Kill Me if You Can

by James Patterson

  “Happy birthday,” Katherine said.

  “Merci, no,” the old woman said. “It is our anniversary.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “How many years?”

  The man smiled. “One-half,” he said. “Émilie and I have been dating for six months.”

  The City of Love was living up to its reputation.

  After lunch we went to the École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts. It was Katherine’s idea. It’s the French national art school, where we could wander the halls, looking at works in progress by students.

  “It’s just like Parsons,” Katherine said.

  “Almost,” I answered. “Except for the fact that Monet, Degas, Moreau, and Delacroix didn’t go to Parsons.”

  “True,” she said. “But Jasper Johns, Edward Hopper, and Norman Rockwell did.”

  I winced. “As they say in Paris, touché, mademoiselle.”

  “As they say in New York, gotcha, dude.”

  After that, we hit the Louvre, along with about fifteen thousand other people. We didn’t see them all, but that’s how many the guidebook said show up on a daily basis. It could take a week to see all four hundred thousand pieces of art that are in the Louvre. We decided to spend two hours focused on a handful of works by Michelangelo, Raphael, and other Italian masters.

  Then we did a one-eighty and took another taxi to the Galerie Mona Lisa. The average tourist wouldn’t know about it, but the elderly couple in the restaurant had tipped us off to it. It was jam-packed with works by contemporary artists. There was no single medium, no unifying school of thought, just great art from people who were still very much alive.

  “One day you could be hanging here,” Katherine said.

  “And the best part is, I don’t have to be dead to get in.”

  We left the Galerie and were strolling along the Boulevard Saint-Germain when we took a random left turn on Rue de Buci and stumbled on Cacao et Chocolat.

  The store was a work of art in itself, and every bit of it was edible. We sat in a booth while a petite waitress served us the thickest, richest cocoa I’d ever tasted. Then we fed each other chocolate truffles from a silver tray.

  “I’ll be in a sugar coma in about five minutes,” Katherine said as she licked a bit of chocolat noir from my fingertips. “But what a way to go.”

  Leaving the chocolate shop, we found our way to Le Bon Marché, a French department store that makes Bloomingdale’s look like a flea market. Katherine insisted she didn’t want anything, so I bought myself some Christian Maquer lingerie in Katherine’s size.

  We weren’t ready to call it a night yet, so we walked past our hotel and across the river to the Jardin des Tuileries. Then we strolled hand in hand back to our hotel, and Katherine tried on the incredibly sexy sheer black camisole, and minutes later I removed it.

  We turned out the lights, opened the blinds, and let the moonlight pour into the room as we made sweet, sweet love.

  Chapter 43

  NY1 ran Bagboy’s picture a dozen times. They’d have run it a lot more except for the crane collapse on 57th Street. One entire section came crashing down on a crosstown bus, killing three and injuring fourteen, including a pregnant woman. In keeping with the age-old tradition “if it bleeds, it leads,” the station abandoned Bagboy and focused on the crane disaster around the clock.

  Even so, there were ninety-one tips waiting for Rice and Benzetti in the morning. They separated them into three batches. Solids, Possibles, and Nut Jobs.

  Leonard Karns sounded like a Solid until they got to the part of the message where he said the guy he wanted to turn in was a “total fraud as an artist.” He sounded like someone with an ax to grind, which dropped his tip to a Possible. Then, just before Karns hung up, Benzetti could hear him cackling hysterically, as though he’d just escaped from the flight deck at Bellevue.

  Nut Job, he decided.

  It took the two detectives a full day to track down and question all the callers in the Solid and Possible folders.

  “So far I got squat,” Rice said. “What have you got?”

  Benzetti looked at his call sheet. “I got one lonely old lady who was angling to get me to come over for tea, three angry chicks hoping to pin a robbery on their ex-boyfriends, and a whole bunch of bullshit artists and hustlers trying to peddle bogus information to score the reward.”

  “We might as well start calling the crazies,” Rice said.

