“Glad to meet you Claudette,” Parker said. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”
Tray still in hand, the young woman lifted a shoulder as she eyed a large man devouring a salad down the way. “A few. We are busy.”
“I understand. But we’re hoping you might remember what time it was when my friend’s husband left your café yesterday.”
“She has already asked me and I have already told her I do not remember,” she said with a scowl in an accent as thick as the frosting on the pastry a woman at the next table was about to devour.
“We were sitting right over there.” Fanuzzi gestured to a spot a few tables down, closer to the street.
“Oui. You told me zat zis morning when you came to ask about him.”
“I said goodbye and Dave stayed here. It was just before seven. I caught the bus right there on the corner.”
Her thick dark brows drawn into a frown, Claudette nodded impatiently. “Oui. I do remember he stayed on. He had another cup of café. I remember he had it with milk.”
“He always takes his coffee with milk. Even back home.”
“Oui, oui. You have told me zis. But I got busy and when I came back to the table, your husband, he was gone.”
Parker took this in as if it were new information. “And he didn’t mention where he was going?”
“Non, monsieur. He was on his e-pad. We did not talk.”
“Are you sure you didn’t happen to notice him walk off, perhaps in that direction?” Parker pointed across the street.
He was leading her, attempting to jog her memory. Didn’t work.
Claudette glanced at the large man at the other table. He had just finished his salad. She let out a frustrated breath. “Non, monsieur. I did not see anything. I am very sorry.” And she turned and went to wait on the other guy.
“See?” Fanuzzi said, her voice cracking again. “He’s nowhere to be found.”
Parker reached across the table and touched her hand in a tender gesture of friendship. “No need to panic, Joan. We’re just getting started.”
Sounded to Miranda like Becker didn’t make it back to the room that day. “What was he wearing when you last saw him?” she asked Fanuzzi.
“A dull green pullover I got him for his birthday. His favorite jeans that I keep telling him are too baggy. And the sneakers he likes to wear, even though Parisians consider them tasteless. I checked his closet. There’s nothing else missing.”
“Maybe we can spot that shirt,” Miranda told her, trying to sound optimistic.
After Parker left a few euros on the table just to be polite, they rose and headed down the street in the direction of the next stop on Fanuzzi’s list.
Yep, they were just getting started but Miranda had a feeling they were already way too far behind.
Chapter Five
The next stop was across the street and down a smaller lane called La Rue d’Hélène.
This place had shiny glass doors trimmed in gleaming glass etched with elegant gold letters spelling out C’est Bon. It looked like a fancy hair salon but the tantalizing smell spilling onto the sidewalk wasn’t hair spray. And when they stepped inside and Miranda saw a wide glass case along the far end she knew why her mouth was watering again.
Laid out inside the case sat trays and trays of the most beautiful sweets she had ever seen.
Little squares shining with chocolate topping, miniature crème brulees, rows of cream-filled disks in a rainbow of colors, cream puffs oozing thick filling, cakes topped with black cherries. Along the walls and on tiers throughout the store various assortments of the delicacies were wrapped in pastel netting and displayed in colorful baskets.
Once more her stomach rumbled and she cleared her throat to hide it. Even though she hadn’t eaten for hours she felt as if she were gaining weight just breathing in the incredible aroma.
There was a line.
Looking annoyed Parker got at the end of it while she crossed her arms and resisted the urge to tap her foot against the glossy floor. Again with the protocol? Can’t upset the servers or they won’t tell you anything? It was easier back in the states where you could grab somebody by the collar and shake information out of him. But Parker always preferred the calm and cool approach.
Or maybe not. He leaned toward her ear. “Hold our place in line. I’ll be right back.” And he stepped out of the shop.
“Where’s he going?” Fanuzzi wanted to know.
“Just checking on something.” Miranda thought she had an idea. The one she’d had in the hotel. Hospitals.
“What?” Beside her, Fanuzzi was getting antsy.
To distract her Miranda pointed at the counter. “Why do you think Becker might have come here?”
“Dave found this patisserie our first day here. He loves it.” She gestured toward the case. “His favorites are the chocolate éclairs and the pistachio macarons. We made some in class Monday. I brought one back to the hotel. He said it was the best ever.”
Class. Miranda had to remind herself that was why Fanuzzi and Becker had come to Paris. She’d won a cooking contest and lessons at a fancy cooking school were the first prize.
“Were you supposed to go to a class this morning?” she asked.
Fanuzzi’s eyes looked even sadder. “I called the school and said I had an emergency. Chef Emile, he’s my teacher, he got on the phone and said he hoped everything was okay and that I could make up the lesson tomorrow if I wanted.”
“That was good of him.” Now Miranda felt even worse for her friend.
She’d had to miss the class she’d been so excited about. If Becker was sleeping off a drunk somewhere, she’d kick his ass. But Becker rarely drank.
Fanuzzi went on about the things she’d learned in her class. The right kind of cream and butter to use and where to find the best cocoa beans. Miranda watched the busy servers hurry back and forth, fetching the customers’ selections. The staff was clad in pink cotton with the requisite white apron and like the café, none of them wore smiles.
