They were in a maze and Miranda didn’t think she could ever find her way out again.
At last the guard deposited them in a tiny waiting room with several cracked faux leather chairs. He said something in French and left, his footsteps echoing down a hall until there was a slow creak, then a slam of a door far away.
Gingerly Miranda settled herself into a chair, hoping the leather wouldn’t split under her butt.
Parker sat down next to her with a little less than his usual panache.
“This isn’t the Bastille, is it?” she whispered.
That got a half smile out of him. “No. There are only ruins left of that. But this is headquarters. A very secretive place.”
Like the CIA or FBI buildings back home, she supposed.
They fell into silence again and out of boredom Miranda pulled out her phone. She hadn’t even checked it since they arrived. Two texts had come in. Must have been sent late last night.
One was from Wendy, the other from Mackenzie. Her two girls.
The one from Wendy was about skating practice. She was doing so well and Miranda was proud of her. She scanned the words from Mackenzie and felt Parker’s gaze on her.
She decided to ignore him.
Parker watched the familiar crease between his wife’s lovely eyes as she studied her phone. He would have known, even if he hadn’t just stolen a glance over her shoulder, they were texts from home—rather than from some threatening stranger.
Surely the culprit who’s been sending her sick messages didn’t have her new cell number. His gut constricted.
Was she ever going to admit to him she’d kept those texts hidden from him? Perhaps not, given her stubbornness.
Absently her hand went to her chest where her new stitches were.
A reminder of her raw courage on their last case came over him. People would have died if it hadn’t been for that courage. People he cared about. His admiration for her swelled inside him and he stifled a sigh. Perhaps he was being a bit too rigid with Miranda on this case.
He was still angry with her for not telling him about those texts. And he most certainly wanted to protect her from whatever danger they might encounter on this case. But Dave Becker was missing. By all indications he had been kidnapped. His life was in danger. And Parker had to admit on this case he needed Miranda. He needed her street smarts and her boldness. Her courage, and even her wit to lighten his mood from time to time.
He needed her love.
Miranda realized her lips were pursed and swiping back and forth and her hand was at her new stitches. They were itching, throbbing a bit. She’d forgotten to put some salve on them before they left the hotel this morning.
“Are you all right?” Parker said softly.
She turned and blinked at him, stunned by his voice.
“Sure.” She moved her hand to her side. “Just forgot my salve.”
“This salve?” He drew a small tube out of his pocket.
She smiled at him. “What a boy scout you are. Always prepared.”
“I aim to please.” He opened the tube and lifted the fabric of her blouse to apply it.
She resisted the urge to close her eyes as he rubbed. His gentle touch felt so good. Suddenly she wanted to rip his clothes of and make love to him right here on the checkerboard tiles of the Bastille-like building.
“Mmm,” she murmured, falling deeper under his spell.
His nose nestled her hair, his lips barely brushed her forehead. “What were those texts about?”
She stiffened. Texts? Oh. He meant the ones she’d just gotten.
She groaned. “Oh, man.”
“What’s wrong?” His wonderful fingers left her skin as he returned the cap to the salve and slipped it back into his pocket.
“There’s this boy Mackenzie’s got a thing for.”
“Oh?”
“His name is Timmy. He goes to her school. He’s been hanging around the skating rink.”
Parker’s face seemed to lose a little color. “And?”
“And tonight is her first date with him.”
“Oh,” Parker said again, even more seriously. He’d been through this with his own daughter, Gen.
“Colby is driving them to a movie and picking them up afterward.”
“At least her adopted mother knows about it.”
“Yeah.” If Mackenzie wasn’t lying.
Miranda used to lie and tell her mother she was going to the library when she was really sneaking out to see Leon. Guess fate was paying her back for that one.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there for Mackenzie’s first date.” Parker reached for her hand.
Miranda stared down at his strong fingers, the neatly trimmed nails, the wedding ring he never took off. His touch, along with his tender words, along with Mackenzie’s big event…all of it suddenly got to her.
She did wish she could have been there. Standing in the Chatham’s living room snapping pictures like it was the prom.
She brushed a tear from her eye.
“My darling.” His deep southern voice with its aristocratic flair was soothing as a brandy. She knew if they were at home, he’d take her in his arms and soothe her with his body as well.
“I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” But the tears kept coming and she had to fight them hard.
As she gathered her emotions, feeling like a blubbering fool, she realized there had been another pair of footsteps sounding in the hall.
She turned her head and saw a nice-looking man with trim reddish brown hair, matching goatee, and wire rim glasses. His boxy-shaped shoulders looked a little uncomfortable under a black suit with a thin black tie. He looked a little like an undertaker.
But the undertaker smiled broadly, eyes shining. “Bonjour, Monsieur Parker.”
Parker looked up and smiled back as he got to his feet. “Bonjour, Rene. It’s so good to see you again.”
The two men embraced each other.
“And you have a new wife. I am so sorry to hear about Sylvia. My condolences.”
