Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5)

by Linsey Lanier

  She decided to think out loud. “So this Odette bitch hatches this scheme to kidnap the husband of her uncle’s favorite student and hires a couple of thugs to do it?”

  Parker turned to her and she could see his thoughts were running along the same lines. “A risky move.”

  “You think she didn’t realize what she was getting into?”

  “If she let her temper cloud her judgment, which seems likely from what we know of her.”

  Good point. “So how does a sous-chef in a top Paris restaurant find thugs?”

  “My guess is she asked around in the bar where she met Henri that last time.”

  “The one where he saw the guy in the photo with Becker.” Might do the trick.

  Parker nodded. “The Latin Quarter is near the Sorbonne. People from all over the world attend there. The brasserie is no doubt a student hang-out.”

  That narrowed it down. So the two dudes in the photo could have been from anywhere. But they didn’t look like students.

  Miranda’s stomach quivered. “They could be…terrorists.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Good Lord,” she whispered. If that were true, Odette had really gotten in over her head. That didn’t bode well for Becker. “We should check out that bar once we’re done with the apartment.”

  “Agreed.”

  At least they were on the same page now.

  They didn’t speak again until they reached the pretty lane where Odette lived. It was in the eighth arrondissement near the Eiffel Tower and guarded by a fancy iron gate littered with gold plated fleur-de-lis flourishes. The gate was open and Nadeau steered the Audi straight through and into the complex. All around stood stately gray stone buildings with Mansard roofs and rich-looking balustrades and gaudily carved cornices atop high arched windows.

  Miranda bet this place was pricey.

  Cars and delivery trucks were parked along both side of a tree-lined inner street, the warm sun casting fanciful shadows through the leaves.

  “This is a high-end section of the Monceau District,” Parker murmured as he watched a white-clad deliver man roll a palette of goods onto the sidewalk.

  “Seems your suspect has the good heels,” Nadeau smirked.

  Miranda suppressed a grin at the misspoken phrase. She sure was well heeled. No wonder Odette was desperate to get her old job back.

  It took awhile to find a space but at last Nadeau pulled into an empty one just beside the entrance to Odette’s building. Parker asked him to wait in the car and keep guard and he agreed with a single silent nod.

  It wasn’t just surveillance duties, Miranda knew. Parker didn’t want the g-man or f-man or whatever he was called here, to see how he would manage to get inside Odette’s place.

  She was glad Nadeau didn’t make a fuss. And after following the delivery man through the front entrance and taking a short ride up the elevator to the third floor, Parker did something at Odette’s door with a credit card and had them inside in no time.

  Odette’s flat was small and uncluttered and bright with sunlight from the windows. Hard wood floors with a plain carpet leading to an open balcony with one of those fancy iron railings she’d seen everywhere. Nice view of the quaint street below with its shops and cafés. Again there was the smell of freshly baked bread in the air.

  Strange sketches that looked like Chinese characters hung on the wall. A few unremarkable lamps sat on tables.

  The kitchen was a different story. It looked like she’d had a wall knocked out to enlarge it—it took up half the flat. And it was filled with cookbooks and notebooks, canisters and oven mitts, pots and pans and cutting utensils.

  All things culinary.

  Miranda imagined Odette scooting around the space, whisking up her wonderful béchamel sauce, filling the air with mouth-watering odors—all while plotting how to get back at her uncle.

  She eyed a wooden butcher block on the spotless counter and once again her stomach clutched. “Some of these knives are missing.”

  Parker came around the divider that separated the kitchen from the living area and peered at the block. “It appears two paring knives and a large chef’s knife are not in their slots.” He looked closer.

  “What?”

  He pointed at the wood. “This block is an unusual one. This slot is wide enough for a meat cleaver.”

  Miranda squinted at the gap. It was empty. “They could be somewhere else around here.”

  Parker scanned the small, tidy space. He eyed the sink, took a handkerchief from his pocket. Miranda was surprised he didn’t have his rubber gloves. He must have been more rattled than she thought when they’d left home.

  He opened the dishwasher.

  Empty.

  “Not from the personality I’m seeing.”

  He was right. Odette was an OCD freak who had to have everything…what did Chef Emile call it? Exactement. She’d make sure each knife was in its proper place. Which means wherever she was, she had the knives with her.

  Parker turned and strolled into the bedroom. Another light airy space. Neatly made bed with a plain linen comforter. Fanciful art deco lamp in Tiffany colors on a nearby stand. Whitewashed built-in closets.

  Across from the bed stood a small desk of polished blond wood. It held only a gooseneck lamp, a copper holder with two pens and a single pencil that looked freshly sharpened, and a small pad, all placed just so.

  Odette was definitely a minimalist.

  Miranda moved closer to the desk and sensed Parker at her side. They saw it the same instant.

  The vague imprint of marks on the pad.

  Parker took his handkerchief, draped it over his hand and reached for a pen holder. Then he stopped.

  He turned to Miranda. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

  Her gaze locked with his and in that instant she knew he was back. They were back. Parker and Steele Consulting. One again.

  She would have smiled if the situation weren’t so dire.

