Death by Denim
Page 4
Suddenly, I was unsure of what to do. Should I try to find her? She might need help. I started down the path again, but stopped before I had gone three steps. I could just imagine what she would say if I went against following the procedure she had taken such pains to spell out to me. Especially if by doing so, I messed up whatever it was she was planning. She had made it very clear she wanted me to go to the station and wait for her there.
Mom had always said to trust my instincts … but what if my instincts told me two completely different things?
In the end, I decided to go to Saint-Lazare as I had promised. She had made it clear that she didn’t want me with her. I slogged back to the Metro, defeated. On the map outside the gate, I was able to find Gare Saint-Lazare and determine the route I should go. I pulled one of the bills from my pocket and bought a ticket, slipping through the turnstile before I could change my mind.
The platform was crowded with commuters in suits and ties, parents with fidgeting children, tourist-types in Bermuda shorts thumbing through guidebooks, and what looked like an entire rugby team. They were all talking, laughing, acting as though it were any other normal day. I tried to blend in with them, but I’m not sure how well I succeeded in adapting their casual postures and worry-free expressions.
From down the track, I could see the headlights of the train approaching. I stole one last glance back toward the park, half hoping to see Mom jogging toward the Metro. That’s when I saw him. He was standing at the entrance to the Metro, smoking one of his foul cigarettes. The Marlboro Man. My breath caught. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?
Just then, he turned his head and looked toward the platform. I jumped behind one of the support pillars, heart hammering. I didn’t know if he saw me, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out.
A train rolled to a stop on the tracks behind me and the doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. I jumped into the crowd of commuters and pushed my way onto the nearest car. When I looked back at where he had been standing, I couldn’t see him anymore. Where had he gone?
And why wasn’t the train moving? Cold sweat prickled across the back of my neck. Any second, I expected to see Marlboro stroll up onto the platform and corner me on the train. I looked around frantically, searching for an alternate exit.
Fortunately, I didn’t need it. The doors slid shut and the train began to move. I gripped the handrail to keep my balance and leaned against the door, resting my forehead on the cool glass as I watched the station slip away.
As the train picked up speed I studied the route map on the LED display above the door. There were eight stops before I had to transfer trains at the Champs Élysées station. Only two more stops from there to Saint-Lazare. If I figured an average of about three minutes between stops, that meant at least half an hour before I reached our meeting place. Half an hour that my mom could be in trouble.
But I tried not to think about that. I tried not to think about anything as the train rolled through station after station. People got off, more people got on. I avoided looking at any of them directly. I felt like I had a huge neon sign above my head flashing the words Scared American.
Located as it was in the heart of the city, the station at Champs Élysées was much more crowded than the one at la Défense had been. I’m not really used to crowds. Logically, I knew that it should be easier to lose myself in the mob at the station, but it only made me feel more conspicuous. And as I searched for the right track for the train to Saint-Lazare, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I spun around, fully expecting to find Marlboro Man lurking in one of the corners.
My mom would have been disappointed if she could have seen my lack of cool. My first time away from her in Paris and I was completely falling apart. I forced a deep breath—not the best idea in a Paris Metro station, believe me—and tried to release some of the tension as I blew it out again. It didn’t work. The best I could manage was to keep my face blank and try to blend in by walking to the next track like I had some kind of purpose.
Before I got to the platform, a garbled French voice announced over the loudspeaker the arrival of the train. At least that’s what I think it said. It was too distorted to understand, but I could see something approaching, so I ran to meet it.
It wasn’t until the train pulled up to the platform that I was able to read the destination sign by the train’s sliding doors. It wasn’t the one I wanted. I glanced up at the huge digital board on the wall to look for line thirteen. It took me a moment to find it. Which might be why I didn’t see him step up behind me.
He touched my arm. “Excuse me.”
Automatically, my head whipped around—not only because he spoke in English when I would have expected French, but because I recognized the voice. I could quite literally feel the blood drain from my face, and it felt like it had been replaced by ice water.
“Ryan?” I managed to whisper. I’d last seen CIA Agent Ryan Anderson in the Cascades in Washington State. What was he doing in Paris? Did it have anything to do with my mom’s meeting with Lévêque in the park? I began to open my mouth, but he shook his head just enough to signal me that I should hold my tongue.
What came next happened so suddenly that even now as I look back, it catches me by surprise. The chimes on the platform gave the closing-door warning. Just before they slid shut, Ryan grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the train.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s been a change of plans.”
CHAPTER 4
I tried to wrench away from him, but Ryan kept a firm grip on my arm, just above the elbow. I don’t know if he intended it or not, but his thumb hit a pressure point when he squeezed and it really hurt.
On a seat nearby, a gray-haired gentleman with horn-rim glasses lowered the paper he was reading to give me a questioning look. He raised his brows as if to ask if I was all right. For a very brief moment, I considered shouting that I was not, in fact, all right, but then my mom’s words swirled through my head. Assess the situation . Act, don’t react.
