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

by Linsey Lanier

  He grabbed her by both arms to steady her. “Yanick did a horrible thing to Monsieur Becker. He put him in a suicide vest and left him in those tunnels.”

  “The Catacombs?”

  He nodded. “Your husband believed they were somewhere beneath the parade route. Somehow Monsieur Becker was able to call your husband. He said he must be under the Place de la Concorde. It was Yanick’s final act of revenge against the system he thought had wronged him. Your husband and Fayette went in to defuse the bomb.”

  Her head was spinning. Tunnels? Suicide vest? Bomb? “Are you telling me he couldn’t do it? That he and Becker are trapped down there?”

  “I do not know. I have not heard from him.”

  He had to be joking. This couldn’t be happening.

  Haubert’s mouth was moving. He was saying something about remaining calm, assuring her Parker would be found.

  But suddenly she couldn’t hear him. All she knew was she had to get to Parker. She had to find him.

  “Let me go,” she cried.

  And she pushed past Haubert and raced down the hall to the stairs.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Miranda pushed and shoved her way through the panicking crowd on the sidewalk. She’d managed to get past the circle of uniforms and medical workers surrounding what was left of Yanick’s body on the pavement and around the wreck that had been his BMW.

  She must have been more than a block away from the gory scene now but she felt like a trout trying to swim upstream. The swell of people kept pushing her backward. She wasn’t making any progress, but she must be getting nearer to the explosion site. The scream of sirens cut through the air and the smell of smoke reached her nostrils.

  The sudden sense of grief made her reel.

  Gone. Parker was gone.

  Just like Becker. Just like Odette. All gone. She could feel it in her bones. But she couldn’t let her think it. She had to keep searching for them, even if it was hopeless, or she’d fall apart completely.

  A shout came from behind her. “Madame Steele! Madame Steele!”

  She glanced back and saw Turmel’s bloody swollen face moving toward her through the crowd.

  “Don’t try to stop me, Turmel,” she yelled.

  “Monsieur Haubert told me to escort you.”

  Escort her? “Where?”

  “I think I know where Monsieur Parker and Fayette may have entered the Catacombs.”

  Would they have come out that way? Or is that where they would find the bodies?

  “Take me there.”

  “I think I know a back way.” Turmel took her arm and led her into a back street. It wasn’t as crowded here and their pace quickened.

  They moved through the narrow lanes like rats in a maze, zigzagging right, left, right again, between the ancient buildings. It was good to have Turmel to help plough through the clusters of pedestrians they encountered. Even here there were too many people, all asking each other questions, searching their devices, looking for televisions to tell them what the heck was going on.

  At last Turmel turned a corner and she followed him to a little green house halfway down the road.

  It was made of iron and about the size of a large child’s playhouse though it was clearly not for fun and games. Signs were posted all over it warning of the dangers of entering unescorted.

  She stared at the entrance. The lock had been broken and the door swung on its hinges, as if in defiance of the signs.

  She peered inside and saw nothing but darkness. Thick dust hung in the air, making her cough.

  “Parker?” she called.

  No answer.

  She moved the door and took a step forward.

  Turmel caught her arm. “You cannot go in there, Madame Steele.”

  “Why not?”

  “We cannot lose you, too.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  She jerked out of Turmel’s grip and trotted down the street. Another round of tears blurred her sight. She could barely see. She didn’t even know where she was going. She just kept walking.

  Murmuring Parker’s name, she bumped into people. They blurted back words in French but she hardly paid attention. She stumbled across an intersection. But there was no traffic here for some reason. The buildings seemed far away. Majestic and constructed in some Grecian style.

  Somewhere on what seemed to be the other side of the street she reached out and felt concrete.

  She leaned against it a moment to catch her breath and get herself under control. Using the back of her hand she wiped her eyes and looked up at what she was leaning against.

  Atop a tall brick limestone base was the statue of a naked guy trying to mount a horse. That was just how she felt now. Caught forever in a perpetual struggle she could never win.

  Wait. Statue? Where was she?

  She must be on the square. She looked down at the pavement beneath her feet. There was a crack that ran out from the opposite side but it was thin. The bricks around it had buckled a bit, but the ground was…steady.

  Pulling her hair out of her face, she spotted a news trucks and reporters in the distance. The president making a statement.

  Around her people were strolling around, many of them in uniform. What was left of the parade? But the crowd of spectators had thinned. Someone had herded them away from the blast.

  She heard someone speaking very quickly and realized Turmel was standing a few feet away from her.

  “It is not as bad as we thought,” said the man with him who had on a deep blue uniform and a perky white cap. “No causalities that we know of. Some injuries from falls and crowd panic. The president is safe. Everyone accounted for. I must be off.” And he ran over to where the interviews were being held.

  No causalities. President safe. Everyone accounted for. Everyone except the most important people to her. Where were they?

  She had to keep going. Had to keep searching.

  She stumbled past Turmel, shooing away his arm and made her way around the square. Halfway across the pavement among lamp poles and tall cylindrical statuary a cluster of people gathered around a white truck with blue lettering.

  EMTs, others in uniform. Some were bleeding from head wounds. The injuries the stranger had mentioned. Someone there might be able to give her some information about Parker.