  “Sure,” she said, taking the hanky from him.

  With the fabric shielding her fingerprints, she reached for the pencil. Parker held the kerchief back and anchored the pad as she whisked the side of the sharp point over the paper.

  Slowly, slowly, the characters someone had written on the page above this one appeared. Not everything. But as soon as Miranda realized that was “all she wrote,” so to speak, she stopped.

  She stared down at the pad, her heart sinking to the spotless hardwood floor. “I thought we’d get the address where they’d taken him.”

  “This is evidence.” Parker’s low voice betrayed disappointment as well.

  “Yeah,” she sighed.

  Once they found her, it was evidence that would help prove Odette was the mastermind of the kidnapping.

  On the pad was Fanuzzi’s hotel and room number.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Back in the back seat of the spy car, Parker leaned toward Nadeau. “We’ll need to have someone official process the flat. There’s evidence for the kidnapping but nothing to indicate where Odette is holding our man.”

  The bald man nodded. “I will speak to the Directeur.”

  Miranda wondered whether Parker’s former protégé would get someone in the police or his own people to do it. And what that meant legally. They had better make a case strong enough to send this bitch to jail. But maybe the courts weren’t so picky about evidence gathering here.

  “What next?” Parker asked her as if he really wanted her to decide.

  She thought about it a moment. They should check out that bar Henri mentioned. But it might be too early for the particular clientele they were looking for. People who would know the man in the photo, assuming he was a regular. As she pondered the possibility her gaze drifted to the walkway where a young woman was pushing a baby carriage. One of the delivery trucks slowly backed out of a space.

  Suddenly she became aware of the tingling sensation nagging at the back of her neck.

  She squinted at the base
of a tree, saw shadows, movement. The bustling of a few pedestrians and bicycle riders.

  Someone had been watching them. She was sure of it.

  Then she saw the flash of a dark jacket. The flip of long dark blonde hair. Dark sunken features. The figure turned under the shadows and began moving away. For just an instant she saw the face.

  Beaknose.

  “It’s the dude in the picture.” She reached for the door handle, shot out of the car.

  “Miranda.” Parker was climbing out behind her. He’d seen him, too. “Tail us,” he said to Nadeau, and the next instant, he was beside her, matching her step.

  “Slow down,” he hissed in her ear.

  Too late. The dude had already spotted them and was scurrying down the walkway toward the fancy gold-and-iron gate.

  She scurried faster.

  Beaknose glanced over his shoulder, sped up. He scooted through an open side door near the gate, onto the sidewalk, across the busy street.

  Miranda commanded her legs to move faster.

  She shot through the gate and into the square just as the man reached the opposite corner and ducked under the shadows of the red awning of a boulangerie.

  Horns blaring at her, Miranda dodged the traffic, made it to an island in the middle of the square. Stubbornly she held out a hand and scrambled across the cobblestones to the opposite walk, only getting cussed out in French once.

  “Miranda!” Parker’s voice was behind her.

  She glanced back, saw him crossing the street. In the car Nadeau tried to negotiate the traffic but he was stuck in the square. She couldn’t wait for them.

  Shielding her eyes with her hand, she turned back and searched the lazing diners for Beaknose.

  Damn. She couldn’t have lost him yet.

  Then she spotted him. The bobbing jacket and flapping blond hair had just reached the fourth tree down the lane.

  She took off.

  Zigging and zagging her way through the scowling, cursing pedestrians, she pushed herself as hard as she could. Several yards ahead Beaknose was all ass and skinny elbows. They raced past a bus stop, a kiosk, cars and vans parked along the curb, rows of stowed motorcycles.

  She heard Parker’s steady pant behind her. He was closing in while she wasn’t gaining a millimeter on the bastard she was chasing.

  She felt for the weapon in the holster under her jacket, glad Haubert had been so generous. Could she get a shot at this creep? Maybe. She might even hit him at a dead run, but there were people around.

  An old woman stepped out of a building holding a little girl by the hand. A grandma?

  The girl pointed a finger at Miranda as she flashed by.

  No, she couldn’t risk a shot here.

  Three more blocks down Beaknose tore around one of those odd-shaped corners. Miranda eyed the building with the black-lace balconies, gauging her speed.

  It seemed like an hour before she got there. But at last she flew around the corner.

  And saw nothing.

  She kept running, scanning the other side of the street. Had she lost him? Where the hell was he?

  Then once again she spotted that bobbing hair. Her heart sank. He was trotting down the stairwell to the Metro. Oh, joy.

  She came to a halt, her lungs wheezing.

  Her blood hammered in her head so hard she thought her jugular vein might burst any second. But as she forced air into her lungs she promised herself she wasn’t going to let that creep get away. After another gargantuan breath she took off and rushed toward the stairs.

  She skittered down the concrete steps as fast as she could.

  At the bottom she hurried along the corridor, scanned the lines at the ticket booth. Where was the sonofabitch?

  Another flick of the swinging hair caught her eye.

  She took off. Gaining on him. Had him in full view when he deposited his ticket at the machine. She didn’t have one. He was going to board a train and get clean away.

