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

by Linsey Lanier

  Slowly she nodded, the tissue pressed to her red nose.

  In her pocket Miranda’s cell buzzed.

  She felt Fanuzzi tense like a rattlesnake. “Who’s that?”

  “Let me see.” She pulled it out, thumbed to the text message, read. And smiled. “It’s from Wendy.” Second one today. Though the time was different back home. This one had been sent this morning.

  Hi Miranda. I wasn’t sure I should tell you last night but I have a date tonight. My first one. Do you like my dress?

  There was a photo of the pretty young girl with the dark hair she now wore in modified dreadlocks. She was holding a colorful party outfit against herself.

  “Wendy’s going on her first date. See?” She showed the picture to her friend hoping to distract her.

  It worked. Fanuzzi took the phone and broke into a maternal smile. “Wow, Miranda. That’s so cool. What a pretty dress. Iris must have helped her pick it out.”

  “Probably.” Wendy’s mother had taste as classy as Parker’s.

  “Wendy has a date, too?” He asked from across the room.

  Fanuzzi cocked her head. “Huh?”

  Miranda shrugged. “Mackenzie had her first date yesterday.” She took the phone back and stared down at the message.

  “Oh my gawd, Murray. And you aren’t there to see either one of them. I—I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She reached for her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Fanuzzi. You’ve got to know there’s no place I’d rather be now than right here.”

  Her lips went taut again and she gave a curt nod. So much for the distraction.

  “C’mon. I don’t know about you, but I need a shower.”

  “Sure.”

  As she ushered Fanuzzi out of the room, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw Parker give her a nod of encouragement.

  Parker held eye contact with his wife until the door shut. Then he let out a long slow breath in a futile attempt to steady himself as he moved to the bed the two women had just vacated. He sank down onto the end of it feeling as if his gut were wrapped in barbed wire.

  Dave Becker. His colleague. His friend. What agony he must be in. Dear Lord, what were these monsters planning to do to him?

  He pressed his face to his hands and sent up a prayer. Give him courage. Let him hang on. And above all, help us to find him. Soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The shower would have been a little bit of heaven—if she hadn’t been in the middle of a whole lot of hell.

  In the narrow stall Miranda leaned against the old-fashioned tiles and let the spray wash away her sweat, her fatigue, and her bitter tears.

  She couldn’t let Fanuzzi see her cry. But she could take a moment here, in the enclosed privacy and mourn for Becker in her own way. And imagine his pain, his fear.

  She remembered the awkward way he used to greet her when she was new at the Agency. She’d always wondered how he’d made it in. But as she’d gotten to know him, she’d realized there was a lot of grit under that nervous façade.

  C’mon, buddy. Hang in there. We’re coming.

  Dear God, let that be true. They still had no clue where Becker was being held.

  When she was done with the shower, she dried off and pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a plain ocean blue T-shirt for the afternoon.

  “You want to use it?” She asked Fanuzzi as she stepped out of the steamy room, rubbing at her hair with the stiff hotel towel.

  “I’ll do that in my room once those people are done.” She sat at the window, staring out at the neighboring building. “How long will they be?”

  “I don’t know but these guys are really good. Haubert was one of Parker’s students years ago. One of his best employees.”

  “Good to know.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  Miranda could see she was losing hope. She was having a hard time holding on herself, but she couldn’t let her friend lose faith. That wouldn’t help at all.

  She set the towel aside and ran her fingers though her thick wiry hair. “Hey, did I ever tell you how hard Becker used to study when we were IITs at the Agency?”

  “Not really.”

  “Studied his buns off. He really learned his stuff. And when we did the martial arts exam, he beat a guy who had ten pounds on him and a longer reach.”

  Still staring out the window, Fanuzzi nodded. “Thanks, Murray.” She knew what Miranda was trying to do.

  Reassure her Becker was a lot tougher than he looked. He could survive this. And if there was a chance to escape his captors, he’d take it. If the rescue team didn’t get to him first. Miranda longed to be on that team. Right about now, she’d love to kick some French ass.

