Paris

by A. C. Fuller

  “Yes.” Warren’s voice brought her back. “Right, okay.” He turned to face Cole. “Mrs. Fires. Yes… yes this is Robert Warren… Kandahar, no but I served in… yes, that’s right.”

  His face relaxed and his eyes softened. His shoulders dropped. Warren expressed his emotions through his body more than anyone she’d ever known. She didn’t need to hear the other end of the call. Something good was happening.

  “That would be excellent,” he said. He listened again, cracking a smile. An actual, ear to ear smile. “Yes, ma’am. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

  He hung up the phone and handed it back to Bisset, then sat. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “Who?”

  “Carolyn Fires. She’s the RSO.”

  Cole’s face was blank.

  “Regional Security Officer. Special Agent of the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service.”

  It sounded important, but Cole couldn’t make heads or tails of all the different agencies and roles within the military and state department. “What does that mean?”

  Warren sat next to her. “She’s a badass, and she’s coming to help.”

  4

  Carolyn Fires burst through the door like she owned the place, a leather padfolio in one hand, a giant plastic cup full of iced tea in the other. “Who’s in charge here?” she barked.

  Warren stood to greet her. “Thanks for coming.”

  She shook his hand and turned to Cole, who also stood. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Where are they?”

  Warren nodded toward the adjoining room, where the two French officers had scrambled to their feet.

  Fires set her iced tea on the desk next to Cole. “Wait here.”

  A commanding woman—and not just because of her large stature—Fires wore a navy blue skirt suit, her chest pinned with medals. Among them was a bronze star. She’d dressed to intimidate.

  Fires met the French officers at the door, nearly knocking them over. Forcing her way into the adjoining room, she closed the door behind her.

  “What do you think she’ll say?” Cole asked.

  “She’ll find out what this is all about. Technically, they don’t have to tell her, but they will. They don’t want to piss off the U.S. Embassy without a really good reason.”

  “We’re not a good reason?”

  Warren shrugged. “Hope not.”

  For five minutes, they watched through the small pane of glass in the door. They couldn’t hear her words, but every so often a single word was shouted loud enough to slip through the door.

  “Abhorrent.”

  “China.”

  “First Amendment.”

  “Reporters.”

  Fires gestured as she spoke, like a defense attorney making a closing argument. The back of her head bobbed, her bright red hair swaying as she pounded the air with her fist. Sometimes she waved the leather padfolio, and once or twice Cole heard it thwack onto the desk. After a few minutes, Bisset handed her a phone, into which she began shouting.

  “Damn,” Warren said.

  “I know, right? She’s a Marine?”

  “And a lawyer. Utter badass.”

  “Why’s she helping us?”

  “Few reasons. The Marines connection doesn’t hurt. And it’s embarrassing to America if two of its citizens get sent from France to China on a diffusion notice. My guess is she Googled us. Your name is trending because of the article. If you disappear into China, it’ll be an international incident. You can see the headlines, right? American journalist detained by oppressive Chinese government.”

  “Americans love hating on reporters, right up to the point where one gets detained by China. Then everyone loves us again.”

  “I’m not touching that one.” He shifted in his seat. “Part of it could be that Fires is bored of paperwork. You’d be amazed how little action there is at the Embassy.”

  Fires emerged suddenly, grabbed her iced tea, and drank half of it in one long pull from the straw. “Stand up. We’re leaving, but first we need to talk.”

  They stood.

  The French officers tried to follow Fires in, but she slammed the door in their faces and held up a hand apologetically as if to say, Please, give me a minute.

  She turned back to Cole and Warren. “Got any enemies in China?”

  “I wrote an article about Ibo Kane. He’s of Chinese descent, but American. Any way he could—”

  Fires held up a hand. “Ding, ding, ding. The way this crap works is, some billionaire can get to Chinese police and make them issue a notice. Guess is, Kane had a Chinese national do it on his behalf. Putin does this shit all the time to harass his enemies abroad. It’s his hobby. The reason they used a diffusion notice instead of a red notice was to keep it on the down low. Didn’t want all the Interpol countries to know about it.” Fires raised her eyebrows. “Good instincts to call the Embassy, Rob.”