Parker had just returned with a no-luck look on his face and taken his place beside her when a small round woman with curly hair the color of warm caramel emerged from the back. She was dressed in the same pink and white attire but the way she began barking orders at the staff told Miranda she had some authority here.
She gave Parker a nudge.
He raised a finger to get her attention just as she looked over and saw Fanuzzi.
“Oh, madame!” she waddled over to them. “You are here again?” Her tone was motherly and heavily accented.
Fanuzzi nodded. “Yes, I am. Joséphine, this is Miranda and Wade, my friends from America who have come to help me find Dave.”
“Bonjour,” Parker said and shook the woman’s hand.
“Bonjour,” Miranda echoed and did the same.
“When I told Joséphine why I was in Paris, she was generous enough to give me some tips to use in my class.”
The small woman’s cheeks grew round as taffy apples. “Oh, I cannot compete with Monsieur Emile. He is one of the great chefs of Paris. His restaurant is always overflowing with customers. We are all passionate about food here but Chef Emile’s passion could fill the Seine.”
Miranda’s brows shot up. “I’m impressed.” She hadn’t realized Fanuzzi had been hobnobbing with that level of culinary talent.
Then Joséphine’s brown eyes took on a sorrowful look as she shook her head at Fanuzzi. “Your Dave, your husband has not been here. I have been watching for him, but I have not seen him.”
“Really?” Fanuzzi said. “I thought he might come by for a macaron.”
Grasping at straws. Miranda wondered if her friend was about to fall apart.
“Do you mind if we speak to some of your staff?” Parker asked.
“No, not at all.”
“Joan, do you have a good clear picture of Dave on your phone?”
As if coming out of a trance Fanuzzi blinked at Parker. “Yeah. Sure.” She took out
her cell and began to scroll through her photos. Her eyes began to tear up.
“I’ll find one.” Miranda nearly wrestled the devise out of her friend’s grip. She paged through the pictures and found one of Dave grinning shyly at the camera, a cream mustache from the pastry he’d just eaten. It had been taken here. That would do.
She handed the phone to Parker, since he was the one with the charm.
“Which one of my staff would you like to speak to, Monsieur?” Joséphine asked.
“All of them.”
They sat at a small round table in the corner as Joséphine brought each staff member one by one. She even dragged out some of the bakers and pastry chefs from the back. But no matter how cleverly Parker asked his questions, the answer was always the same.
Nobody had seen Dave Becker since Wednesday.
Chapter Six
They were out on the street again and Miranda had had enough. Retracing the steps Fanuzzi had already taken twice was getting them nowhere.
“We need to do something different,” she said.
“Agreed.” Parker turned to Fanuzzi. “Where could Dave have gone that you haven’t checked already?”
The poor woman pressed her hand to her forehead and tried to think. She looked so tired and worn out from worry, Miranda knew her brain cells weren’t firing. Her own were giving her low voltage warnings.
“Uh…the Luxembourg Gardens. It’s a park.”
“Yes,” Parker said. “I know it.”
Of course, he did.
“Dave told me he strolled around there the first day I was in class. He said it was beautiful. He wants to take me there but we haven’t gone yet.”
“Very well.” Parker nodded. “Let’s try it.”
“How far?” Miranda wanted to know.
Fanuzzi waved a hand, her face turning hopeful. “Just about a ten minute walk that way.”
They took off, weaving their way down several tree-lined avenues, past old, official looking buildings. A theatre with a red façade. An oddly-shaped turret on the next corner with red poppies spilling out of flower boxes under its tall, ornate windows.
They must have passed a dozen or so cafés, the smells of baking breads and sizzling meat oozing out of them onto the street making Miranda’s stomach gurgle again. Decades ago, she supposed, artists and philosophers frequented those very establishments to eat, to drink, to ponder the meaning of life.
As groggy and deflated as she felt, she was beginning to wonder about that herself right now.
As before, the streets were jammed with parked cars and cyclists and hoards of pedestrians. A long-haired, helmeted man in a gray suit zoomed by on a black motorcycle. Another suited man, this one bald, on a regular bicycle putted past them. He had a loaf of French bread under his arm.
At least it was wrapped in paper.
On the corner a long-legged woman in a fashionable red outfit led two little girls by the hand across the street. The girls were also dressed to the nines. Or maybe they were four and a half each.
They passed a baldish man in a leather vest, half singing to himself with a guitar slung over his shoulder. A couple in baggy shirts holding hands and carrying identical his and hers backpacks. An older woman with a big basket covered with a bright red cloth.
Miranda scanned the crowd for a short guy with dark hair, thick brows and a large nose with a lost look, but if Becker was wandering around Paris with amnesia, even with his distinctive features, he’d be easy to miss in the mass of people.
Hurrying across an intersection before a motorbike ran her over, Miranda stole a glance at Parker and caught him studying her.
Parker turned his head away but he’d seen the weariness growing in his wife’s eyes, along with her dogged determination. He wished with all his heart he could feed her a good meal and send her back to the hotel for some much needed sleep. But he knew it would be useless to attempt to suppress that unstoppable spirit of hers. If he tried, she would go off on her own somewhere and he would have none of that.
