by A W Hartoin
I bought a sandwich and texted Aaron. Who didn’t answer. Great. I called the Novotel and asked if a little guy wearing jeans shorts and a Transformers tee had come in and was wandering around the lobby. Nobody had seen my partner. That’s when I started to get worried. I never imagined Aaron as a target. I thought they were after me. Maybe I’d gotten it all wrong.
I left the shop, digging out my pepper spray and palming it as I walked down the street. Poinaré was behind me, so far back he must’ve been very confident of his tracking skills. I almost wanted to take the long way back to the station going down side streets, looking confused, which I would’ve been if my phone hadn’t been telling me exactly where I was, to see if he’d make a move. But I remembered my mother and decided on safety instead, heading straight back to the station.
The station teamed with even more people when I got back to it. People were streaming out of the doors with small suitcases for a weekend in Paris. I squeezed back in past musicians carrying guitar cases and went straight for the little stand and Baptiste. I saw him at a distance and he saw me, frowning instantly. He came out and began speaking in ultra-rapid French. I barely caught a word other than Aaron and gone. I told him he had to slow down and if he could speak English that would be swell.
“Excuse me. Of course, you are American,” said Baptiste. “Where is Aaron?”
“Last time I saw him, he was with you,” I said, my voice squeaky.
“You disappeared and he went looking for you. He said you might be in trouble. That you often are in trouble.”
Too true.
“Which way did he go?”
Baptiste pointed in the direction the crowd had taken me, but where the hell was Aaron? I called him again and so did Baptiste. No answer.
“Call the police,” I said.
“Is it that serious?” asked Baptiste.
“I hope not, but we have to find him.”
Baptiste heaved a sigh and blew a kiss over my shoulder. “There he is. My dear friend. Where have you been?” he called out.
I spun around and saw Aaron coming through the crowd with a trio of soldiers with their Famas assault rifles at the ready. I wanted to run to Aaron, but it didn’t seem like a good idea with all that firepower and the wary eyes of the soldiers scanning the crowd.
They walked up and I said as casually as I could, “Where were you? I was freaking out.”
The ranking soldier answered in clipped English. “He was robbed and locked in a storage room.”
My mouth fell open, I’m not ashamed to say it. I thought it was a possibility that something had happened, but logically that something was more likely to be something involving food.
“Robbed?” I couldn’t think what Aaron had worth stealing. He had the travel wallet I’d given him, but he kept that in his front as instructed.
“His mobile phone.”
Oh my god. Novak’s phone.
“They locked you in a storage room for a phone?” I asked Aaron, trying to sound less panicked than I felt.
“Yeah,” he said, looking past my left ear.
“We heard him banging on the door. He will have to make a complaint.” The soldier gave me directions to the security office and I pretended to follow what he was saying instead of having my mind spinning.
The soldiers apologized for the inconvenience and went back to their rounds. Baptiste clapped Aaron on the back and said he needed a tarte au citron. The baker dashed back behind his stand and I waited until the soldiers were out of earshot before hugging the little weirdo. “Are you okay? Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
Aaron shrugged.
“Use your words. I need to know what happened,” I said.
“Pushed me in. Took my phone.”
Crap and double crap. How will I get in touch with…wait.
“Did you say your phone?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Aaron as he started chewing on a hangnail. No big deal. Just a minor incident in a train station.
“He didn’t get Novak’s phone?”
Aaron patted his left front pocket. “No.”
I bent over and breathed deep while Aaron patted my back. “Oh, thank god. Novak’s not perfect. They could’ve broken the encryption. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Aaron shrugged.
“Who was it?”
“Poinaré.”
Baptiste came out, beaming and holding two perfect little tarte au citrons.
“Are you sure? What was he wearing?”
Aaron took a tarte before answering. “Tourist stuff.”
I described the guy who’d been following me and Aaron nodded before eating his tarte. Baptiste bounced up and down like Aaron did, waiting for a verdict.
Aaron embraced him and proclaimed it to be perfection. He was spot on. It was best tarte au citron I’d ever had and they’re hard to get right despite being simple. I thanked Baptiste and said we had to go. The two friends made plans to get together before we left Paris and we headed off.
“Do you want to fill out that report?” I asked Aaron.
He lifted one shoulder.
“We can, if you want.”
“Phone’s gone.” He glanced up at me. “You hungry?”
“We just ate…never mind. I could stand some coffee. I assume you have something in mind.” Aaron went on to describe three different places he wanted to visit and I told him to choose. We hopped back on the metro with eyes peeled for Poinaré, although I wasn’t sure I’d know him. That disguise was a good one and he might’ve changed it. I thought about the pictures that Novak had sent me. Maybe I could spot the sharp jawline and thin lip if he wasn’t wearing another hat. Maybe.
