Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5)
Page 5
Miranda squinted down the lane and spotted the shiny apple colored convertible. “Yeah. Okay.”
“He didn’t have a package in his hand and I remember thinking blimey, we must be slipping in our sales tactics because I knew he was ready to buy something. I know the buy signals.”
Fanuzzi was getting impatient. “So you’re telling us he went off in that direction?”
“No. He was on the sidewalk. Near where that Saab is now. Only then there was a white van parked there.”
“Okay,” Miranda said.
“He was talking to a man. They were looking at something. A map, I think. There was another man, a big man leaning against the van watching them.”
Miranda looked at Parker.
He didn’t like this story at all. “What are you saying?”
“That’s the thing. I’m not sure what I’m saying. I don’t like to accuse anyone of anything, but…”
“But what?” Fanuzzi raised her hands like she was about to shake the little guy.
Eyes growing round behind his glasses the man took a step back. “I don’t know. I had a funny feeling about it. Which is odd because a lot stranger things go on here. Anyway,” he reached into his pocket. “I don’t know why but I just decided to snap a photo of them. You know. Just in case?”
He pulled out his cell phone, swiped around a bit and showed them the screen.
Miranda peered down at it while Parker gazed over her shoulder and Fanuzzi crowded in beside her.
There was the same street they were on, though it was daylight in the photo instead of nighttime. But the lane was lined by the same ornate buildings on one side, what looked like high-end apartments on the other. Near one of the gleaming store windows stood two men.
All you could see were their backs.
The one on the left had longish dark hair, the length Becker had grown his. He had on the drab green pullover, baggy jeans, and sneakers Fanuzzi had described. The man on the right had dark blond shoulder length hair. He was tall, thin, and dressed in a black tee, navy slacks and a lightweight jacket. His head was turned toward the man dressed like Becker and Miranda could see a blur of features—a large birdlike nose and sharp eyes.
They were a few feet away from the white van. A muscle-bound man, also in black leaned against the hood of the vehicle.
Big green tattoo-littered arms crossed over a barrel-shaped chest, he was studying the pair intently.
Time on the photo was 1:42 p.m. Yesterday.
“That’s what Dave was wearing, all right.” Fanuzzi’s voice sounded shaky.
Miranda felt a chill go up her neck. But she couldn’t let her friend see she was worried.
Parker turned to the clerk. “Would you mind sending this to my phone, Monsieur…?”
“Green. Terrance Green.”
“You’re British?”
“Yessir. Born and bred in Yorkshire, don’t you know. I came across the channel five years ago for a chance to work in a fancy store.” He gestured behind him.
Parker exchanged email addresses with him and made sure the dude sent the photo while they were standing there.
“Got it, Mr. Parker?” the clerk asked.
“It just came across.”
The store’s entrance door opened and a scowling young blond woman’s voice rang out. “Terrance. What are you doing out here? Break time is over.”
“Yes, Flavie. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Parker with an apologetic smile. “Me manager. So sorry. I really have to run.”
“We understand,” Parker said. “Be sure to let us know if you see the gentleman in the photo again.”
“Yes. I certainly will.”
“You’ve been most helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” And he turned and hurried inside the building.
“C’mon,” Miranda said, starting for the spot where the red Saab sat.
Parker and Fanuzzi followed her there and the three of them searched the sidewalk, examining the gray slabs as if they could pry secrets out of them.
There was no blood. No signs of struggle of any kind. No footprints though the walk would have held thousands of those from the foot traffic. Feeling hopeless Miranda turned her head and focused on a nearby elm tree. Like its neighbors it was decked with the familiar Paris lights and planted in a patch of dirt in the sidewalk, its trunk protected by a short circular fence. The fence posts made shadows in the dirt.
Miranda blinked at it. Was she going crazy?
Just then Parker touched her arm, nodded in the same direction. He’d seen it, too.
He walked over to the tree, reached over the fence and picked up the black rectangular shape. He examined it, nodded to Miranda and handed it to Fanuzzi.
Fanuzzi took it, stared down at it for several long moments. “Dave’s e-pad,” she whispered.
“The battery seems to be dead,” Parker said.
Fanuzzi tried to turn the pad on. When it didn’t respond, she cuddled the thing in her arms like a newborn baby, her eyes growing cloudy. “Dave must have been really distracted if he lost this.”
Miranda watched her friend, waiting for more of a reaction. It didn’t take long.
As the impact of what they’d just discovered hit her, Fanuzzi turned pale. “This means something awful has happened to Dave, hasn’t it?”
“We can’t jump to conclusions, Joan,” Parker said.
She shook the e-pad at him. “How can we not? Those men might have killed him. Why?” She stared at him a moment, then threw herself into Miranda’s arms and started to bawl.
Miranda hugged her sobbing friend as she clung to her as if for dear life.
It was the exhaustion that was making her fall apart, but Fanuzzi was right. Becker could be in trouble. Bad trouble.