Besides, he had Joan to think of, who was just as worn and even more frazzled with nerves.
His own weren’t faring well either. He feared the worst for Dave. Over the years, he’d lost a few former trainees of the Agency. Francis Miller who’d become a cop in Washington D.C. and had been killed in the line of duty. Allen Hill who’d gone into the Secret Service and had disappeared, his body turning up three years later.
But he’d never lost an employee he’d been close to. Joan and Dave had become part of his circle. They were family. Dave Becker’s loss would be like the loss of a son.
He couldn’t let his fears interfere with his thinking.
Once more he stole a glance at his wife and noted the crease of irritation between her brows. It sparked his own annoyance but there was nothing to be done for either of them now.
Passing a shop that looked like the French version of Kinko’s, Miranda stifled the sudden indignation she felt. Parker was shutting her out, keeping his thoughts to himself, sheltering her as best he could with her right there. Okay, she could forgive him for not letting her have her turn to be in charge. To bitch about that would be petty, since Becker’s life might be at stake.
But there was something else.
He wasn’t confiding in her, communicating with her, thinking things through with her like they’d always done. Of course he couldn’t do much of that with Fanuzzi within earshot. But Miranda didn’t feel the same connection, the same unspoken communication with him they’d had on other cases. Something was off and she had a feeling it was the same something she’d been sensing all week.
She’d get to the bottom of that. Right after they found Becker.
Where the hell could he be? Worry crawled through her tired brain, clouding her thinking. She envisioned her friend, her work buddy wandering the streets of Paris. He’d be totally vulnerable, unassuming, trusting. An innocent abroad. Had he met some “pals” somewhere? Hung around with them a bit while they sized up their mark—and gotten robbed? They might have beat him up and left him in some backstreet Paris alley.
Oh, Becker. What the hell were you thinking?
Chapter Seven
It seemed more like an hour than the ten minutes Fanuzzi had promised, but at last they reached a busy cross street.
The other side was thick with tall green trees and bushes swaying in the wind, promising a place to escape, a sanctuary away from the noise and hubbub. In front of the trees stood a tall black iron fence tipped in gold. Must have been erected by some French king of centuries gone by.
Parker ushered them across the street. They found a gate in the barrier and stepped into the enchanted land.
Well, maybe not exactly enchanted, but definitely beautiful. And crowded.
The warm sun overhead they made their way over a gravel walkway through a pack of visitors, who seemed to represent every age and nationality in the world. Miranda strained to give each one at least a cursory examination but none of them resembled her buddy Becker.
Under rows and rows of solemn trees, their boughs waving lazily in the breeze, they passed person after person. Some in drab clothes others in more colorful garb, purses and backpacks slung over their shoulders. Some strolling briskly, others plodding along.
They reached a curved walkway lined with a gorgeous array of thick flowerbeds. It seemed every type of blossom in every color had been planted there and tenderly cared for. Purple and pink. Blue and white. Yellow and red.
The French certainly knew how to grow a garden.
Green metal chairs were lined up in a row and people lounged in them as if they had nowhere else to be. A couple talking together in low, secret tones. An older woman who might have been a teacher reading a newspaper. A guy in a tank top with his shoes off stretching out on two chairs.
More reflection of the meaning of life, Miranda supposed, as she studied each one. None were Becker.
They hurried past a field of red tulips overlooked by a statue of a n
aked guy who seemed to be contemplating his navel. There were lots of naked dudes on pedestals here.
At last a huge oval pond with a fountain in its middle came into view. Along a balustrade dividing the flowers from another gravel pathway, a mother scolded her little boy while he looked on longingly at other kids sailing toy boats in the pond. Now there’s a spot where Becker might be. He loved kids. But he was nowhere around the pond.
Beyond the water stood a castle. The gaudy structure was both huge and magnificent, with a tall clock tower, scores of high windows and too many dark high-pitched roofs to count. Surely Becker couldn’t have wandered into there.
She scanned the grassy space leading to the building, her heart sinking. Everywhere they looked folks were soaking up the sun, enjoying the peace and tranquility.
Nice for a vacation but not what she needed right now. She had to stay awake, alert.
“This place is huge,” she muttered to Parker.
“Over fifty acres.”
Of course, he’d been here. She noticed he wasn’t taking in the scenery but staring at his phone while he walked.
“Joan?” he said.
“Yeah?” Fanuzzi was a little ahead and her voice had a faraway sound.
“Can you email that picture of Dave to me?”
“Sure.” She pulled out her cell and began punching buttons and swiping. “We’ve taken a bunch so far.”
“Send me all of them.” With weary eyes he gave Miranda a cautious glance. “We need to split up. Take Joan and show everyone you can Dave’s picture.”
She nodded in agreement. “Right. See if anybody’s seen him.”
“If some of these people frequent the park, there may be a chance of that. We’ll meet back in front of the castle in thirty minutes.” He gestured toward the imposing structure. “If you find something call me right away.”
“Of course.”
He gave her an unmistakable be-careful look and strolled off in the other direction.
He was acting weird again but she didn’t have time to deal with that now. She had to find her coworker.
Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5) Page 3