  A tall man in a dark ragged tee-shirt and torn jeans was helping EMTs load a woman into the ambulance. She started for him. He gave the woman’s hand a pat and stepped back so they could close the doors.

  Miranda froze.

  That gesture of kindness. The tilt of his head. The elegant lines of his body even beneath his tattered, dusty clothes. She’d know them anywhere. It was him. It had to be him.

  She ran toward the man. “Parker!”

  He turned around.

  At first he seemed alarmed. Then amazed. There were smudges on the side of his gorgeous face but the stark relief on it ripped through her heart, matching the burst of joy fairly splitting it.

  “Miranda!” He started jogging in her direction, arms open.

  “Parker!” she cried again. “You’re alive.”

  They met in the middle of the square, flung their arms around each other and locked lips in a deep, heady kiss that made her even dizzier—this time in a good way.

  She pressed her mouth against his, feeling his warmth, his life. He was real. He was alive!

  She pulled away, found she was sobbing again. She struggled to wipe her cheeks. “Oh, Parker, Parker. I thought I had lost you.”

  He helped to wipe her tears away, ran a hand through her hair. “I thought I had lost you.”

  “They told me you went to the Catacombs. I saw the explosion.”

  “We got out in the nick of time.”

  Thank God. Thank God. She pressed her face against his chest, smelled the sweat and chalky dust still there.

  She looked up at him. “Yanick’s dead. So is Kosomov.”

  His fa
ce turned grim and he nodded.

  “I couldn’t get Yanick to tell me where Becker was, but—”

  “No need.” Parker moved aside and turned toward the ambulance just as another man came around the corner of it.

  The truck took off and sped away leaving him standing there.

  The man was short and still wore the dark green pullover and baggy jeans, but they were tattered now and covered with the same chalky dust on Parker’s clothes. His hair was shaggy and dusty, too. His nose was swollen and he needed a shave. The end of his little finger was wrapped in clean white gauze. They must have just treated him.

  He stopped cold and blinked at her. “Steele?”

  The guy was a total mess. But in her opinion right now he was the best-looking man on the planet. Except for Parker, of course.

  She broke away and ran over to him. “Becker!” She flung her arms around him and gave him a big hug.

  “Steele,” he laughed, hugging her back. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re both here. Thank God you came to Paris. You and Mr. Parker. If you hadn’t, we’d be dead.”

  He began jabbering away, telling her how he and Odette had managed to make a call to Parker. How Parker and Agent Fayette had worked their way through the labyrinth of human skulls under the city to find them. How they’d cut away the lethal vest Yanick put on him and tossed it down a deep hole. How they’d all run like hell and made it out just as the explosion went off.

  She listened opened-mouthed, amazed and thankful they had escaped with their lives. All of them.

  She kicked at the pavement. “I, uh, tangled with Yanick. He’s dead.”

  Becker’s eyes went wide in that little boy look. “You killed him?”

  “He fell over the balcony of the room he’d escaped to. Agent Turmel shot Kosomov in self defense.”

  “They’re both gone, then.” He looked away, taking the news in.

  “Yes.”

  He seemed relieved but she knew the effects of his ordeal would last a while, even if his kidnappers were dead.

  Kidnappers. “You said Odette helped you?”

  Dave shrugged. “She didn’t have much choice. They left her there with me, all tied up. I guess I kind of feel sorry for her.”

  She peered over his shoulder. No one was there. “Where is she?”

  “The police took her.”

  “She’ll do time for this.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Maybe they’ll go easy on her because of what she did down there.” He gestured toward the pavement.

  That was Becker. Always a sweetheart. Miranda wouldn’t be so forgiving.

  A horn blared from somewhere. Miranda turned and saw the silver blue Fiat racing across the square. It came to a screeching halt near one of the gaudy street lamps. The driver started to get out but before she could the passenger door flew open and Fanuzzi jumped out.

  “Dave! Dave!” she cried, running for him as fast as she could.

  Becker’s jaw dropped and he began to giggle. He looked like a little boy who’s just seen his first birthday cake.

  Then he started to run, too. “Joanie!”

  They reached each other in seconds and stopped, staring at each.

  “Are you really here?” Fanuzzi must have been afraid she was dreaming.

  Miranda knew the feeling.

  “Are you really here?” Dave echoed.

  Then Fanuzzi came to and gave his chest a slap. “Of course, I am, you silly guy.”

  They must have convinced each other. Becker picked her up and twirled her around and around, kissing her long and hard. With the fountain in the distance they looked like a French perfume commercial.

  The happy vision blurred. Miranda was crying again. But this time it was all for pure joy.

  They’d done it. Becker was back and alive, and he and Fanuzzi were back together where they belonged.

  She turned to Parker. “They’re a lot like us,” she laughed.

  He smiled at her. “They are indeed.”

  “I love you.” And she reached up to kiss him again.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  That evening the four of them had dinner together on a lovely little balcony at Chez Amando.

  Chef Emile was only too happy to prepare a gourmet meal for them himself. Duck breast with pumpkin sauce, vegetables with a Balsamic glaze, and a delicious deep red wine from the Rhone Valley. He said it was the least he could do after all they’d done to save Odette and to return his fortune to him.