They had to do something. Anything. But her mind felt like a foggy mist of seaweed and the sidewalk suddenly seemed to roll under her feet as if she were surfing a wave in Hawaii. She’d been up well over twenty-four hours except for the snatches of sleep she’d had on the plane, which hardly counted.
Over Fanuzzi’s shoulder she gave Parker a panicky what-are-we-going-to-do-now? Look.
Sadness rimmed his tired gray eyes as he studied her and her friend. “I know someone.”
“In the police here?” Miranda asked.
“No. French Intelligence.”
“French Intelligence?” Where in the world was his mind going?
“French Intelligence?” Fanuzzi echoed, coming out of her sobbing fit.
“He may be able to offer some ideas.” Parker said it like he was going shopping for patisserie. “Offices are closed now. I’ll go see him first thing in the morning.”
There was that I again. Miranda was too tired to get angry about it now. She would tomorrow.
She scratched at her head. “Yeah, that sounds good. For now we have to get some rest. We’re all exhausted. We’re no good to Dave this way.”
Fanuzzi gave her a helpless look.
Parker reached for her arm. “She’s right, Joan. We can come at this fresh in the morning. And perhaps we’ll hear some news by then.”
Good news, Miranda hoped as Parker hailed another cab.
Slowly Fanuzzi nodded. “Yes, you’re right. You’re both right. I’ll just have to hold on till then.”
###
Despite her worry, Fanuzzi’s head sank back against the seat as soon as they were in the cab and she fell asleep. When they reached the hotel Parker carried her up to her room like a child who’d been up too long and settled her into her bed. He laid the e-pad and her cell beside her on the nightstand, and he and Miranda left her in peace.
“I hope she’ll stay asleep for awhile,” Miranda said when they entered their own room.
“Yes,” Parker murmured.
She looked around the room. Done in the same dull brown tones it was no bigger than Fanuzzi’s. Their bags sat at the end of the bed, still packed. She didn’t have the energy to deal with them.
She kicked off her shoes and started to pull out of her blazer only to discover Parker was behind her. He took the jacket off her and hung it in the closet beside the one he’d just removed.
Robot-like she stumbled to the bed. It might be plain and simple but at the moment it looked irresistibly inviting.
“We need to talk,” she mumbled.
“Yes,” he said again.
She laid down on top of the covers. I’m not trying to be anal or anything. I know we’re here for Fanuzzi and Becker. But I just want to point out technically it’s my turn to be in charge. It was our agreement, after all. She laid her head on the pillow. It’s more than that…I feel…you’re pushing me…out.
Out. She was out. Fast asleep.
Sadly Parker smiled down at his wife.
She’d forgotten to undress. He came around the bed, lifted her gently and pulled off her clothes. He folded them and put them in the small set of drawers provided. He pulled the covers over her and examined the latest gash on her chest.
He wished with all his heart he could have left her at home.
Lord only knew what had happened to Dave Becker, but his experienced eye told him those men in that photo were dangerous. And odds were they had zeroed in on the unsuspecting American tourist for some reason and—what? He could imagine any number of scenarios all of which required going after these men.
He did not want his wife involved in facing them.
He took off the rest of his own clothes, hung them up and climbed into bed beside her. Turning off the light, he lay staring at her beautiful form. She was exquisite. The most precious person in the world to him. He would do anything to keep her safe.
Tomorrow he’d find a way to occupy her time while he hunted for Dave. She would argue, of course. But this time he would not give in. He would keep her safe.
And with that firm resolve, he let himself drift off.
Chapter Eleven
He awoke with a start. Where was he?
And then he knew.
Or he knew he didn’t know.
Heart still pounding he rolled over on the thin, ratty mattress they’d given him and rubbed his eyes. At least the mattress was better than that chair they’d had him tied to for so many hours. His back was killing him from that. But at least they hadn’t beaten him.
Not yet.
He stared at the high ceiling. Way up there, maybe fifteen feet away or more was a narrow window. He could make out the stains and the peeling plaster on the walls from the pale light streaming through its dirty panes.
Daylight or the lights of the city? There were no city sounds that he could make out, but maybe he was too far up to hear them. The place smelled of mildew and urine. It was old. That didn’t tell him much about its location. It could be in the middle of Paris or the middle of Istanbul.
If he could just find a way to climb up the wall to that window…
He sat up feeling weak and dizzy. Fat chance of climbing like that. All he’d had to eat was a plate or two of French bread and cheese the woman had given him. He reached for the plastic water bottle she’d tossed to him and opened it. Empty. Thirst gnawed at the back of his throat.
How long had he been here? He had no idea.
Suddenly tears welled up in his eyes. He gritted his teeth to keep from sobbing.
Joanie. His baby. The girl he’d loved all his life. The girl he’d lost and found again by some miracle. She must be going out of her mind with worry, thinking something horrible had happened to him.
Something horrible had happened to him.
He should have known better. Should have sensed something was wrong when that too-friendly stranger had asked him for directions outside Jacques du Coeur.
It had all happened so fast.
He was a nice looking man, a completely innocent looking man with long dark blond hair and a large nose like his own. He had approached him on the sidewalk and asked directions to the Sorbonne. He’d held out a map, the way any lost tourist would do.