  She ran toward the barrier, was about to jump the turnstile when she felt Parker come up behind her.

  His breath batted against her neck as he reached around and slipped a ticket into the slot. Where the hell had he come from? And when did he have time to buy tickets? No time to find out.

  “Thanks,” she whispered and plunged ahead.

  “Take it on the other side,” he warned.

  This was weird. But she jerked the ticket out of its place as she shot through the doors.

  Chapter Twenty

  The air was uncomfortably warm down here. The musty smell of the underground tunnel filled with passengers stung her nose as she raced past never-ending pale brick walls dotted with maps and posters.

  She zipped through the waiting throng, the sound of her dress shoes snapping against the pavement. Suddenly the sound was drowned out by a seven piece band of guitarists and bongo players wailing out some strange French song, hoping for tips.

  With Parker at her side now, she slowed. They were at a boarding area.

  Her face glowed with heat and perspiration as a green-and-white train appeared and hissed to a stop before them. People began to push this way and that around her heading for the doors.

  She stood on tiptoe, craning her neck. “Do you see him?”

  Parker’s sharp gray eyes sparkled as his gaze honed in. “There.”

  She used his shoulder to pull up a little and saw Beaknose stepping into the front car. “He’s getting onboard.”

  Parker reached for the door nearest them—the last car. He steadied a hand against the small of her back and they climbed inside just as the train took off.

  Miranda stood gasping in air, the scowling riders glaring at her, her shirt sticking to her skin.

  She turned to Parker, lowered her voice. “He’s what? Five or six cars ahead of us?”

  “I counted six,” Parker murmured.

  She began to push her way to the front of the car they were in, garnering more vicious looks from her fellow passengers. When she got to the end, she reached for the latch on the door and yanked it open.

  Wind hit her square in the face.

  The wheels clanged against the rails beneath them. The gears of the coupling holding the cars together shrieked from the motion. They were really going fast.

  A man in the last seat started babbling something at her in French. And it wasn’t about the weather. Beside him a chubby woman with stringy black hair seemed to agree passionately with whatever he was saying.

  “Ignore them.” Parker pushed back the door, stretched forward and opened the next car. “Can you make it?”

  For a moment Miranda watched the rails whizzing beneath them. One false step and she’d be Metro jelly. No time to think about that. She shook off the nerves, gave him a quick nod and made the short leap across.

  She held the door open for him as Parker came across behind her.

  She would have stopped to celebrate, if it weren’t for the Parisian profanity that greeted them on the other side. Must be relatives of the folks they’d just left.

  She wondered how to say “fuck you, s’il vous plait.” But there was no time for a language lesson.

  She shoved her way through the car of passengers, and she and Parker did the same drill at the end of it—and got the same friendly reaction in the next car.

  Three cars later they were about to climb inside the one Beaknose had boarded when the train started to slow.

  “We’re approaching a stop,” Parker hissed in her ear. “Hurry.”

  She leapt across the gap—it was easy now—just as the train screeched to a halt and the doors whisked open.

  A hoard of passengers got to their feet and began shuffling to the exits. Families with little kids, teenagers, business people, elderly. Was Beaknose hiding among them?

  She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t move.

  “He might not get out here,” Parker whispered in her ear, reading her thoughts.

  Hard to say since they had no idea where he was going.

>   She peered through the window, attempting to dissect the crowd with her gaze. Then she caught a snatch of dark jacket and long oily blond hair.

  “There,” she pointed. “Near the blue sign.”

  “He must have been near the door when it opened.”

  Damn. He was almost out of sight.

  Miranda went into rude mode and elbowed passengers aside as she barreled her way out the door and onto the platform. Then it was through another tunnel where Beaknose had just disappeared.

  The passageway seemed longer than the last one and even more crowded. She felt like she was playing soccer, dodging the members of the opposite team who kept trying to get in her way and block her from scoring.

  More cries of “merde” and “connard” and “foutre.” This was a new spin on the total immersion method of language learning. Except she didn’t have time to catch the nuances. All she knew was that she was being cussed at.

  Ignoring them she kept moving.

  Up an escalator, down a set of stairs, up another set. How many more were there? She must be in Metro hell.

  Suddenly they had to stop to deposit their tickets. Damn.

  When they started up again Beaknose was at the end of another long dark corridor. He seemed a mile away, his long stride keeping him far out ahead.

  Dude must be a marathon runner.

  Finally they climbed the last set of stairs and were outside. Blinking in the sunlight Miranda could see their target down the street.

  “There,” Parker gasped at her side.

  She nodded and took off.

  She whizzed past a fancy shop with pretty party dresses in the window, a pizza place exuding delicious, garlic-laced odors, another café with coffee drinkers in chairs crowding the sidewalk. Up ahead, Beaknose disappeared around a corner. She pushed hard to get to the spot and when she reached it, found herself in a narrow cobblestone lane that ran along the Seine.

  The ubiquitous elms trees shaded tourist boats down below and the reedy smell of the river filled the air. She kept running, Parker at her side.

  Wrought iron railing on one side, water on the other. Trapped on two sides. If they could just catch up to him, they could nab him.