Lisa asked Matt, “How on earth are we going to get hold of a uniform? Hit some poor girl over the head?”
“No. We’ll ask her nicely. Failing that, we’ll try a fifty-dollar bill and a signed photograph of Matt LeBlanc.”
Lisa laughed out loud.
“You think I’m kidding? Friends is still huge over here.” Sure enough, he pulled a sheaf of publicity head shots out of a drawer. “You’d be amazed how far these go with our Chinese friends. Like cigarettes in jail.”
Lisa shook her head. “So our grand escape plan begins with Joey Tribbiani?”
“Uh-huh. Have some faith, Lise. I know what I’m doing.”
After Lisa’s getaway, the next stage was a fishing boat to the mainland, where a “fixer”—Mr. Ong—had agreed to arrange their passage via the South China Sea and Sunda Strait to Cape Town. From there a long series of overnight train rides would ultimately bear them north. It would be a month at least before they arrived in Casablanca.
“Simple,” said Matt, which made Lisa laugh again, because, of course, the plan was anything but simple. In truth, it was fraught with danger at every turn. But Matt’s confidence was unshakable, and the fantasy too sweet and perfect to resist.
We’ll live anonymously in some tranquil riad, watching the birds flit around the fountain in the courtyard. All will be peace and calm and beauty.
He’ll never find me.
The madness will end.
At nine o’clock the night before they were due to leave, Matt left a sealed envelope with cash at the front desk. Running for his life or not, Matt Daley wasn’t the sort of guy to disappear without paying his bill. Upstairs in their suite, he and Lisa drank a last nightcap of whiskey and settled down for a few short hours of sleep.
The alarm was set for two A.M.
For the plan to work, Matt had to be on his way before three A.M.
CLAUDE DEMARTIN HAD BEEN ON THE autoroute for five straight hours before he took the exit marked Aix-en-Provence. Skirting the ancient city itself, he finally pulled in outside a nondescript light-industrial complex.
Wedged between the autoroute and the railway line, Laboratoire Chaumures was a forensic facility used by all the police forces of southern France. Two days earlier, Danny McGuire had received a call from one of their senior research technicians, confirming that the lab had indeed provided DNA sample analysis on the Anjou murder and rape case last year.
“But there were no such results filed in the police case notes,” said Danny.
The technician sighed. “No. I’m afraid that’s typical. Unless there’s a trial and the prospect of fortune and glory, the Tropezien police’s attitude to evidence preservation is laissez-faire, to say the least.”
Thirty-six hours later, Claude Demartin was meeting the technician face-to-face. His name was Albert Dumas. In his early fifties, tall, thin and angular, with a white lab coat so crisp you could get a paper cut from looking at it, and a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his volelike nose, he was instantly recognizable to Demartin as a fellow forensics nerd. The two men took to each other instantly.
“Come inside, Detective.” Dumas pumped Claude Demartin’s hand enthusiastically. “I think you’ll be excited by what we found.”
Inside, the lab was one giant, open-plan space, with a series of glass-enclosed cubicles arranged around the perimeter. Some of these were offices, simple, IKEA-furnished affairs. Others were teaching rooms, set up with whiteboards, benches and laser pointers, and with banks of microscopes neatly arranged along the back walls. Others still were labs. Albert Dumas led Claude Demartin into one of the offices, where a neat stack of printouts sat next to a computer on the desk.
“So the local police kept no record of this data?” asked Claude.
“So your boss told me. I can’t say I was surprised.”
“But you keep your own independent records?”
Dumas sounded offended. “Of course. We have semen analysis, hair analysis, blood work, fingerprints. It’s all here. I’ve run a comparison with the data you sent us from the other cases.”
“And…?”
“The bad news is that the blood work you’ve sent us is pretty much useless.”
Claude frowned. That’s supposed to get me excited?
“The Henley samples had clearly been contaminated somehow in the Scotland Yard lab.”
“How about the Jakes results?”
Albert Dumas flipped through his printouts. “No blood other than the victims’ was found at the Los Angeles crime scene. Which was the same with the Anjou case, by the way.”