I didn’t know why Ryan was there. I didn’t know how he had found me. Most of all, I didn’t know if he had anything to do with my mom’s disappearance in the park. The one thing I did know was that until I knew the answers to those questions, it would be better for me to keep my mouth shut.
I gave the man what I hoped was a reassuring smile—one that would not only convey my appreciation for his concern, but would give him confidence that I was in control of the situation. Only I wasn’t. In control, I mean. My legs shook so badly that I very nearly sank to the floor. I had to bite my tongue to hold back the questions threatening to tumble out of my mouth.
I stole a glance at Ryan’s face. Like my mom, he had the annoying ability to maintain a completely blank expression. But his eyes … I dropped my gaze quickly. The warm velvet brown of his eyes might have made me feel protected and safe … except for the fact that he had found me in Paris, where my mom and I were supposed to be completely incognito.
The man with the newspaper seemed to sense my unease and gave me one last grandfatherly glance. For his benefit and to preserve the illusion I was trying to create, I leaned into Ryan and rested my head on his shoulder. That must have taken Ryan completely by surprise because he flinched, muscles tensing before he caught himself and forced them to relax. The man didn’t seem to notice the reaction, though. He went back to his newspaper, apparently satisfied that all was well.
The train slowed, and I stumbled forward. Ryan caught me with one arm and set me back on my feet. It was my turn to flinch, because he didn’t let go of me after I’d recovered, but pulled me closer. He brushed my hair back from my ear and leaned in close so that his head nearly touched mine.
“This is our stop,” he whispered. His warm breath feathered against my neck, a not unpleasant sensation, I had to admit. He straightened as the train rolled to a stop and let his arm slide down so that his hand rested firmly at the small of my back. Not in a romantic way, but not really detac
hed, either, just kind of … protective.
The doors slid open and he guided me forward. Once we were off the train, he grabbed my hand and picked up the pace as he pulled me through the crowd. I realized too late that I had forgotten rule number one. I hadn’t been paying attention to the route on the train and I didn’t recognize the platform we were on at all—the layout and posters on the curving wall didn’t seem familiar. I twisted my head around to see the station sign, but it didn’t do me any good; I didn’t recognize the name. I had no idea where we were.
Near the exit gate, the crowd knotted and snarled before feeding through the cage-like revolving door turnstile one by one. Ryan’s grip on my hand tightened and I noticed the way his jaw tensed and flexed. I could guess what he was thinking: Only one of us could go through the turnstile at a time. If I went through first, I could bolt the moment I got to the other side. If he went through first, I could turn around and run the other way. But neither scenario would do me much good.
I gave his hand a squeeze to let him know I wasn’t going anywhere. I still didn’t know what was going on, but my gut told me that Ryan was on my side, even if I didn’t always agree with his methods. Besides, I was smart enough to realize that if I took off as soon as he released me, he’d only come after me. A chase through the subway was not the best plan for keeping a low profile. Plus, where would I run to? I didn’t know the area. He had nothing to worry about. Yet.
Ryan let go of my hand when we reached street level and slipped his arm around my waist. He leaned close again. “Try to look a little less miserable,” he said in a low voice. “People are beginning to stare.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” I whispered back, “and then maybe I’ll be a little less miserable.”
He smiled at that, but whether it was real or for show, I hadn’t the slightest idea.
I tried to get my bearings as we walked. Judging from the boutiques and small cafés, we were in one of the older quarters, but I hadn’t been in Paris long enough to know which one. Buildings with ornate detailing sprouted up directly from the narrow cobblestone streets—no sidewalks, no landscaping. The streets themselves wound and curved until I was completely turned around. Of course, maybe that’s what Ryan was counting on.
Finally, he stopped in front of the recessed entryway of one of the buildings. He gave me a quick once-over and then said, “Keep your head down.”
I did as I was told, but not before sneaking a quick peek at the entry in question. As with the windows above, the door was framed by elaborate molding that arched dramatically across the top. Along the right side of the door was a call box with a row of black buttons labeled with gold numbers. Above the box, a security camera pointed downward, presumably so that apartment owners could see who was ringing before they let them in. Which would be why Ryan wanted me to lower my head.
The door buzzed and Ryan opened it. He stood to the side and nodded toward the interior. “After you.”
Cast in shadow, the hallway inside looked like a prison cell. I hesitated.
“Aphra,” Ryan said. It sounded like a warning.
I stood my ground. “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
For an instant a shadow passed over his face, just before the blank expression took over again. “We’ll talk about it inside, you have my word.” He swept a quick glance up the street. “Not here.”
“I just want to know what’s—”
Before I could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed my arm. He dragged me forward until our faces were literally centimeters from each other. This time, the sensation I got from his close proximity was far from pleasant. “Natalie is waiting for you,” he said through gritted teeth.
Why hadn’t he said so in the first place? A rush of relief swept over me and I allowed him to pull me inside. The door slammed heavily behind us.
The building didn’t have an elevator so we took the stairs. It was only a couple of flights up, Ryan told me as we climbed.