  “What’s the bottom line?” Warren asked.

  “They’re letting you go under my supervision, but you have to surrender your passports until we get this straightened out. I’ll talk to the chief of police later today, but it’ll tough to get anything done. Christmas. Might have to wait a couple days in Paris. In addition to the French police, I’ll contact my counterpart in China. Always have to connect with the issuing country on these things. See if I can squash it.” She faced Warren. “Improvise, adapt, and overcome.”

  Warren offered a warm smile. His demeanor had changed around Frankie in Las Vegas, and it was different now. Something in him relaxed around other Marines. “They already have our passports,” he said, “so we can live with that.”

  “One last thing,” Cole added. “What were you saying about reporters in there?” She pointed at the adjoining room. “We overheard.”

  “Told them I’d leak a story that French police were detaining a famous American reporter if they didn’t let you go.”

  Cole smiled. “Thanks.”

  Fires opened the door to the train station. “You want to stay at the Embassy while we get this sorted out? Three hots and a cot?”

  Warren laughed. “We have a hotel.”

  “Reminds me,” Fires said. “I told these losers I’d let them know where you were staying.” She tossed Warren a notepad from the desk, and he wrote the name of the hotel on it.

  Fires tossed the paper in Bisset’s general direction. It fluttered to the floor as they walked out of the office into the busy Gare du Nord station.

  Fires stopped them as soon as they got a few yards from the office. “Jane, do you mind if I talk to Warren for a sec?”

  Cole glanced at Warren, who nodded.

  Cole saw a small gift shop. “Sure. I’ll do some Christmas shopping.” She left her bag with Warren and approached the shop, but turned back to watch their discussion instead of going in. She assumed they’d want to reminisce pleasantly about the Marines, but Warren wore his intense-listening face. Fires was telling him something important. Before Cole could guess what it might be, they were done.

  Fires slapped him on the arm with her leather padfolio, then strolled out of the train station.

  5

  A swarm of reporters and at least three TV camera crews blocked the entrance of the Grand Hotel du Palais Royale. Cole wasn’t surprised, but she’d hoped they’d get lucky. “Damn.”

  The driver double parked and glanced back. “Celebrities stay here sometimes.”

  Warren said, “We might be the celebrities this time.”

  The driver didn’t get it. “You are famous?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Cole knew what he meant. “The police screwed us?”

  Warren handed the driver twenty Euros. “That’s my bet. Your story is everywhere now. Combine that with the diffusion notice, China, and the latest shooting. This thing is bigger than Beyonce. I bet Bisset called every reporter in Paris before we were out of the train station. Just to screw with us.” He nodded toward the entrance. “You ready.”

  “I ha
ve a choice?”

  “In ten minutes we’ll be up in the room.”

  Cole took a deep breath. “I ever tell you how much I hate reporters?”

  Warren chuckled. “Tell me about it. Not nearly as fun when you’re the one being written about, is it?”

  She grabbed the door handle and sprang out, waited for Warren to follow, then wrapped her arm around his and stepped onto the curb. Five or six reporters rushed toward them.

  “Ms. Cole,” one asked in a thick French accent, “what are you doing in Paris?”

  She tried to sidestep him, but ran into a large woman holding a camera. “A picture, please?” She said it while snapping dozens of pictures, but the question made Cole turn long enough for the woman to snap a dozen shots of her face.

  Warren tugged her toward the hotel entrance, which was blocked by a large luggage cart. Two porters were pulling it inside as another tried to shoo away the mob.

  “Why are you in Paris?” someone yelled.

  “Are you here to investigate the murder of David Fontes?”

  “Did you kill David Fontes?”