“So we’ve got nothing?”
“Not quite. Hong Kong was a little more promising. There were three distinct samples taken from the Barings’ home. But the blood that did not come from the victims themselves was standard type O, I’m afraid.”
“Which narrows our suspect pool to about forty percent of the world population,” Claude Demartin said bleakly. “Terrific. So what’s the good news?”
“Ah, well.” Dumas brightened. “At first I thought there wasn’t any. Most of the fingerprints were compromised, so there were no clear matches there, and the semen results were conflicted.”
“Conflicted how?”
“Both Mrs. Henley and Mrs. Jakes had had intercourse with their husbands on the nights in question, and there was no ejaculation during the Baring rape. That left us with only one decent semen sample: ours, from Irina Anjou. I sent the data to Assistant Director McGuire’s office first thing this morning while you were driving down here, but unfortunately it didn’t match with any of the sex offenders on Interpol’s systems.”
Demartin waited for the “but.” Please let there be a “but.”
“But,” Albert Dumas said obligingly, “I had a thought a few hours ago about other physical evidence. There were numerous hair samples collected at the Hong Kong crime scene. Nowhere else. Just at the Baring house.”
Claude Demartin vaguely remembered. “The Chinese ran tests on those at the time, though, and got nowhere. And those guys don’t mess around. Their forensic facilities are some of the best in the world.”
“True. But the Anjou evidence was never logged in any police database. They could only study what they had, and they never had access to our data.”
Claude felt the familiar tingle of excitement he always got when a case was about to break. Human behavior was riddled with errors and inconsistencies. But forensic evidence, if properly handled, never lied.
Albert Dumas grinned. “I am now able to tell you, with a hundred percent certainty, that one of the hairs found in Mr. Baring’s bedroom—item 0029076 in Inspector Liu’s evidence log—is an exact DNA match to the semen retrieved from Mrs. Anjou.” He handed Claude Demartin the relevant piece of paper.
“It was the same man,” Claude whispered excitedly. “The same killer.”
Albert Dumas frowned. “That’s for you to decide, Detective. I couldn’t possibly hazard a guess.”
“But the results…”
“Tell us only that the man who inseminated Irina Anjou on May 16, 2005, was the same man whose hair was found in Miles Baring’s bedroom. That much is a scientifically provable fact. Anything beyond that is mere conjecture.”
Claude Demartin practically ran out to his car.
“Put me through to Danny McGuire. Tell him it’s Claude Demartin. I have some news.”
THE MOMENT MATT DALEY’S HEAD HIT the pillow he felt intensely drowsy. Projecting confidence was one thing. Feeling it was another. The stress of choreographing his and Lisa’s escape plan must have taken more out of him than he’d thought.
Once we’re away from here, in Morocco, I’ll be able to protect her. We’ll start again, just the two of us. New jobs, new lives, new identities.
He felt guilty about his sister, Claire, and his mother. It wasn’t just Danny McGuire who Matt had disappeared on these past couple of months. It was his entire life back home. His past life, as he was now beginning
to think of it. Before he met Lisa. Before he was reborn. His divorce attorney left daily messages, the tones of his e-and voice mails becoming increasingly desperate. If Matt didn’t sign this or that paperwork, or show up to this or that hearing, Raquel would get everything.
Everything and nothing, thought Matt. Let her have it. Lisa has enough money for both of us, and it’s not as if we need much.
He was already half asleep when his cell phone rang.
Danny McGuire.
Wearily, Matt hit ignore then switched the handset off.
The last thing he remembered was Lisa’s lissome fingers softly stroking his hair.
“HI, YOU’VE REACHED MATT DALEY. PLEASE leave a message.”
Danny McGuire could have wept. He hadn’t “reached” Matt Daley. No one, it seemed, could reach Matt Daley, not now. His obsession with Lisa Baring had made him unreachable.