“Thank you.” Parker gestured to Miranda as she rose to greet their new host. “This is Miranda Steele.”
“Mais oui. I have seen both of you on the television. You were in London a few weeks back. And recently in Brazil. It seems your new bride is quite amazing.”
“She is indeed.” Parker beamed at her.
“Thanks,” Miranda said to the man, keeping her face expressionless as she could. She hated the public attention she was getting from her cases lately.
Parker continued as if he were at a cocktail party. “Miranda, this is Rene Haubert. Rene is a former employee of the Agency.”
Oh really? Parker hadn’t mentioned that. Though the Agency’s credentials were impeccable, not everyone turned out as well as they should.
“Glad to meet you.” She raised a brow as she extended a hand. “I assume you did well there?”
“He was one of the best. A top trainee, a top investigator.”
“You are too kind, Monsieur Parker.”
“I assure you I’m not exaggerating. And now Rene is a senior analyst here.”
“Director of Interior Operations,” the man corrected with a differential shrug. “I have been promoted.”
Miranda was impressed.
“Congratulations to you, as well, then,” Parker said.
“Merci. And what brings you both to Paris? Vacationing?”
Parker’s brows knit together. “Business, I’m afraid. It seems one of my employees is missing here. He may have been kidnapped.”
All mirth disappeared from Haubert’s face. “Very well, then. Let us go to my office and you can tell me more.”
Chapter Seventeen
After another walk down a long set of maze-like halls, Haubert opened a creaky door and ushered them into a large bright room filled with desks that looked like they’d been here since World War II.
An army of workers were busy at their stations. Some talking across an aisle, some in gr
oups, some completely ignoring each other. The high pea green walls underscored the nineteen-thirties feel, as did the tall frosted windows through which Miranda could see only vague outlines of dull gray buildings beyond. Except for an open window in the corner that blew papers off one of the old metal desks.
It didn’t provide much ventilation.
The air was uncomfortably warm and stuffy. But even here was the faint smell of baguettes baking somewhere.
Somebody’s breakfast, Miranda guessed as she followed their host along the edge of the room to a corner office with more frosted glass separating it from the hive.
The furniture here was just as out-of-date but Haubert rated a desk of fancy wood and all the chairs were brown leather. It was good to be the Director.
“Please have a seat. Both of you.”
Miranda settled herself into one of the guest chairs while Parker took the other and Haubert sat on the corner of his desk.
“Now, tell me what all this is about.”
“As I said, Rene,” Parker began, “an Agency employee has gone missing. He was vacationing here with his wife. They arrived in Paris this past weekend. He hasn’t been seen since Wednesday.”
Parker went on to explain the prize of cooking lessons at Le Gastronomique Divine Fanuzzi had won, where they had searched for Becker, the phone call early this morning from the crazy woman, Chef Emile’s story about his niece, how he had fired her to make her grow up, and the claims of the ex-fiancé.
As he spoke Miranda watched Haubert’s face grow hard until it was like granite. A look she’d often seen on Parker’s face when he was angry. The reaction wasn’t only the outrage of a tourist being nabbed in his city, it was because Becker had come from the same place Haubert had.
The Parker Agency.
Miranda never realized what a closely knit brotherhood she belonged to. But she felt exactly the same way. Becker wasn’t just her buddy or a coworker. He was a fellow member of a very special fraternity. That alone made her want to kick that Odette bitch’s ass straight into Germany.
Parker reached for his phone. “Apparently the last person to see Dave Becker was a Terrance Green, a clerk at Jacques du Coeur. He took this picture Wednesday.” He swiped the screen and held it out to Haubert.
“Ah, yes. The high-end store on the Champs Elysees.” He studied the photo a long moment, his lips pursed over his goatee. “Why did the clerk take this picture?”
“He said he had a funny feeling,” Miranda supplied.
Haubert nodded. “The image of the man next to him isn’t very clear.”
“No,” Parker said. “What do you make of the one leaning against the van?”
Haubert’s look turned stony again. “I would say he looks as if he’s about to nab the man in the olive pullover.”
Miranda could only guess at Haubert’s experience in this surreptitious institution, but she bet he knew what he was talking about. She shifted in her chair feeling queasy and more worried about Becker than ever.
“Have you been to the police?” Haubert asked.
“No,” Parker said. “We came to you first.”
He gave Parker a smart-call nod. “I have the right contacts at the Prefecture of Police if we need them.” He gestured toward an ancient looking computer. “May I?”
“Of course. There’s another picture of Dave that shows his face.”
“And of Odette,” Miranda added.
Haubert hooked up the phone, transferred the photos to his computer and handed the cell back to Parker. “You said Dave Becker’s wife received a phone call early this morning from the niece?”
“That’s correct,” Parker told him. “The issue between Odette and Chef Emile seems to have caused her to hatch this kidnapping plot.”
“It does look that way. Do you know what the source of the call was?”
“It was Becker’s phone,” Miranda said. “But they must be removing the batteries because we can’t trace it.”