  “Ms. Cole, are you planning a follow-up article?”

  “Who will be the next victim?”

  “Where did you find the map?”

  “Are you and Robert Warren lovers, Ms. Cole?”

  This last question got her to turn. The woman who’d shouted it was short, around thirty years old, and she shoved a cell phone in Cole’s face. “What did you say?” Cole asked.

  “You and Mr. Warren chose to come to Paris at Christmas. Are you lovers?”

  Cole opened her mouth to speak, but Warren pulled her around the luggage cart and into the hotel. Behind them, the staff blocked the reporters from entering.

  Their small, elegant room overlooked a large square with a fountain. In the distance, the top half of the Eiffel Tower peeked out over an apartment building.

  “It just struck me.” Cole fell onto the plush bed. “We’re now stuck in Paris. No passports. I’m not someone who likes being stuck.”

  Warren was changing in the bathroom, door half open. “Even in Paris?” he called.

  “There could be another murder any minute.” She sighed. “Even if we have no chance of actually getting close to the story, I have to be where the action is.”

  Warren came out, wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt, and his brown leather jacket, still scuffed from the bombing in London. Gray stone dust covered the jacket’s right shoulder.

  She stood and examined it. “In action movies, the hero never brushes the dust off his leather jacket after he goes down. That your strategy for attracting French women?”

  He looked down at the front of his jacket. “What?”

  She brushed the dust off of his shoulder. “Got it for you.”

  She walked to the window and looked out. The day had cleared after the morning snow. All the roads had been cleared, but a thin layer of powder still covered roofs and awnings. “It’s more beautiful than I imagined.” She turned quickly. “Wait, why’d you change clothes?”

  “In the train station, Fires gave me a lead.”

  Cole raised an eyebrow. “Bet that’s not all she wants to give you.”

  Warren shrugged. “Seriously? It’s not that. She has a constant rivalry with the French. She heard something she can’t act on.”

  “And she’d love you to break something before the French authorities do?”

  He walked to the door. “Exactly. We’re allies with the French, but let’s just say she has a friendly rivalry with... well, literally every law enforcement and military officer in this country.”

  “You’re not gonna tell me what the tip was?”

  “Long shot. I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

  With that, he slipped out the door, leaving Cole alone.

  The desk clerk had assured Warren that reporters wouldn’t be allowed inside. All he needed was to avoid the front entrance. He took the elevator to the basement, where a small gym had been fashioned out of an old storage room. He examined the gym equipment—he always scoped out potential workout locations when he traveled—then found a hallway that led to a kitchen. Probably where they filled room service orders.

  He walked casually through the swinging double door and across the kitchen to the employee entrance. The door led to a flight of stairs, which took him up to an alley on the side of the hotel. Perfect.

  At the end of the alley he found a taxi. “École d'économie de Paris. As fast as you can.”

  6

  Cole opened Julio Lopez’s Facebook page. He’d updated it three times since she last checked.

  A bible quote. A photo of a Tex-Mex, stuffed-crust pizza with the caption: “Mmmmmmmmmm!!!” A score update from a Houston Texans football game.

  On her Sandy Beltaggio profile, she posted a link to an article about the playoff chances for the Houston Texans, then found a Tex-Mex cooking class offered in Houston in January and posted a link to it with the caption, “I’m thinking of going. Anyone want to join?”

  She logged off, then back on using another fake profile. She commented on Sandy Beltaggio’s posts, then logged off. She did this three more times, making it look as though Sandy Beltaggio was a popular woman with friends who couldn’t wait to engage with her posts.

  Finally, she logged back on as Sandy Beltaggio. She had a new message, which must have just arrived. She perked up. Lopez had replied to the message she’d sent on the train.

  Lopez: I’m an okay keeper. Not in the shape I was before but I do alright. We play once a week at Memorial Park. Saturdays at noon unless it’s raining.