  She was about to say that out loud when a phone rang and they both jumped.

  Fanuzzi turned to her, a question in her big brown eyes. But it was her cell that was ringing.

  “Answer it,” Miranda told her.

  With a dazed look, Fanuzzi reached in her pocket and pulled the thing out. “I don’t know this number.” She pressed Talk and held out the phone so Miranda could hear.

  When the smooth male French accent came through the speaker, Miranda was glad she could listen.

  “Did you get my little present, Madame Joan?”

  Miranda felt every muscle the shower had relaxed go tight again.

  Fanuzzi blinked as if the sun were in her eyes. “Wh—what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Her eyes blazed. “Yeah, I got it.”

  Before she could add, “you sonofabitch,” Miranda pressed a finger to her lips.

  Fanuzzi nodded.

  “That was to show you how serious we are.”

  Fanuzzi’s shoulders heaved as she fought back her temper. “Okay. I did what Odette asked. Her uncle is willing to talk.”

  The sound that came through the phone next was a laugh so cold it set Miranda’s teeth on edge. “The demands have changed.”

  “What do you mean they’ve changed?”

  “Chef Emile Amando has a family treasure,” he said. “It is worth over a hundred million Euros.”

  Fanuzzi blinked again. This time as if someone had hit her in the face.

  The voice turned dark and threatening. “Tell Chef Emile he has twenty-four hours to deliver that treasure to me. I will tell you where. Do you understand?”

  Fanuzzi’s mouth fell open. She seemed unable to speak.

  “Answer me! Do you understand?”

  She looked at Miranda. Miranda nodded.

  “Yes. Yes, I understand. But—where are you?”

  “A hundred million Euros,” the voice repeated.

  “I got that part,” Fanuzzi said. “Where are you?”

  “Tell him if he does not do as I say, I will kill both your husband and his niece and throw their bodies in the Seine.”

  Fanuzzi shot to her feet. “Don’t you dare hurt my Dave again. Or Odette either.” She sounded like she was scolding one of her kids. “You tell me where you are. You tell me right now.”

  Not the way to handle a dangerous kidnapper, but it didn’t matter. The phone had already jingled off.

  The caller was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  With her friend just behind her, Miranda burst into Fanuzzi’s tiny room and saw it was filled with g-men.

  Two dudes in buzz cuts and business suits were at the desk snapping pictures of the little white box while a blond woman in a navy pants suit dusted it for fingerprints. Nadeau had returned and was standing at the window, sunglasses pushed up onto his bald dome, cell against his cheek. He looked as distressed as they were.

  “Parker,” Miranda hissed, an arm up to hold Fanuzzi back.

  He turned to her and from the alarm on his face, he knew instantly she had something bad to tell him. He ushered her and Fanuzzi into the room and shut the door.

  The three of them shuffled into a small space near the bed.

  “What is it?” he said quietly.

  Fan
uzzi grabbed onto his arm with a death grip. “Oh, Wade. I just got another phone call.”

  “I think it was the guy,” Miranda added, keeping her voice down.

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. “The one we chased?”

  “Chased?” Fanuzzi’s eyes were wide with panic.

  They hadn’t told her that part. No time to explain, so Miranda just nodded. Then she told Parker what the caller had said.

  “Dear God.” He clasped Fanuzzi’s arm and she relaxed her grip on him. “Is that true, Joan? Does Chef Emile have that much money?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “How the hell should I know?

  Parker thought a moment. “Did he use Dave’s phone to call?”

  “No,” Miranda said. “This was from another number.”

  “We still may be able to find the cell tower it pinged.” He crooked a finger at Nadeau who was still at the window.

  Nadeau hung up his cell and hustled over. “What is it?”

  “We’ve had another call,” Parker told him. “It was from a different number.”

  “Probably a throwaway this time. Harder to trace.”

  The thought had crossed Miranda’s mind, too.