Aaron and I took the metro back to Châtelet and dashed through the complicated tunnels to lose anyone who might be following before back toward Gare De Lyon on Line One. I didn’t see anyone and I had the feeling that Poinaré knew when he was made and would try a different day. And why not? He knew about Elias’s apartment. He had to. It was the only explanation. Maybe he’d followed Aaron from the school to the sewer like Colonna and then followed us home. He might’ve been able to triangulate our location using our regular phones, even though Uncle Morty had encrypted them. It didn’t matter. Poinaré had definitely followed us to the Gare de Lyon, but the purpose wasn’t nabbing me, not anymore. He wanted Novak’s phone. Somehow he knew about that. And he wanted to follow me. He could’ve nabbed me if he tried harder, but he didn’t. Why?
Aaron found the place he was looking for in the Marais district, a tiny café in a back alley. It wouldn’t be in any of Chuck’s tour books. It didn’t have a name or a sign out front, only a small chalkboard propped up against the wall next to the steps, listing the day’s specials. We were early for lunch, since it was not yet twelve, but the elderly owner welcomed us in and gave us a table by the dusty window. Vintage pots and pans hung from the black-beamed ceiling and doll furniture was pinned to the walls around the five tables. The whole restaurant could’ve fit into my apartment back home, but it smelled delicious, like wine, fresh herbs, and slow-cooked meat.
The lady tried to give us handwritten cards and Aaron declined, saying that we’d have whatever she recommended. She beamed at us and her husband brought a decanter of red wine. Aaron poured and I glared.
“If it’s crab, you will pay,” I said.
He wasn’t worried. I sipped the house red and discovered it was lovely. Then I called Chuck and told him that class was done and we were already in the Marais for lunch. He was at the metro, getting ready to go back to Elias’s apartment. I gave Aaron the phone for directions since I had no clue how to get there and I asked for Novak’s phone.
“It’s me,” I said to Novak.
“What did you find?”
“Nothing and something.”
Novak chuckled while continuing to type. “It’s the same here.”
I told him about my aborted trip to the Novotel and Aaron’s mi
sadventure.
“He’s changed his tactics,” said Novak. “I’m going to put one of my people on Elias’s apartment.”
“You have people?”
“Naturally. I’ll have someone watch for Poinaré. It seems he knows where you are staying. If we catch him there, we can tail him to where he’s staying and it will be easier to track him through pings.”
“Sounds good to me, but what if Chuck sees your guy? It won’t be pretty,” I said.
“He won’t.”
“If you say so. Anything else new?”
He told me about the Panera guy or at least who he thought the Panera guy was. Someone had used a stolen credit card on all three of the dates I’d given him and within fifteen minutes of Angela’s purchases. Novak had gone back and checked other dates randomly. Some had nothing and others had more stolen credit cards.
“Any idea who stole the cards?” I asked.
“Not yet. That’s the nothing.”
I sagged in my seat. If I didn’t find out what Angela had done before we had to leave Paris, I’d have to blindly lie to Calpurnia, a bad idea if I ever heard one, or tell her I found Angela and hope for the best. “No offense, but I think we need Spidermonkey. He has the American angle.”
“None taken and I agree. I called and left a message on his voice mail.”
“Nothing?”
“Not yet, but I heard angry wives are quite a deterrent.”
“My mother is. So that’s it?” I asked.
More furious typing. “The charges definitely belong to your target, the Panera guy, as you call him.”
“How can you tell?”
Novak made a tsking noise. “He orders the same thing every time. Kale salad and coffee.”
“A health nut,” I said.
“I assume so.”
“Are you trying to trace the stolen credit cards?”
“Without luck. They are part of a batch of stolen numbers. It will take time. I got a little more on the Marais apartment,” said Novak.
“Please say the owners,” I said.
“Sadly, no. I found out that Marcel Paul was the one who checked on the account in Switzerland until 1970.”
“Really? So he was super involved.”
“He was.”
“Who took over after him?” I asked.
“An American law firm in New York, Dietzel and Ford. Do you know them?” asked Novak.
“Not even a little bit. Who are they? Not litigation.”
“No. It’s corporate and huge.”
I groaned. Huge wasn’t good. We needed small. “It sounds like Marcel Paul was personal, a favor to a friend or something. But a big firm is business. Who got billed?”
“This arrangement only lasted until 1985. I didn’t see any billing.”
“There has to be billing. Those types don’t do anything for free,” I said.
“They don’t, but I didn’t find any record of billing. Perhaps Spidermonkey…”
I thanked him and hung up, reaching for the wine when my regular phone started vibrating.
“Maybe Chuck’s lost,” I said.
Aaron made a noise of derision before looking at the screen. “Spidermonkey.”
I snatched the phone out of his hand. “Are you serious?” He was. It was Spidermonkey’s number on the screen. I’d imagined the angry Loretta stomping on his second phone, but I guess he managed to calm her down, meaning lying to the wife effectively. I gave Aaron Novak’s phone and answered, unable to keep the relief and joy out of my voice.
“Hello. Thank god. I’ve been so worried,” I said.
“Who is this?” said a woman’s voice, not an unfamiliar one.
Oh crap!
“Er…”
In the background, I heard what sounded like Spidermonkey explaining something. I couldn’t quite make out what.
“Hello,” she said. “Who is this?”
There was nothing for it but to tell the truth and hope it would be okay. “Hello,” I said. “It’s Mercy Watts.”