Haubert nodded. “There should be a ping on a cell tower somewhere. The police can help us trace that down.” He shifted in his seat, ready to get to work. “We will circulate Monsieur Becker’s photo and the other information to our assets throughout the city. Find out if anyone has seen anything relevant.”
“Thank you, Rene,” Parker said. “That will be a big help.”
Miranda felt a rush of relief that was almost too good to believe.
“In the meantime we can do a search against our database.” Haubert made a gesture of annoyance at his system. “We do not have the fast processors like we had back in the Agency.”
“They’ve only gotten faster,” Parker said.
“While ours have gotten slower. Merde,” he grumbled at the machine, then half grinned at Miranda. “Pardon my French.”
“No problem.” She was beginning to like this guy.
“Fortunately our lab has much better equipment.” He picked up the phone on his desk, rattled off some French, hung up and tapped his tapered finger on his desk.
A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and a very European looking man with dark scruffy hair and a heavy growth of beard on his face stepped inside. Must not have a grooming code here. Or maybe the facial hair made it easier to go undercover at a moment’s notice.
The man and Haubert spoke back and forth a moment in French.
“This is Ignace Desselle,” Haubert said at last. “He is our go-to man in our Centre de Technologie.”
Sounded like someone Becker would love to meet, Miranda thought as they shook hands.
“What do you make of this?”
Desselle shuffled around the desk and peered at the screen. He cocked his head, pulled his nose, rubbed at his beard.
“Mmm,” he said at last, which didn’t tell them anything.
After another minute of silence Miranda glared at the man. “What?”
He tilted his head the other way. “I am not sure. This man, he looks a little familiar.”
Miranda craned her neck and saw he was pointing at the Jacques du Coeur photo, specifically at Beaknose.
Once again Haubert jabbered to the tech guy in French.
He nodded and left the room.
“Desselle will process the photos, do a comparison with those in our database.”
“How long will that take?” Miranda wanted to know.
“At least a few hours. What did you have in mind for your next step?”
Parker turned to her. “What do you think we should do?”
She blinked at him almost losing her balance. He was asking her opinion? Why the sudden change of heart?
She had no idea but she’d take it. “I think we should check out Odette’s place. Henri gave us the address.”
Amazingly Parker nodded in agreement. “We’ll need a cab.”
“I’ll have a man take you,” Haubert said. “At this point you cannot be too careful.”
The way Haubert uttered those words suddenly made her skin crawl. What had he and the tech guy seen in that photo?
Haubert sat back and rocked in his chair as if he were sizing Miranda up. Or maybe it was the situation she and Parker were dealing with he was sizing up.
“Perhaps I can help you in another way.”
Parker’s brow rose. “Oh?”
Without explanation Haubert stood and headed out the door, gesturing for them to follow. He led them down another series of meandering halls to a narrow inner room that was as dark as a closet.
He switched on a light and in the fluorescent glare stood two tall wooden cabinets along each wall. He moved to the one on the right and pulled out a long slender drawer.
Miranda stepped over and peered down. She smiled.
The inside of the drawer was lined in blue felt. Felt that covered molded shapes holding a neat row of sleek, shiny black Berettas. Plus clips.
Guns and ammo. Might have known they’d be plenty in a place like this.
“92FS,” Parker said, admiration in his voice.
“Are you sure, Rene?”
“I would not have brought you here otherwise.”
Miranda reached in and picked up one of the weapons. The grip felt cool and comfortable in her hand. “You got a holster?”
“Right over here.” He opened another drawer and pulled one out.
She tried it on and found it fit perfectly under her jacket. She took a clip, loaded the weapon and slipped it under her arm. “I’m ready.”
Beside her she felt Parker tense. “Rene, I’m not certain arms are necessary.”
Ignoring Parker’s caution, Haubert scribbled something on two printed cards and handed one to Miranda, one to Parker. “In case you get stopped. That should buy you some time. And of course, you will contact me immediately.”
“Of course, but—”
“I would much rather deal with a carrying charge against you than scraping you up off the street, as you Americans would say.”
Haubert had a colorful way of expressing himself.
On a long exhale Parker reached for a weapon for himself, holstered it under his own jacket and straightened it. He was ready now, too.
Haubert grinned at his old teacher with satisfaction. “I’ll find someone to drive you across town.”
Chapter Eighteen
The man Haubert got to drive them gave his name simply as Nadeau.
He seemed to be in his late twenties though he was prematurely bald. He wore his secret agent sunglasses with a cocky air, their reflective sheen competing with the glare on his head, and unlike the folks inside headquarters, he was dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans.
Plain clothes dude, Miranda surmised. And he seemed proud of it.
As they pulled out of the underground parking lot, crammed into the back of a non-descript Audi, she drew in a deep breath. It felt good to know an unseen army of French spies and police would be out hunting for Becker shortly, but they were still way behind.
As she watched the pretty Parisian scenery go by, she hoped Becker was holding on. She could only hope Fanuzzi was talking Chef Emile into giving Odette her job back—until the bitch was arrested.
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