“Matt, this is Danny. We have firm forensic evidence placing Lisa Baring’s lover at the crime scene on the Anjou case. Are you hearing this? Whoever raped Irina Anjou conveniently left us a hair sample in your girlfriend’s bedroom. So you were right. The killings are linked. And I was right. You’re in serious danger right now. You need to get the hell away from that woman, and you need to call me back. Please, Matt. Call me.”
Danny hung up.
With a heavy heart, he dialed Inspector Liu’s number.
MATT DALEY HAD HORRIBLE DREAMS. HE woke gripped with panic. Where am I?
Everything seemed unfamiliar. The bed. The room. Even the smell in the air was foreign, thick and wet and heavy like a rain-soaked blanket. He sat up. Slowly, things came back to him, like distant objects emerging from a deep fog.
The Peninsula. The escape plan.
I have to get up.
He staggered to the window and opened the blinds. Daylight flooded the room. But it wasn’t the pale lemon light of dawn. It was the brilliant blinding glare of midmorning. Something had gone terribly wrong. He’d slept through his alarm. But how?
His head throbbed painfully. The whiskey… Had he been drugged?
Spinning around, he stared at the empty bed.
Empty bed. It hit him like a punch in the stomach.
The bed was empty.
Lisa Baring was gone.
PART III
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE HOTEL WAS GLORIOUS. IT BOASTED a sumptuous lobby, hallways lined with red velvet carpets, a spectacular Roman-themed spa and a bedroom suite larger than most Manhattan apartments. Best of all were the views, across Sydney Harbor to the famous opera house, rising like some grand ship with sails billowing against the skyline.
Lisa had always wanted to come to Australia. But not like this.
“What’s the matter?”
In linen Ralph Lauren pants and a blue silk shirt, he looked as handsome as ever. With more money to spend than he’d had before, he’d developed expensive tastes in clothes and watches that would have looked flashy on some men, but he wore them well. Then again, he wore everything well.
“Nothing. I’m tired.” Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of the nightmares, the loneliness, the deceit.
Lisa was standing by the window. Walking up behind her, he started rubbing her shoulders.
“Did all that sex with Matt Daley take it out of you?”
“Stop it,” she snapped. “He’s a nice man, okay? Besides, you were the one who told me to get close to him.”
It was true. He had told Lisa Baring to get close to the American, to find out what he knew. Inspector Liu was clearly stumbling around in the dark, like all the other detectives he’d dealt with. But Daley was different. He didn’t think like a cop, he thought like a human being, like somebody’s son. That alone made him dangerous.
“You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lisa. She didn’t want to talk about Matt. Not here. Not with him. She comforted herself that at least, with her out of the picture, Matt would be safe. He’d get over her eventually. Then he could go back to L.A. and his life and pick up where he’d left off. What she wouldn’t give to be able to do the same!
She turned around to face him. “Look, I’ve done what you asked. With Miles. With Matt Daley. I have the money, I can wire it wherever you want. But what about your side of the bargain? When can I see my sister?”
“Soon.”
“‘Soon’? Soon when? You promised!”
He grabbed her violently by the throat. Lisa whimpered in fear. How had she ever been attracted to him? Ever trusted him?
“When it’s over, that’s when. When all the guilty have been punished.”
The guilty. Who are the guilty? Was Miles guilty, really? Did he deserve to die? And what about the others, the men you slaughtered all those years ago? What about their poor wives?
There was a time when she’d believed that Miles was guilty. When she’d seen the world the way he saw it. But meeting Matt Daley had changed all that. It was as if Matt had woken her from a trance, brought her back to reality. But by then it was too late.
He released his grip and Lisa slumped back against the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks. When he reached for her again, she cowered in fear, but this time his touch was gentle, brushing away the tears.
“Don’t cry, my angel. Just one more, I promise, and it will all be over. How would you like to go to India?”
“No!” Lisa sobbed. “Please. I can’t. I won’t.”
“Yes, you will…” He stroked her hair. “You need to rest first, that’s all. Like you said, you’re tired. But you know you’ll help me in the end. We’ll help each other. Remember: your sister’s counting on you.”