He had spoken in French. Dave assumed he was from another part of the country. He’d been glad to help, glad to practice his language skills.
But as Dave had looked over the map, he remembered seeing another man pass by. A big man. Dave had thought he’d been leaning on a nearby van a moment before.
For an instant, just a fraction of a second, he’d thought, That seems strange. Then he’d felt a tiny pinprick at the back of his neck. It was the second man. He’d turned around and moved up close behind him.
He should have reacted. But he was on vacation, for Pete’s sake. He hadn’t expected to have to fight on his vacation.
And then his legs had gone to jelly beneath him and he became aware of the two men holding him by the arms, dragging him to the back of the white van the big man was leaning against.
They’d yanked open the doors.
No, no, he remembered thinking. I’m not going in there. I don’t want to go in there. He tried to fight, tried to take a swing. But his muscles wouldn’t respond to his commands. They were useless. He couldn’t have resisted a fly, let alone these two brutes.
And then he was on the floor and the van was moving. And his eyelids had closed of their own volition.
Again he stared at the window high above his prison. It seemed to mock him.
He should be able to figure a way out of this mess. He was supposed to be a private investigator, after all. He was supposed to be a digital forensics guy, though he wasn’t quite an expert yet. He was supposed to be a Parker Agency trainee.
But all he could remember from his training was the best way to get out of a tricky situation was not to get into it in the first place.
Yeah, right.
Poor Joanie. If only he could get back to her. If only he could hold her again. He longed for her arms more than he ever had in his life. He wanted to see her. He wanted to fly back to Atlanta with her right now and see the kids.
What was Joanie doing right now? Trying to find him? Would she have called the police? What would these people do if she had?
He sucked in a breath. No, Joanie wouldn’t call the police. She was smarter than that. She’d call Steele. She’d call Mr. Parker—he could never bring himself to call him by his first name like Joanie did. To Dave he would always be Mr. Parker. His boss. Oh, God. What a doofus of a PI he must look like now.
The latch on the door rattled and his heart began to pound. The door opened and the man stepped in. The big, muscular one with the green tattoos.
He grabbed him by the arm. “Get up, American.”
“Sure, just wait a minute. Will ya?”
But the guy jerked him to his feet before he could get them under him and dragged him out of the room. He pulled him over to the hard wooden chair they’d put him in before and slammed him into it. The other guy, the thin man who had asked him for directions yanked his hands behind his back while the other one bound his feet to chair legs with ropes.
He glanced around the narrow space searching for an escape. There were no windows here. Just a few sticks of furniture, a makeshift kitchen in the corner, and a horrible light over his head. It was so nineteen-thirties.
Maybe they thought he was a spy. Maybe they thought he had information. Maybe they were going to beat it out of him.
His stomach turned to applesauce.
Behind the big man he could see the woman pacing back and forth, muttering to herself in French the way she had before.
Long, sleek black ponytail down to her waist. Tight dark clothes and black boots, just like in a spy movie. She was maybe in her early thirties. Pretty. Lots of makeup. It was obvious her temper was ferocious. She’d been cussing at and arguing with the men the whole time they’d kept him in the chair.<
br />
He’d only caught snatches of what they’d been saying. Bursts of “merde,” which he’d learned could mean anything from “shucks” to “shit,” and “ta gueule,” which he thought meant “shut the fuck up.” And then something about kitchens and restaurants. But he must have gotten that part wrong.
He’d listened hard, trying desperately to catch a clue about where they’d taken him and why. But he’d discovered nothing. And then he’d fallen asleep and they’d dragged him into that room.
The woman strolled over to the table against the wall and picked up a phone. His cell phone. They’d tossed his e-pad but kept his phone. First thing she’d done was to take the battery out of it so no one could track him. But right now, she picked up the battery and slapped it into the phone.
She turned it on and his happy cell phone music echoed against the bare walls.
Dark eyes narrowing on him, she marched across the floor. She fiddled with the screen until she found what she wanted. She pressed it and held the phone up to his ear.
Trembling from head to toe, he listened to it ring.
###
Joan’s arms ached so much she thought they would fall out of their sockets any minute. But she kept stirring and stirring and stirring. Beating the flour and the eggs and the sugar until they were just the right consistency. They had to be right. They had to be right. But they were so hard to make.
She glanced at the baker’s table covered with the rainbow of macarons. She’d made twenty-four dozen so far. Twenty-four dozen. Two hundred and eighty-eight macarons. But they wanted thirty. Seventy-two more.
She could smell the next batch baking in the oven. Burning? Had she left them in too long? They couldn’t be ruined. They just couldn’t be. She’d have to make them over and there wasn’t time. She had to make them all in time. If she failed, she’d never see Dave again.
And then the bell went off. She was out time. No! That was wrong. She was supposed to have fifteen more minutes left. It wasn’t fair.
But the bell kept ringing and ringing and ringing.
Her eyes popped open and she shot up in bed. It was her cell that was ringing.