  He dialed Leonard Karns’s number.

  “It’s about time,” Karns said as soon as Rice identified himself. “I called in the tip a day and a half ago.”

  “You and a lot of other people,” Rice said. “You said something on your message about this guy being an artist.”

  “He’d like to think so,” Karns said. “I was in one of his art classes at Parsons and his paintings are shit, but he’s banging the professor, so he’s getting a straight A all the way.”

  Rice was only half listening. He was about to write this numbskull off when he heard the one word that sparked his adrenaline.

  Parsons.

  “Mr. Karns, sir, please refresh my memory,” Rice said, his tone now reeking of respect and deference. “Where exactly is Parsons?”

  “West Thirteenth Street.”

  A block from where Bagboy took the taxi from Grand Central. Bingo!

  “So, then, what’s this lousy artist’s name?” Rice asked.

  “Not so fast,” Karns said. “First let’s talk about the reward.”

  The reward, of course, was pure fiction, but Rice and Benzetti had decided that without it, no one would even bother calling.

  “Like it said on TV, the reward is twenty-five grand. And you get to remain anonymous.”

  “Screw anonymous,” Karns said. “I want credit for turning the cops onto this phony.”

  “No problem,” Rice said. “We’ll invite you to the press conference.”

  Press conference. NY1. “Now you’re talking,” Karns said.

  “Do you know where he is?” Rice asked casually. “His name would be helpful, but if you tell us exactly where he is, the reward can go even higher.”

  “I know who he’s with, and she’s easy to find,” Karns said.

  “Who would that be?”

  “Like they say in the movies, Detective,” Karns said, “show me the money. You’re not getting my valuable information over the phone. You show up with some kind of NYPD legal document that says I get paid if I help you catch him. Then I’ll tell you his name and how to find him.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” Rice said. “We’ll send over our person in charge of rewards.”

  “And what’s his name?” Karns asked.

  “It’s a female,” Rice said. “Her name is Detective Krall.”

  Chapter 44

  “I got him,” Rice told Benzetti as soon as he hung up. “I think this total asshole Leonard Karns actually knows where our Bagboy is.”

  “Let’s go pay him a visit,” Benzetti said. “Right now.”

  “Not us,” Rice said. “Did you forget about the butch German who shoved the gun in your mouth?”

  “She caught me by surprise. You thought she was butch?”

  “Marta Krall is a pro, and she’s expensive. She’d whack two cops like us and not even break a sweat. We found Karns. Now he’s her problem.”

  “Fine,” Benzetti said. “You deal with Marta. I hope I never see her again.”

  Rice called Krall’s cell. “We’ve got a lead on the guy with the diamonds,” he said.

  “You know who he is?” Krall said, and sounded absolutely astonished.

  “No.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  “No.”

  “I know his name, and I’ve been staking out his apartment for two and a half days,” she said. “So much for your police work, your vaunted NYPD protocols.”

  “Listen,” Rice said. “My partner and I are just trying to hold up our end of the deal. But if you’ve got the guy, you don’t need us.
So good-bye.”

  “Wait. I don’t actually have the guy,” Krall said. “Not yet. But he’ll be back sooner or later.”

  “Well, if you don’t feel like waiting for later, I’ve got the name and address of someone who knows how to find him.”

  Chapter 45

  MARTA KRALL CHECKED her Breitling Starliner and rang the doorbell to Leonard Karns’s apartment. One thirty-three in the afternoon. The building was drab, dilapidated, and depressingly quiet. Karns buzzed her in, and she took the stairs to apartment B4.

  A short, fat lump in gray sweatpants and an olive-drab T-shirt that said ART IS RESISTANCE stood in the doorway.

  “You Detective Krall?” he asked.

  She smiled and nodded. Then she pointed to her throat and whispered, “Laryngitis.” She liked acting and had unsuccessfully attempted a transition from modeling to movies back in Germany.