“What is your association with my husband?” asked Loretta, very businesslike.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Don’t mess with me, young lady. How do you know my husband?”
I sighed and sipped my wine. It helped as wine always does. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You refuse to tell me? You absolutely refuse?” She was now breathless. I didn’t know what Loretta looked like, but I imagine hair standing on end and a bright red face.
“I can’t. But if you’re thinking it’s something…er…sexual, you’re completely and utterly wrong. Your husband is lovely and he would never ever in a million years betray you.”
Loretta was silent for a few minutes and then said, “He says he works for you. Prove it?”
“I would if I could,” I said.
“He says he was working for you when we were in Austria.”
“Well, yes, he was. We’re kind of partners.”
“That’s what he says. I want to know what you’re working on. The truth.”
“I can’t out your husband. I can’t. Ask him.”
Spidermonkey and Loretta bickered in the background before she said, “What’s his code name?”
“You tell me,” I said.
She did a delicate little snort. “He says Spidermonkey. I never heard anything more ridiculous. My husband isn’t a…hacker. He plays golf and builds forts for our grandchildren.”
“Are you really Loretta?” I asked. “The real Loretta.”
“Naturally. Who else would I be?” she asked.
“You just went on vacation with your husband. Where did you go?”
“Germany and Austria.”
That’s too easy.
“What did you do every afternoon?” I asked.
She paused. “I took a nap. I get tired. I’m not as young as I look.”
“You made your husband take a side trip, a dream of yours. What was it?”
“Dream of mine? You don’t mean the Sound of Music tour, do you?”
I laughed. “Hello, Mrs. Spidermonkey. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you completely serious? What he said…it’s outrageous.”
“It’s true. Your retired golfing husband is a super hacker and super cool, in my opinion. Why are you calling at this hour anyway? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I caught my super cool husband creeping down the stairs. I presume he was trying to get to this phone.”
“Probably. He tends to work at night after you go to bed,” I said.
“I don’t know what to think about all this. He’s sitting there, looking smug. I’m going to smack him,” said Loretta.
Aaron tapped the table and pointed out the window. Chuck was across the street, looking for a sign and, of course, not finding one.
“Go ahead and smack, but first tell him to call Novak. It’s critical.”
Loretta got all sharp and interested. “Critical, you say?”
“Absolutely critical. I’ve got to go.” I waved to Chuck and he smiled in relief.
“I’ll tell him,” said Loretta and I hung up right before Chuck came in.
“This place isn’t easy to find, even with directions.” He plopped down and drank my much-needed wine. “Who was on the phone?”
“You’ll never believe it.” I told him about Loretta and he was suitably astonished.
“I can’t believe he told her the truth.”
“I don’t think he had a choice if he wanted to stay married.”
“So he’s back on the job?”
“Let’s hope so.”
I crossed my fingers under the table.
Please, Loretta. Be cool.
Chuck asked me if Novak had called and I gave him a quick rundown as our appetizer arrived. I should’ve known, rillettes and foie gras. I wasn’t a huge fan of either, but, lucky for me, Chuck was starving and ate everything on his plate and mine so I didn’t insult the couple, who kept checking on our pr
ogress. Next was amazing roast chicken made with duck fat. The crispy potatoes that came with the chicken were so good I got teary-eyed. I didn’t know that could happen with the lowly potato. Aaron informed me that it was the duck fat. Best not to think about the calories.
I had to defend my plate from Chuck’s fork. He stole one potato and I very nearly stabbed his hand before I remembered I wasn’t the only one who’d been up to something that morning. “Did you get in the apartment?”
“If I had, I would’ve sent you pictures. That manager wasn’t playing. I get the feeling he was lucky to get the job and he’s not going to give me a damn thing,” said Chuck.
“Fabulous.” I resisted the urge to lick my plate. Instead, I smiled at the lady who was welcoming more customers, people who look like they’d been coming to lunch for years. There was much cheek kissing and exclamations of joy.
Her husband came over and asked about dessert. Aaron took charge and I got a mini cherry clafouti with crème anglaise. Delicious. Chuck inhaled his strawberry napoleon and then asked for a round of coffee, in French. He got a little bit sexier when he said it, which wasn’t great, since there didn’t seem to be any sex in my future.
“Don’t look so down,” he said. “That guy started the job a couple months ago. I say we try the former manager. If he’s anything like old retired cops, he won’t give a crap what anyone thinks.”
That was both a cheerful and a frightening thought. We could get info out of the old manager so that was good. But eventually, Chuck was going to be a retired cop who didn’t give a crap. I could barely handle when he did.
“Do we have the address?” I asked.
“I got it from Novak.”
“Do you want to try the old guy after lunch?”
“Nope,” he said. “Not today.”
“Why not?”
He leaned back in the little wooden chair he was perched on and stretched. All his muscles flexed under the perfectly-fitted silk polo Madam Ziegler picked out for him. It was so soft, it molded into the curves of his six pack, and I was momentarily transfixed. “Because we’re going to the Louvre. You said Friday is the best day.”