  Police had found Fanuzzi’s blue flowery suitcase locked away in a closet on the first floor of the Hotel Grandiose, which was where Kosomov had stuffed it.

  As he served the meal, Chef Emile told them he had arranged to trade a few of the coins to pay back his debt and had put the rest back in the safe and changed the combination to something he could remember. He would pass it down to Odette once she was ready.

  Miranda wondered about that prospect but then the chef explained he had gone to see his niece a few hours ago. She had confessed everything to him and had wept bitterly, begging for his forgiveness. He’d told her he would try.

  Henri had gone with him and Odette admitted to him what a fool she had been to throw him away. She wanted to get back with him if he would have her. And Henri had said yes.

  Chef Emile had already hired a good lawyer and hoped she would be granted some clemency and could work in the restaurant again. But he would not elevate her above vegetable chopping for a long time.

  After the last bite of food, Miranda sat back with a sigh.

  She smiled at her two friends, who couldn’t stop holding hands and staring at each other like a couple of teenagers.

  She would have told them to get a room but they already had one.

  And then she sat up, remembering what day it was. “Uh oh. Today’s your anniversary, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Dave grinned. “And I’ve never been happier.”

  Parker started to rise. “Perhaps we should leave you alone to celebrate.”

  Fanuzzi waved a hand at him. “Sit down, Wade. We want to be with you two tonight.” Still holding onto Dave’s hand, she waggled her brows. “We’re celebrating tomorrow. At home.”

  Removing Miranda’s empty plate, Chef Emile turned to her friend. “You are leaving so soon, Madame Joan?”

  “Yes, Chef. I’m afraid so.”

  Becker set down his wine goblet. “It’s a beautiful city and all, but I think we’ve had enough of it for the moment.”

  Chef Emile put the plate in his cart and smiled sadly. “I can understand that.”

  “But don’t you have something else for us?” Becker gave the chef a wink.

  He waved his hands excitedly. “Oh, yes, yes. I will be back in a moment.”

  Miranda looked at Fanuzzi for an explanation.

  She raised her hands and turned to her husband. “What are you up to?”

  Becker’s cheeks went pink. “Well, I guess you all know I was shopping for an anniversary gift when…I...” He waved his hand with the bandaged pinky.

  “Yes, we know,” Miranda said. Becker didn’t want to talk about the kidnapping now and neither did she.

  “I told Joanie I’d have a surprise waiting when she got back from class that afternoon. But for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything to get her. Not anything romantic, anyway.”

  Miranda was glad he hadn’t gone for the Cuisinart.

  Fanuzzi grinned at her husband over her wineglass. “Guess I’m a woman who has everything in that department.”

  He grinned back. “And then I got, uh, preoccupied and I haven’t had time to pick anything out. So I told the chef about it and he came up with a solution.”

  Becker had called Chef Emile to thank him as soon as he’d learned he’d given up his fortune to save his life.

  Fanuzzi eyed him with suspicion. “Solution?”

  “Ah, here we are!”

  Everyone turned to Chef Emile who was rolling in another cart. Miranda nearly cho
ked on her swallow of wine. She’d never seen anything like that in her life.

  The cart held a huge, scrumptious-looking dessert. The biggest one she’d ever seen.

  “Oh, my gawd,” Fanuzzi cried. “It’s the Amando family’s dark chocolate piece montée.”

  “That’s what it looks like?” Miranda was amazed at what sat on the cart.

  A tower of cream puffs covered in thick dark chocolate and formed into the shape of the Arc de Triomphe, complete with candied white roses, red-white-and-blue ribbons and blazing sparklers.

  “Do you like it?” Becker asked.

  “Like it? I love it!” And Fanuzzi leaned over the table to give Becker a big juicy kiss.

  Laughing together, they piled their plates with the delicious treat and dug in.

  “Congratulations,” Parker said. “On your first anniversary.”

  Becker grinned, his mouth full of chocolate. “Thanks, Mr. Parker.”

  Fanuzzi beamed. “Thanks to you and Murray, everything turned out just fine.”

  “You did your part, too.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing compared to what you two did. I’ve never felt so grateful. And I’ll never forget it.”

  Miranda ate in silence. She felt grateful, too. Her heart was so flooded with gratitude, if she said anything, she just might start bawling. She didn’t want to do that on this special night. Funny. A couple years ago she’d thought she could never be close to anyone. Now she wouldn’t trade these friends for all the rare gold coins in Chef Emile’s safe. She would cherish them forever.

  They all grew quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Gazing out over the magnificent city they indulged in the rich work of culinary art.

  And as they watched the fireworks going off in the distance, bathing the Eiffel Tower in a sea of color, none of them even blinked at the booms.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The next morning Parker pulled some strings and got them on the same flight as Becker and Fanuzzi.

  Haubert stopped by the café near the hotel where they were having breakfast and told them the two agents Yanick shot were both going to live. And that Nadeau said to give them his best and he wished he could have seen Madame Steele fight Yanick. With a prosthetic leg, the agent would be just fine and might even get sent back to field work.