  Cole took a deep breath. Studying how to read people had taught her one important truth: when people are excited, or nervous, or lying, their bodies give them away, not their words. Humans are betrayed by their physiology much more than they’d like to believe. A reddening face, a flushed cheek, or a hand to the neck, which had been Maggie Price’s tell.

  Cole’s heart had started racing the second the little red “1” popped up on her private messages. Now she tapped her foot nervously. She hunched tightly over the phone, as though trying to fold herself into a package small enough to disappear into the screen and reappear in Lopez’s living room.

  This was her chance to talk one-on-one with one of her husband’s killers. She was nervous, excited, and full of rage.

  As much as she wanted to come right out with it, she had to go easy. She took another breath, sat up straight, and typed.

  Cole: Thanks for writing back. I bet you’re better than just “okay.” I’d love to join the game.

  Lopez: Great. Meet at the north field at noon.

  She needed to keep this going, and took a moment to contemplate. Warren had said she should come across as damaged or Lopez wouldn’t buy it. She decided to play the ex-husband card.

  Cole: See you there. Ugh, my ex NEVER wanted to play sports. You into football?

  Lopez: Grew up calling soccer “football” and calling football “American football.” Dad was from Mexico and that’s how they call it down there. So soccer is my first love but I watch the Texans every Sunday.

  Cole: I’m in the NFL betting pool at work. Winner gets an extra day off and I NEED that day, you know?

  Lopez: Hear ya. We all could use an extra day off. I drive trucks for a living and sometimes my eyes go numb.

  Cole: Ha! Seriously, though.

  Lopez: What do you do for work?

  Cole: Insurance sales. Boring as hell but decent money. Texans gonna make the playoffs this year?

  Cole waited as Lopez typed out a long reply. He’d given this serious thought, apparently. When the reply appeared, she scanned recent articles about the team and faked her way through a brief back-and-forth.

  From football, she moved the conversation to stadium food, then cooking in general, then to favorite foods, which led to Tex-Mex. They’d been chatting for half an hour by the time she asked Lopez to join her at the cooking class. She didn’t want t
o come on too strong though, so she added:

  Cole: Not a date, or whatever… might be fun, ya know?

  As expected, he’d already clicked over to view her recent posts.

  Lopez: Saw that class on your page. I used to make a mean enchilada sauce. I’m in.

  Cole: My ex never wanted to try anything new, either. Probably all the regimen and discipline from being in the service.

  Lopez: I’m a Marine. Retired Marine. Where’d your ex serve?

  She did some quick Googling to find a believable story.

  Cole: 2nd Battalion, 503rd Infantry Regiment. Wardak province, Afghanistan.

  Typing it out, she felt guilty for the first time. Matt told her once that one of the worst things someone could do was lie about military service. It disrespected the men and women who actually served. Most civilians didn’t know the difference, so they were easy to fool. Of all the lies she’d told, this was the only one that gave her pause. But she’d live with the guilt if it helped her break Lopez.

  Lopez: Served in Afghanistan, too, but never made it to Wardak.

  Cole: Any chance you knew him? Michael Beltaggio?

  Lopez: It was a big war. Didn’t run into him that I can remember.

  Cole: Assumed not.

  Lopez: What happened? You cheat while he was away?

  This was unexpected. If she could see his face she’d be able to interpret a tone behind the comment. He followed up quickly.

  Lopez: Sorry, too personal. That happened to me and it sucks.

  Cole: Sorry to hear that. No, nothing like that. Honestly it was an okay divorce as divorces go. Just grew apart. He’s remarried now. Actually I’m friendly with his new wife so it’s kinda cool.

  Lopez: That’s cool.

  Cole: Gotta run but I’ll see you Saturday.

  Lopez: Later.

  As much as she’d wanted to go in for the kill, she had to establish rapport, get him to trust her. Next time she’d go all in.

  But first she needed a costume and a little help from Frankie in Las Vegas.