  “That sucks,” he said. “But no problem. I know what you’re here to find out.”

  Marta smiled again. Good boy.

  She stepped into the apartment, and he shut the door. It was stuffy and smelled of burnt coffee. There was art all over the walls. Undoubtedly his. She stopped to look at one of the paintings and gave him a big thumbs-up.

  “It’s called Improbabilities Number Six,” he said.

  “Nice,” she whispered. It was true. She genuinely liked Improbabilities Number 6. It was powerful, meticulous, urban chic — nothing like the loser who painted it.

  Marta tapped her hand to her heart to show how much she loved it. Karns’s eyes settled on her chest as he mumbled a shy thank-you.

  Marta took the picture of the man she was trying to find and handed it to Karns.

  “You’re going to give me the paperwork for the reward, right?” he said.

  She waved him off with an of course I will gesture, and sat down on the sofa. She pulled her skirt up a little so he could get a good look at her legs. She took out a pad and pencil and sat waiting for him to speak.

  “The guy you’re looking for is Matthew Bannon,” Karns said. “He’s in one of my classes at Parsons. Since you like my work, you’d hate his. He’s all technique. But he’s dead inside. No originality.”

  Marta nodded and tried to communicate that she understood this idiot.

  “Who did he rob, anyway?” Karns said.

  Marta turned to a clean page on her pad and wrote Where can I find him?

  “Believe it or not, he’s been shacking up with the professor of our Group Critique class. Her name is Katherine Sanborne. She’s an asshole, just like he is. Talk about a conflict of mediocrity.”

  He watched her write it down. “No, that’s not how she spells it,” he said.

  He took the pad and wrote Katherine Sanborne in clear block letters. Marta wrote the words Where is she above the name and added a question mark after it.

  “Just a sec,” Karns said. He scrambled over to his desk, opened a center drawer, and pulled out a packet of papers that were held together by two brass brads.

  “This is the faculty directory,” he explained. “They don’t exactly give it out to students. I happened to get my hands on a copy. You never know when you might want to get in touch with one of your professors.”

  Or stalk her. Marta gave him another thumbs-up for his ingenuity.

  He opened it to Katherine’s name in the directory. There were penciled doodles all around it. Karns had obviously spent time staring at it. Below Sanborne’s name were her address, home phone, cell phone, and e-mail. That was all Marta needed.

  “And you think that zis Sanborne woman will be wiz Bannon?” Marta said loud and clear.

  “Definitely,” Karns said. “Hey, how did you get your voice back like that?”

  “I sink it’s a miracle,” Marta said.

  Karns looked totally confused. “Are you German?” he said.

  “What’s the difference?” Marta said as she crossed her legs like sharp scissors.

  He never even saw the Glock. He was staring at Marta’s thighs, lightly licking his lips, as she pulled the trigger and blew most of his head off.

  A few minutes later, Marta Krall casually walked down the steps and checked her watch as she left the building. She’d taken something to remember Leonard Karns by. Improbabilities Number 6.

  Chapter 46

  LIKE A LOT of young women who move to Manhattan, Katherine Sanborne couldn’t afford to live in a building with a doorman. So she invested in three heavy-duty locks for her front door. And none for her windows. As she had said to her concerned parents, “Who’s going to climb five stories up the side of the building? Spider-Man?”

  Marta Krall didn’t have to climb up. She took the elevator to the roof, rappelled ten feet down, and went through the unlocked window. It took less than thirty seconds.

  The apartment looked like it had been hit by Hurricane Katherine. Dresser drawers were open, and there were piles of clean clothes on the bed and the floor. Katherine had obviously packed and left in a hurry.

  Marta was familiar with the scenario. Her target was on the run and he had invited his girlfriend to run with him.

  But where were they going?

  The first clue lay on Katherine’s four-by-five-foot dining room table: a red ribbon and a handful of postcards with pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and other Paris landmarks.

  There was also a bottle of French wine on the table.

