James felt his heart thump against his chest as Rose came closer. The scent of her perfume intensified. “You’d better,” he said, smiling.
“You giving me my orders now, boss?” She rested one hand on his thigh.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Just as well, you’d have your work cut out.”
“You sure about that?”
She repositioned herself on the bed, resting on her hands and knees. James felt her hand move up his leg.
“How about we find out?” she said.
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Stop trying to be chivalrous and come here.” She grabbed hold of his t-shirt and pulled him forward.
Obliging, James leaned into her, one hand against the small of her back. As his lips met hers, he felt her spine arch and the hairs on his arms stood on end. She tasted like rum: dark and sweet, intoxicating. Her breathing was heavy, forcing her chest up and down in rhythm with her heartbeat. He pulled off his t-shirt and forced her in closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his skin.
Rose broke away for a brief moment and turned off the light. “I’ve been wanting to do that for six months.”
“Me too, I think –”
“Don’t talk,” she said, climbing back on top of him. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Chapter 24
THE SOMBER OUTLINE of the Arc de Triomphe rose into the glassy night sky as Leopold, Mary, and Sophie clambered out of the taxi and stepped out onto the Champs-Élysées; Paris’ answer to New York’s Fifth Avenue. Despite the late hour, the streets were packed with diners and partygoers, and the manicured trees that lined the sidewalks were lit up with golden lights that bathed the entire neighborhood in a warm glow. The effect was one that Leopold associated with sitting too close to a Christmas tree.
“Where to now?” asked Mary, handing a fistful of change to the driver.
“My contact Harris arranged for the concierge to leave a set of keys for us. Thankfully, we pay them enough that they don’t feel the need to ask questions. It’s this way. Follow me.” He strode out toward the other side of the road, weaving in and out of the slow moving traffic. Once safely across, he led the way toward an ornate apartment building, set back from the road and positioned above an expensive-looking restaurant.
“Wait a minute,” Mary called out. “We’re supposed to just waltz in there looking like this?” She pointed at Leopold’s shoulder, where a crimson blood stain had started to spread through his clothes.
“Normally, I’d agree,” he said. “But don’t worry, Harris has arranged everything.” He set off again at a brisk pace. “It’s quicker just to show you.”
He took them past the main entrance, ignoring the immaculately dressed doorman, and ducked around the corner where the crowds were noticeably thinner and the lighting a little more subdued. Pulling out Sophie’s cell phone, he checked the email message one more time.
“This way.” He ducked through a gate and stepped into a deserted courtyard. Half a dozen industrial-sized dumpsters lined the walls and there was a distinct smell of rotting food and grease in the air. A dim halogen light cast a gloomy haze over the scene.
“Not exactly what I expected,” said Mary. “But I guess everyone’s trash smells the same.”
Leopold walked toward a rusted metal door at the other end of the courtyard and reached for the handle. “If everything’s gone as planned this should be unlocked.” He pulled the handle and felt the latch click open with a satisfying clunk.
“Finally,” said Sophie. “It’s about time you figured out how to use doors.”
“Shh. Keep quiet and follow me. We’re going in through the back.” He stepped into the corridor. The hallway was empty, silent except for the distant sound of a busy Parisian kitchen.
He pressed on. From ahead came a rising cacophony of metallic noise, steel against steel, and loud voices. A heady aroma filled his nose, a mixture of garlic and herbs. Late service was in full swing. “We’re close,” he said, turning to face the others. “All we have to do is get through the kitchens to the service elevator, and then ride up to the sixth floor. The keys have been hidden outside the apartment, ready for us to collect.”
“And we’re suppose to sneak through a kitchen full of chefs without being spotted?” asked Mary.
“These guys will be so busy concentrating on their work, they won’t notice us. If anyone asks, we’re the health inspectors.”
They reached the end of the hallway and were greeted by a set of double doors, designed to swing open and allow the serving staff easy passage. He felt a blast of warm air hit his face as he pushed through, taking a second to get his bearings in the chaos that greeted him.
The kitchens were a galley design, relatively narrow but long enough that the dozen chefs each had plenty of space to go about their work. The aromas from the myriad of dishes was overwhelming, and Leopold suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Setting a brisk pace, he headed toward the far end of the kitchen and kept his head down, not making eye contact. He held his arms at his side, trying not to knock anything over.
A blast of yellow flame erupted a few feet from his face as he skirted one of the gas stoves. He saw one of the chefs pour a slosh of liquor into a smoking-hot saucepan, resulting in more fire. A little further down, another cook was slicing open a roasted pigeon breast, revealing a moist, pink center that made Leopold’s stomach growl. Ahead, a gaggle of young commis chefs were busy preparing raw vegetables and salads, tossing the skins into a trash can near the exit door. None of them noticed Leopold, Mary, and Sophie brush past and made their way for the door.
“This way.” Leopold held the door open. “The service elevator should be around here somewhere.”
“Over there.” Sophie pointed to a rusty metal grate as they rounded the corner. “It doesn’t look very safe.”