“We’re borrowing an apartment,” he explained. “Very temporarily.”
I nodded grimly, remembering how Mom and her partners had been “subletting” her place back in Seattle. Not for the first time, I wondered what happened to the owners when the Agency needed a place to set up shop.
In the hallway upstairs, cooking smells mingled with old-building mustiness and stale cigarette smoke. Ryan led the way down a long hallway lined on either side by dark, narrow doors. It was eerily silent except for a faint baby’s cry and the distant sound of someone practicing an intricate run on a piano. We stopped at a door with a brass 29 tacked beneath a matching peephole.
Ryan gave the door three sharp knocks, paused, and then knocked twice more. From inside came the sound of hurried footsteps and then the metallic click of locks being drawn.
The door cracked open an inch or two and then closed again. Another metallic sound—a security chain, I guessed—and then the door swung open. To my disappointment, it wasn’t my mom who stood there, but a tall redheaded woman in a stark black business-type suit. The look on her face was far from welcoming, but she motioned us inside, anyway.
“What took so long?” she snapped as she reset the series of locks on the door.
“She’d already gotten on the train,” Ryan said.
“Where’s my mom?” I asked.
“Aphra?”
I spun to find Mom crowding into the small entryway. She reached out for me and gathered me into her arms, holding me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
When she let me go, I turned to Ryan. “Now will you please tell me what’s going on?”
He exchanged a meaningful look with the red-haired lady. “I think we’d better sit down,” he said.
The redhead ushered us all into a tiny kitchen equipped with the smallest appliances I’d ever seen. Seriously. You couldn’t even fit a cookie sheet into the oven and the fridge looked like one of those little cube things you might put in a dorm room. The stainless-steel sink was about the size of something you’d find on an airplane, complete with a leaky faucet.
We settled onto uncomfortable metal filigree chairs around a small glass-topped table. Ryan clasped his hands as if he was about to pray and rested them on the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and inclined his head toward the redhead.
“This is Agent Janine Caraday.” He spoke directly to me. I supposed the introductions had already been made to my mom. “She works with the Paris Station.”
I nodded, confused. I thought no one at the Paris Station besides Lévêque knew we were there.
“She was hoping you and your mom could be of some assistance.”
“With what, exactly?”
“Lévêque sent me a message this morning,” Caraday said. “He arranged a meeting, but then he never showed.”
I looked to my mom, frowning. How much were we supposed to let on and to whom? “Lévêque? I’m not sure I—”
“Your mother has already confirmed that he was your contact,” Caraday cut in.
Was? I didn’t like the sound of that. “What happened? Where is he?”
Ryan answered, almost apologetically. “Lévêque is dead.”
I felt like a hole opened beneath my chair. The blackness sucked and pulled at me. I flicked a look at Mom, and the grief on her face told me that she had accepted the news. I didn’t. I couldn’t. “What? No. He can’t be. He was … He wanted to meet with us. We just got his note and—”
Mom held up her hand to silence me and asked in a soft voice, “How did it happen? When?”
“They found him in the river this morning,” Ryan said.
The room tilted and I grasped the table for balance. We had just been with Lévêque that morning. He must have been killed right after he left us. I thought back to my premonition in the park and imagined Lévêque once again, sitting at a quiet table, sipping his coffee. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“We need your help,” Agent Caraday said.
“We believe his death is connected to his contact with you,” she continued. “He …” Her voice broke and she let her gaze stray to the window. She pressed her lips together. Hard. Finally, she spoke again. “Forgive me. Gérard Lévêque was a friend.”
“I’m very sorry,” my mom said gently. “He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was,” Caraday’s voice wasn’t soft and mournful anymore. She practically bit off each word.
Mom leaned forward, laying her hands on the table. “He sent an urgent note to the hotel this morning, asking me to meet him. I didn’t receive the note for several hours after it arrived. And now …” Her words trailed off and it took her a moment to find them again. “What can we do to help?”
Caraday didn’t hesitate. She stood and retrieved a boxy leather attaché case and brought it to the table. From the case, she withdrew three plastic evidence bags and laid them on the glass.
“These were found on his body.” She pushed forward a bag that contained deep blue strips of cloth that showed white in the frayed edges. Denim. “His hands and feet were bound with this. The same fabric was used as a gag.”
I stared at the bag, my stomach turning. The edges of the plastic were foggy with condensation. The denim was still wet. They must have collected the samples right after they pulled him from the river.
And it was about to get worse.
Caraday picked up another bag and removed about a dozen Polaroid photos. She fanned them onto the table and selected one that showed a close-up of a man’s wrist. The skin was gray except for a shadowed ribbon of purple punctuated by claret-colored scrapes. “These ligature marks indicate signs of struggle. Notice how the skin is rubbed raw here and here.”
She tapped the photo to indicate where we were supposed to look, but I couldn’t make myself focus on the picture at all.
“Here you will see the image from a computed tomography that shows sediment in his paranasal sinuses. We also found frothy liquid in his airway and fluid in his ears, all indicative of drowning.”