  Instinctively, Marta opened the refrigerator. It was single-girl-in-the-city sparse. But there, alongside the nonfat yogurt and the Coke Zero, were two baguettes and a chunk of creamy-rich 60-percent-butterfat Brie.

  All part of Bannon’s romantic invitation, Marta decided.

  Katherine’s computer was sitting on her desk. Marta booted it up. No password required, because, once again, the prevailing thought process was I don’t have anything worth stealing, and even if I did, how could anyone get into my apartment?

  Marta opened Katherine’s e-mail in-box. The last message was from Beth Sanborne. Kat,Can’t believe you and Matthew are going to Paris on the spur of the moment. Oh, to be young and in love. Send us the flight number and the name of the hotel. I don’t care how old you are. Mothers need to know.Love,Mom and Dad

  Marta checked the sent mail. Katherine’s response had the flight details, and she’d followed up with Don’t know the hotel yet. Will text you from Paris.

  She shut down the computer and called Etienne Gravois at Interpol.

  “This Matthew Bannon you found for me is on his way to Paris,” she said. “He’s traveling with another American, Katherine Sanborne. They should have landed at Orly the day before yesterday. I need a confirmation.”

  “Hold on,” Gravois said. Twenty seconds later he was back. “They cleared passport control Saturday, no problem. He’s a student. Should they have flagged him?”

  “No, he’s not a terrorist,” Marta said. “Just a small nuisance I have to deal with.”

  “Yes,” Gravois said. “I know how efficient you can be with nuisances.”

  “And don’t ever forget it,” Krall said. “Where are they staying?”

  “The Bac Saint-Germain.”

  “Is that a decent hotel?”

  “It’s not the George Cinq, but it’s clean and it’s in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which is very vibrant, very artsy. It’s quite nice.”

  “Good,” Marta said. “I’d hate to stay in a dump.”

  Chapter 47

  Marta was hungry. She softened the bread and cheese in Katherine’s microwave, found a corkscrew for the wine, and ate a late lunch. While she was eating, she called Chukov.

  “I know who has your diamonds and where they are,” she said.

  “Who? Where?” Chukov made no attempt to hide his anxiety.

  “A man named Matthew Bannon has them. He’s in Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “Yes, he and his girlfriend are on the run,” Marta said. “But he has no idea I’m running after him. I’ll get a
flight tonight and be there tomorrow.”

  “Fly coach,” Chukov said.

  “Marta Krall doesn’t travel in coach.”

  “All right, all right, but don’t stay at some thousand-dollar-a-night hotel. This whole thing has cost us a fortune already.”

  “Relax,” she said, enjoying listening to him whine about a few dollars when there were millions at stake. “I’ll be staying in the same hotel as Bannon and his lady friend, in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And despite the fact that I’ve been told it’s very vibrant and very artsy, I won’t be staying long.”

  “What’s the name of the hotel?” Chukov said.

  “Why do you ask? Are you going to send champagne to my room? Or are you planning to call your friend the Ghost to back me up?”

  “I am not calling the Ghost,” Chukov said, trying to sound indignant at the suggestion. “I told you I want you to kill the Ghost. As far as I’m concerned, we still have an agreement. Unless you’ve decided to back out.”

  “Not at all,” Marta said. “But information has a way of leaking, and if I tell you where I’m staying, the Ghost might find me before I find him. I’ll call you from Paris,” she said and ended the call.

  Marta left Katherine’s apartment through the front door.

  Chukov immediately called the Ghost. “The man you’re looking for is named Matthew Bannon. He and his girlfriend are in Paris. Their hotel is somewhere in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Can you find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so,” Chukov said. “So far it looks like I’m the one doing all the work.”

  He hung up. The noose was tightening around the neck of the young man who had his diamonds. And now Chukov had two assassins competing to track him down. Once he had the diamonds back, he’d be happy to pay Marta Krall for killing the Ghost.

  He smiled to himself. In an ideal world, he thought, they would kill each other.

  Chapter 48