  Parker told Nadeau about the man’s threats and his demand for the Amando “treasure.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Nadeau took off his sunglasses and rubbed his bald head. “It sounds as if they are getting smarter, bolder, wanting more.”

  Now it was starting to make sense. Miranda tapped her temple with her palm. “Of course. This guy, the one we chased today, is taking over. He threatened to kill Odette as well as Dave. That means she isn’t in charge anymore.”

  Parker stared at her a moment, then nodded grimly. “Chef Emile’s niece is in over her head.”

  The pieces were falling together. “Odette met this guy at the bar she and her ex used to go to. Maybe he flirted with her, schmoozed her, or maybe she just wanted somebody to do the job she had in mind. She probably had no idea it would go this far.”

  “But how did he know about this family treasure?” Nadeau asked.

  Parker’s expression grew grim again. “It could be was planning to steal it for some time and Odette simply provided him the opportunity.”

  Fanuzzi pressed both hands to her head and began to pace around in a small circle as if she had hives. “This crazy bitch is going get my Dave and herself killed just because she’s mad at her uncle? What the hell is wrong with her? I wish we’d never come here. I wish I’d never seen Paris. I wish I’d never heard of Chef Emile.”

  She pressed her hands to her face and began to sob again, not caring who was watching.

  Miranda put an arm around her and pulled her close. “It’s not gonna happen. We’re not going to let them hurt Becker.” At this point, she didn’t really care what happened to Odette.

  Fanuzzi kept sobbing as if she hadn’t heard Miranda.

  Parker reached out again and touched her shoulder. “Get hold of yourself, Joan.”

  “Why?” she moaned. “What good will it do?”

  “A lot of good. You’re the one who has got to tell Chef Emile he has to hand over his family’s treasure to the kidnappers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It took about twenty minutes for the g-men to finish up and clear out of the room, and for Fanuzzi to clean up and change, which Miranda insisted on despite her friend’s protests.

  “Where do you think Chef Emile is right now?” Miranda asked as Fanuzzi jerked on a bright green sweater over her sleeveless beige blouse.

  She raised a shoulder as she headed for the door. “He’s got to be at the restaurant. He said they’re expecting a big crowd tomorrow plus they’re hosting several dignitaries as part of the Bastille Day celebrations. Sounded like his place would be hoppin’.”

  Bastille Day. Parker had mentioned it was tomorrow. This visit would sure put a crimp in those plans.

  Parker held the door open for Miranda and they stepped into the hall. Fanuzzi was already at the elevator, tapping her foot.

  “Chez Amando it is, then,” he said. “Let’s take the stairs.”

  “Good idea.”

  They hurried to the end of the hall to the well, raced down to the first floor and soon were standing outside on the sidewalk. The sun was starting to set and the air had turned coolish.

  Nadeau had gone back to headquarters with his compadres, so Parker got them another cab and they headed off toward the fancy right bank.

  The cab took them down a wide tree-lined street with iron gates and statutes and a golden dome in the distance. They eased through a roundabout, then once again across the Seine. As golden winged horses on tall pillars looked on, the driver navigated the traffic over the wide bridge.

  Gorgeous stuff, but Miranda barely took it in.

  As she stared down at the greenish water, she wondered if the bastard they were after would really throw two bodies into the river. Seemed like a good place to get caught.

  She prayed he was bluffing. But Becker’s bloody fingertip told her that wasn’t the case.

  The traffic was only just tolerable and beside her Fanuzzi fidgeted. Gritting her teeth under her breath she muttered, “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  Miranda didn’t blame her. She felt exactly the same. If only Parker could produce a helicopter out of his pocket.

  After zigzagging through streets lined with even fancier buildings than she'd seen so far, they turned into a tiny nook and the cab driver stopped in front of a five-story building with its entrance trimmed in carved walnut and gold.

  With a wary eye on Fanuzzi, Miranda climbed out of the cab and let Parker escort both of them inside.

