And truthfully, now that Casper mentioned it, I didn’t see her as someone who did what she did, either. It would’ve made more sense for her to get in my face about not being honest with her. But to just leave the way she had, maybe there was something I was missing.
“I bet you haven’t even tried to contact her.”
“Here we are,” I said, thankful to end our conversation when I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant where Colette Martin had agreed to meet us.
* * *
Casper and I walked inside and saw only one person in the place.
“Torcher?” asked the heavily made-up woman who had more tattoos than Casper and I combined, plus a greater number of body piercings. She was clad from head to toe in black leather, including her black military-style boots. The only colorful thing I could see on her, other than her ink, was the nail on the little finger of her right hand. It was painted bright orange and was an inch long.
“That’s me.”
Casper bumped my body with hers when the other woman walked in our direction. “Good thing you brought me along so she wouldn’t be intimidated.”
While Casper turned her full badassness on, I sat back and listened. Colette remembered some things she said she’d told the police at the time, none of which were in the brief I’d read.
“You said the two other men who were shot that day were friends of your father’s?” Casper asked.
“Not just friends, best friends. I told the police that. I followed the reports in the newspapers. They said it was random. It wasn’t random.”
No one thought the shootings were, probably not even the French police, but that was the standard line when an investigation was taking place and there were no obvious suspects. Let the real killers believe there were no leads, and maybe they’d get sloppy. Only, in this case, it was likely that those carrying out the hit—which is precisely what the CIA, Casper, and I believed it was—were savvy enough to know exactly what the newspaper reports meant.
“Who are you?” Colette asked. “Who do you work for?”
“Interpol,” I answered.
She smirked. “Who do you really work for?”
“The same people your father worked for.”
She nodded. “Does anyone even care who killed them?”
“Yes,” said Casper. “Someone cares very much who killed them.”
In the same way there were people who cared about who’d killed Beau. It wasn’t just his widow. I cared, and so did every agent who’d ever worked with the man. My gaze met Casper’s, and while I didn’t speak, I hoped she knew her husband’s death was another “cold case” I intended to pursue.
* * *
Casper’s phone vibrated while we were on our way back to Lyon.
“What’s up?” I asked when I looked over and saw her studying it.
“Siren is in Kinsale.”
“Kinsale?”
“That’s right.”
I remembered telling her that was where my mother’s family was from. Did she? Even if she did, why would she go there? It certainly wouldn’t be to find out more about me. She didn’t care enough to do that. Right?
* * *
“What are you thinking?” Casper asked after several minutes had passed without me saying anything.
“I’m not sure what to think.”