Leopold grabbed hold of the iron rails and heaved the gate open. Once they were all inside, he selected the sixth floor. The elevator shuddered to life and began its ascent, jostling and rumbling all the way up, much to Sophie’s intense discomfort.
“Relax,” said Leopold. “We’re nearly there. I don’t know about you, but some dinner and a few hours’ sleep would do me a world of good.”
She tensed as the elevator rattled to an abrupt stop.
“Here we go.” He pulled back the railings and stepped out into the hallway.
He led the others through the service entrance and into the main corridor, along the plush carpets toward apartment 601. As the email message had promised, a neatly trimmed Ficus near the front door concealed the keycard that would let them in. Sliding the card across a magnetic strip mounted into the wall, Leopold heard the door click open. He stepped over the threshold, activating the automatic lights.
Although considerably smaller than his own New York City apartment, Leopold still couldn’t help but be impressed by the penthouse’s tasteful décor and clever use of space. The softly lit reception hall was large enough for a small group to stand at arms’ length. It led through to a cavernous drawing room to one side and a kitchen and dining room to the other. On the other side of the apartment, a corridor led away out of sight, presumably to the bedrooms and bathrooms.
Mary clucked her tongue as she entered. “Nice to see how the other half lives. Makes me appreciate the simple things in life.”
“I think my whole apartment could fit inside this room,” said Sophie. “And you said that nobody lives here?”
“It’s on long-term lease,” replied Leopold. “The previous tenant moved back to the States and hasn’t been able to sublet it yet. So don’t worry about anyone walking in on us.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” said Sophie, pointing at something behind him. “I was more concerned about the man standing in the living room holding the gun.”
Chapter 25
LEOPOLD WHIPPED AROUND. Ahead, a tall silhouette strode confidently toward them, a gun h
eld by his side. The consultant tensed, ready to fight. The figure spoke.
“Monsieur Blake, I was sent here by your contact, Monsieur Harris. He was concerned for your safety. Were you followed?”
The tall man’s voice was deep and thickly accented, but the tone seemed sincere. Leopold watched him holster the handgun. “And you are?” he asked, noticing the man’s features as his eyes adjusted to the light. He wore a finely tailored suit, a Gaultier.
“My name is Gerard. I understand from M. Harris that your usual bodyguard, Jerome, is otherwise engaged. I am here to act as his replacement while you are in need of me.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“M. Harris and I disagree, I’m afraid, sir. I will stay close by while you rest and eat, and then we will have to move on.”
“Move on?” asked Sophie. “This place looks safe to me.”
Leopold turned to look at her. “This place is connected to me through my company, which means we’ll be found eventually. The police will be a while, but whoever tried to take us out in the parking lot – he’s got me worried.”
“I wasn’t briefed on this,” said Gerard. “There is someone else tracking you?”
“Tell me what you know so far,” said Leopold. “What did Harris say?”
“Only what you sent in your first email: that you had run into some issues with local law enforcement and required extraction as soon as possible. M. Harris contacted me to arrange your passage here and to stay on hand until you could get out of the country.”
“I’m afraid leaving Paris isn’t an option until we figure out who’s trying to take me out. Otherwise I’ll never stop running.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Simple. We look at the evidence and figure out why someone would want me locked up. Once we understand the motive, we can figure out who’s most likely to gain from this mess and the rest will fall into place.”
“When did you last eat?”
“This morning. Why?”
“Your brain, as well as your body, will work better when it’s not craving food. You need calories to function. Fortunately, we are in France.” Gerard strode through into the kitchen. “Allez, come on through. I brought enough food to get you all back on your feet.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “Jerome never cooks,” she whispered. “I think you’re on to a good thing here, Leopold.”
They followed the bodyguard through, settled themselves around the dining table, and waited for Gerard to prepare their meal.
“You’ll need to stitch up that shoulder,” said Gerard, fishing a small box out of a cupboard. “Use this. I assume you know what you’re doing?” He tossed the box to Mary.
She caught the med kit in one hand. “Shouldn’t be a problem, just so long as he doesn’t start squirming around.” She fished out a long needle, some antiseptic and gauze. As she threaded the needle, her cell phone rang.
“Who’s calling?” asked Leopold.
“The cop back in New York just emailed some files over on the Notre Dame murder victims. I also asked him to run a license plate for me. Now, roll up your sleeve and let’s get started.”
Leopold turned his shoulder. As Mary leaned in close, he noticed the damage for the first time. The bullet had torn a deep gash in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Wincing, he tried not to move as she applied the antiseptic and began to stitch him up.
In the kitchen, Gerard busied himself preparing dinner. He pulled down a selection of saucepans and opened the refrigerator. He fired up the burners and doused the pans in a liberal helping of olive oil and butter. Leopold felt his mouth begin to water as the smells drifted over to the dining table.
“I’ll be done soon,” said Mary. “Just hold still.”
Within a few minutes, the final stitch had been sewn and Gerard was laying out steaming bowls of delicious-smelling food. The meal was exquisite, a brothy mix of French sausage with glistening butter beans and generous hunks of bacon, leeks, and fresh herbs.