DANNY MCGUIRE TURNED RIGHT ONTO CLIFFWOOD, enjoying the sensation of the breeze on his face and the warm L.A. sunshine on his back as his open-topped rental car sped up the hill. It had been so long since he’d driven in Los Angeles, and his last memories of the place had been so grim, he’d entirely forgotten how much he had once loved it. Brentwood especially was glorious in the sunshine, with its clean, wide suburban streets lined with blossoming trees of every size and color, its pleasant Spanish-style homes and neatly kept yards, its white picket fences and yellow school buses and smiling, healthy-looking residents.
I must bring Céline here, he thought, just as soon as she can stand the sight of me again. Since Claude Demartin’s breakthrough at the Chaumures Laboratory, relations had thawed not only with Inspector Liu in Hong Kong but with the French and British police forces too. Even the powers that be at the LAPD were suddenly willing to let bygones be bygones and get behind Operation Azrael. As a result, Henri Frémeaux had finally given Danny a half-decent budget, more manpower and free rein to devote the bulk of his time to the operation for the next six months. Danny was delighted, but Céline had burst into tears when he told her, especially when he announced that he was kicking things off with a monthlong trip to the States.
“So this is how it starts. A month here. Six weeks there. And what about us, Danny? What about our marriage?”
He’d done his best to explain to her. A crazed killer was on the loose. Lives were in danger. But her answer was always the same: “So let someone else save them. You can save other lives here, in Lyon, like you have been doing for the last five years. You can save us.” She hadn’t even gone to the airport to see him off.
Making a left on Highwood, Danny pushed his marital troubles out of his mind. He was on his way to see Matt Daley at Matt’s sister’s house and glean what evidence he could about Lisa Baring firsthand. Lisa’s disappearance was front-page news in Hong Kong and she was now openly spoken of in the Chinese media as a suspect in her husband’s murder. Danny McGuire was reserving judgment. All he knew right now was that Lisa Baring was a link—the link—to the Azrael killer. And that Matt Daley was a link to Lisa Baring.
“You must be McGuire. I guess you’d better come in.”
Claire Michaels answered the door with a distrustful look on her face. She was blo
nd, like her brother, and had the same open, animated features, even though at this moment they were set into a scowl.
“Thanks for letting me stop by.”
She showed him into the living room. “Matt’s upstairs getting dressed. He’ll be down in a minute.” She started to leave, then apparently thought better of it. “Look,” she said to Danny, angry tears in her eyes, “this thing with the Baring woman has really taken it out of him, okay? He’s not himself. Ever since he got involved with this stupid documentary, he’s changed, but when he met Lisa Baring, it went to a whole new level. He’s already lost his marriage, his home and now his heart. I honestly don’t think he can take any more.”
“I understand, Ms. Daley.”
“Michaels. It’s Mrs. Michaels,” snapped Claire. “I’m married. And I don’t think you do understand, Mr. McGuire. Matt needs to forget all about this stupid case. He needs to rebuild his life. Why can’t you just leave him the hell alone?”
It was at that moment that Matt walked in. Danny hadn’t seen him in person since their meeting in Lyon last year. It was all he could do not to gasp. Stick thin, his once-merry eyes sunken in an ashen face and his blond hair graying aggressively at the temples, Matt looked like he’d aged twenty years. No wonder his sister was worried.
“Hello, Danny.” They shook hands. Despite his frail appearance, Matt looked delighted to see him.
“Hello, Matt.”
Claire’s two children ran into the room, jumping up and down at Matt’s heels like puppies, trying to get their uncle’s attention.
Matt turned to Danny. “Let’s sit out in the gazebo. I’ve got most of my files out there anyway and it’s quieter. We won’t be disturbed.”
FOR THE NEXT TWO HOURS, THE two men compared notes. Danny filled Matt in on all the latest developments at Interpol. The DNA evidence, the holes in the backgrounds of all the Azrael wives, and, most recently, the anonymous depositing of large amounts of cash into the bank accounts of two Hong Kong–based children’s charities. “We don’t know for sure that it was Baring’s money. We’re having a lot of trouble tracing the funds’ origins. But given the timing and the amounts involved, it’s looking likely.”
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