  ###

  In the foyer, Miranda peeked inside the dining room, the delicious smell of expensive gourmet dishes teasing her nose.

  Holy moly was this place ritzy.

  Parker had taken her to a lot of up-scale restaurants, many of them boasting an Old World décor. But this was the real deal.

  Everything was covered in ivory and gold trim. A thick Persian rug on the floor looked as if it would feel like soft down to walk on. Candles and flowers stood in tall glass vases on the tables, where well-clad diners sat making muted conversation while chandeliers hung from the gold trimmed ceiling reflected against their wine glasses. The whole picture was accented with classy music and encased by high arched windows overlooking a garden.

  These were the real golden arches.

  A maître de in a tux greeted them. He had iron gray hair combed straight back, thick matching brows, and a face as wrinkled as the turtle for the soup. He stood eyeing them with the posture of a man suffering from hemorrhoids.

  “Bonjour, mesdames, monsieur.” He smiled but he was eyeing Miranda’s jeans like she was a dead rat. “Do you have reservations?”

  Parker, who had changed into casual slacks and a blazer, took out a business card and placed it on the desk before the man. “We’re here on an official matter. We need to see Chef Emile immediately.”

  The grayish man picked up the card and studied it down his haughty nose. “This is highly unusual. I am sorry. Chef Emile is not to be disturbed.” He handed the card back to Parker.

  Parker handed it back to the man. “If you inform the chef we are here. I’m certain he’ll see us.”

  The man handed the card back to Parker again. “My orders are not to disturb him.”

  Miranda wanted to give this guy a swift kick between his creased trouser legs.

  Instead Parker gave the man one of his piercing looks. “Chef Emile will be truly disturbed if we do not see him. I assure you, it’s a matter of life and death.”

  Parker’s tone was so convincing, the maître de didn’t know how to reply.

  A family with three young kids came through the door. A young couple followed them. Perfect timing for business to pick up.

  Old Stone Face decided he didn’t want to deal with detectives right now. He snapped his hand at a waiter who rushed over.

  “Oui
, Monsieur Le Blanc?”

  “Andre, show these people to the kitchen. They want to see Chef Emile.”

  Andre’s mouth opened at the “highly unusual” request.

  “Now, s’il vous plait.”

  “Oui, bien sur.” Bowing and scraping Andre backed away toward a door. Then he went rigid. “Follow me.”

  He spun around and the group marched down the side of the dining room, the customers eyeing them with regal curiosity, until Andre opened a door in the back and ushered them down a long dark hallway.

  The corridor seemed to go on forever with the cooking odors growing stronger as they went. But at last Andre pushed through a swinging door and suddenly they were bathed in light, noise, and stainless steel.

  It was orchestrated chaos.

  At a long stove with a slew of burners, white-clad cooks busily tossed sizzling concoctions in pans. Along another bench another group in white chopped away. On the other side, waiters shot in and out, shouting orders in French and snapping tickets onto a stainless steel disk above their heads.

  The smell was incredible. The noise, unbearable. But Chef Emile was nowhere to be found.

  “He is over here,” Andre said, anticipating Miranda’s question. And with a nod, led them down a narrow tiled corridor toward a small corner where a large blackboard stood.

  As they approached, Miranda could see words scribbled all over it and Chef Emile standing before it with a shorter man, chalk in hand, spewing a barrage of French that sounded an awful lot like the cussing she’d heard on the Metro.

  Grumpily the short man rattled something back at him, pointing here and there at the board.

  She could make out words like “bourguignon,” “salade,” “crème brulee,” “aperitif.” Must be the menu for the festivities tomorrow. Talk about food being your passion.

  Chef Emile put his hands on his head as if the plan on the blackboard would be a total disaster. He truly was in denial. Trying to bury himself in work so he wouldn’t have to think about Odette.

  But Fanuzzi wasn’t going to let that happen. She pushed ahead of Andre.

  “Chef!” Her bark was the one she used to shout at pavers on the road crew.