“Here, drink this.” Gerard handed each of them a bottle of dark beer.
The warmth of the food immediately improving his mood, Leopold took a swig from the beer and felt the throbbing in his shoulder subdue slightly.
“Wow, this is good,” said Mary. “We’ll have to keep you around, Gerard. Aren’t you having any?”
“There’s meat and eggs for me, but I’m not due a meal for forty-five minutes,” he said, stacking the dirty pans into the dishwasher. “Once you’ve eaten, we’ll discuss the plan. I would recommend finding a safe house in the morning, based on what you’ve told me.”
“Tell me about these files,” said Leopold, finishing a mouthful. “Who were the victims?”
Mary consulted her cell phone. “We know about Director Dubois already,” she took a gulp of beer. “According to the email, the other four victims appear to have been chosen at random. The second target was Virginie Bernard, a forty-three-year-old homemaker from Paris. She was meeting a friend for lunch and never showed. Second up,” she squinted at the screen, “is Jun Akanishi, a telecoms worker from Japan here on vacation with his family. Next is Gunther Bauer, a German contractor here on business. The final victim is Amélie Ledoyen, a senior associate at Phillippe Jacques, one of the big law firms.”
“And they were killed by the person trying to set up Leopold?” asked Sophie, polishing off the last of her meal. “Why would the killer go to all that trouble to kill four random people afterwards?”
“Why are we assuming the others were picked at random?” said Leopold.
“You think there’s a connection?”
“We can safely assume that killing the director was an easy way to link me to the murder, but what if the sniper had more than one target? The first, Dubois, was meant to ensure my capture and incarceration, and the second… well, that’s the question. What else do we have on these people?”
“I’ve got full bios attached to the email.” Mary turned to Gerard. “You got a printer around here somewhere?”
The bodyguard handed her a slip of paper. “Here’s the wi-fi codes. I checked the network for bugs already. Once you’re in, you can send the files to the printer wirelessly.”
She tapped a few keys on her phone. “Done. Where can I pick them up?”
“The study is down the corridor at the far side of the apartment. Follow me,” He led them through the living room and down the hallway. “Help yourselves.” He opened one of the doors and waved them through.
The study was impressive, featuring an array of razor-thin computer monitors, wall-to-wall bookcases, and a plush seating area opposite the desk. The room smelled like furniture polish and leather.
Leopold spotted the printer and pulled out the stack of paper from the tray. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
“I’ll be watching the front door,” said Gerard. “There’s an intercom on the wall if you need me.” He slipped out.
“Wow, this place is incroyable,” said Sophie. “Look at all these books.” She ran her finger along their spines. “Homer, Virgil, Dostoyevsky, Francis Bacon. Quite a collection.”
“Any James Patterson?” asked Mary.
“It doesn’t look like it. Although, who knows – maybe he has an ebook collection hidden away on a Kindle somewhere.”
“Can we get back on topic?” said Leopold. “We need to find a connection between these victims. Here,” he spread the paper out on the coffee table. “You two read through these, and I’ll get onto the computer. I should be able to get us some outside help.”
He waited for them to take a seat and went over to the desk, settling himself into the chair. He tapped the space bar and the trio of LED monitors jumped into life. Accessing the operating system, Leopold fired up the internet browser. “Anything yet?” he asked.
“There’s quite a lot here,” Mary replied. “It’ll take some time. What are you looking for?”
Leopold punched in a postal code. “You and I both know a little so
mething about police procedure. Rousseau isn’t going to stop hunting me down until I’ve found enough evidence to clear my name. Or until I’m dead. I’d rather avoid the latter option.”
“We need to figure out why Dubois was targeted. I mean, he must have been killed for a reason, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you find anything while you were at the Louvre?”
Leopold nodded. “One of the Da Vinci paintings, ‘The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne’, had been replaced with a fake. Jerome and I were in the middle of tracking down some leads when all this mess started.”
Mary looked over at Sophie. “And I’m guessing this young lady was first on your list.”
“I had nothing to do with any paintings being stolen,” said Sophie. “I had taken a few days off, that’s all. Sick leave.”
“You don’t look all that sick to me.”
“I’ve had other things to worry about.”
Mary turned back to Leopold. “Well, whatever happened to that painting, if Dubois was involved that at least gives us something to go on. But without proof we’re a little stuck.”
The consultant smiled. “So let’s go find some proof.”
“Where?”
“If Dubois had anything to do with the theft, he’ll have the original painting stored somewhere. Somewhere he’d be able to keep a very close eye on at all times.”
Mary leaned forward in her chair. “Like a storage locker? Or a safety deposit box? There must be thousands of those in the city.”
“This is far too valuable a prize, especially to an art lover like Dubois. No, he’d want to keep the painting close by, somewhere only he had access.” He tilted one of the monitors toward the others and tapped the screen. “If I were him, I’d keep it at home, somewhere out of sight.”
“That’s Dubois’ place? It’s huge. Where would we even start looking?”
“Sophie, you knew the director well.”
She nodded.
Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 9
