“I’m right with you on the sketchbook going missing,” Joe said. “I don’t believe for a second that it was a coincidence, so I think it’s fairly safe to say that Malkolm knows the two of you are somehow linked to your friend, and to Mr. Barker.
“Barker told you that the man who contacted him about the gallery was English. Malkolm has only ever worked with two English handlers: Jennings, who Bella imprudently blew up before he could be properly questioned, and a man named Simon Reeves.
“Simon hasn’t worked with Malkolm for close to twenty years, and he was never particularly fond of him. But here’s the thing, Simon used to work as a butler for an English estate until he discovered that his services could extend beyond answering the door. He was one of Silva’s first recruits, did the job for about thirty years, and then began his career as a handler. He knows the names of every noteworthy English family in the country, as well as those living abroad.” Joe paused and smiled. “I called him this afternoon. He said he’d never heard of Alan Barker. He’s definitely our man.”
“Then why’s he helping Malkolm?” Vincent asked.
“That’s what I’d like to find out,” Joe said.
Frank wasn’t sure whether Joe knew about the Alcotts or not, but if Simon Reeves knew every wealthy family in England, Frank had a suspicion why he was helping Malkolm. “How much does Simon know about me?”
Joe sighed. “I had considered that, Frank. But Silva was very careful about who knew your last name. He filled me in on the situation when you came to the States because I would be primary backup for Charlie, and because honestly he was a little worried about Charlie trying something in the early days. None of the other associates we worked with were ever informed.
“Now it is possible that Jennings snapped a photo from your friend’s sketchbook while he had it. You said that Bella checked and found no text messages on his phone, although those could’ve easily been deleted. But even if Simon saw your portrait now it would be a pretty big stretch to link it to the newspapers from that long ago.”
Vincent’s brow knit in concern. “If he did put the two together, whose side would he be on? I mean, he works for those people, but if he was a servant then he isn’t one of them.”
“That’s a good point, Vincent. All I can say is that we go forward with our meeting tomorrow, and hope to find out. There is one more thing: the Canadian’s handler. If we don’t want people sniffing around getting suspicious about who killed Silva, we need to get rid of any character witnesses.”
“I’ll do it!”
“You will not,” Frank said. “Who’s the handler?”
“Stephen Lewis. I think you’ve met him.”
“Yes.” Frank had met him only once, but that had been more than enough. Lewis was like Charlie, only sleazier and less charming. He’d brought an intoxicated prostitute with him in his car when he delivered guns to Frank. Had Charlie not been there, requesting to borrow the woman, Frank may have killed Lewis then.
“He lives in Toronto. I would go myself, but…” Joe was hardly in a condition for international travel, much less murdering someone.
“I’ll do it!” Vincent piped in again.
“No, Bella will do it.” She’d already been paid for a job, and more than that, she’d already bought Casey plane tickets without consulting Frank first. At least with her accompanying him he’d have someone close by for additional protection, and getting rid of the two of them would give Frank some well needed privacy with Vincent.
“But—”
“We’ll have the house to ourselves for a few days.”
“Okay.” Vincent draped himself across Frank’s shoulder with a contented sigh.
“That’s settled then. You want me to arrange travel for her?”
Frank hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll get you her information.”
Joe stood and put some cash on the table for the drink no one had touched. Frank had always had to pay for Charlie’s drinks.
“Bye, Joe,” Vincent said. “Frank says bye, too.”
Frank nodded. He had to admit that meeting with Joe had been reassuring. With the facts about Malkolm laid out and a potential solution on the horizon, he felt like things were finally back under his control. Then he glanced at Vincent, and realized he was scribbling down Simon Reeves in Silva’s book. Frank slapped his hand. “Vincent James Sullivan, you do not pickpocket your handler! And no more writing in the book!”
Joe stepped back into the club with the quintessential one is not amused expression on his face. “Sullivan-Moreaux,” V corrected. “And he’s our handler.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Guns! Guns! Guns! I gave Joe a huge bear hug. “Merry Christmas!”
“You’re a few days early, kid,” he said.
“And you forgot the rocket launcher, but I’m still in the holiday spirit.” I stuck a pistol down the back of my pants and slung the leather bag containing my new rifle over my shoulder without even asking whether I’d be allowed to play sniper this morning. Frank hated sniper jobs, and it wasn’t like Joe was going to hobble to the top of a building to do it. Although, there was a serious shortage of skyscrapers in the center of Paris, and the sole building we’d found that actually fit our needs and had a view of Alan’s gallery was barely taller than the gallery itself.
It was still dark out, the welcoming aroma of fresh croissants and pains au chocolat radiating from the nearby patisseries. The bakeries wouldn’t be open for another hour, and by then I’d hopefully be too busy murdering to enjoy more than the smell.
Frank and I went up to the roof to get into position, and Joe headed to Alan’s gallery. Our meeting with the mystery buyer wasn’t until the afternoon, but we weren’t taking any chances. “You’re only up here as a precaution,” Frank reminded me. “Do not shoot anyone unless you see a threat. And do not shoot Alan.”
I fully intended to shoot someone today, but for once Alan wasn’t at the top of my list. He was coming to the gallery later, just in case it was a legitimate business offer. “What if Alan turns out to be a threat?”
“Alan isn’t even a threat to tea, Vincent.”
I shrugged and set up my rifle, placing a blanket over the cold cement before lying on my front. We’d be here awhile, and I wasn’t about to freeze my balls off. Frank smoked a cigarette, waiting for the sun to come up. “Are you warm enough?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. It just so happened that I was wearing my warmest pajamas. Not that that really said much, considering I slept naked most of the time. “You’re babying me.”
“Fine.” He yanked his scarf off my neck, strangling me slightly in the process and making me too excited to hold my prostrate position on the roof.
I sat up. “Okay, I’m sorry. Yes, I’m warm enough. With the scarf.”
Frank wrapped it back around my neck, giving it a firm squeeze before letting go. “It’s cold up here. Even for me.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not staying up here.” I leaned my face up to him so he’d get the hint and give me a kiss goodbye. Frank would be at the gallery with Joe in case anything went down once everyone was inside. I got to cover the entrance.
He pulled me a little closer by the scarf, kissing me all too briefly. “I have to go.”
I nodded, turning to watch him walk away. He glanced back to smile at me, just as the doorknob to the roof entrance turned. I swung the rifle around and fired, shooting the face off some guy in the doorway. The man dropped his bag and dropped to his knees, then toppled over onto the roof. Frank grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out of the entryway, shutting the door behind him. “Who the hell is that?” I gasped.
“How the hell should I know?” He turned the man’s face, or lack thereof, toward me. “Recognize him?”
“Gee, Frank, I was a little more concerned with killing him than leaving a pretty corpse!” I grabbed the man’s bag and tore it open. We had the same rifle. “Ha! Early sniper gets the perch!”
Frank glowered at me and went for the man’s wallet and cell phone. He called Joe from his own phone. “We had company.” He nodded. Telephone conversations had always been a bit challenging for Frank. He wasn’t very good at verbalizing. “No, it’s taken care of.” He paused. “Hans Schmidt according to his ID. Yes. Okay.” He hung up. “Joe said we should come down. If Simon used Hans, Malkolm isn’t coming.”
That meant Simon wasn’t coming either. At least with Malkolm we knew he was an enemy. I went back to the ledge to put my rifle away, only to have Frank tear the scarf off my neck again. “Are you that cold?”
“No, you shot me.”
No wonder he was so cranky! I held my hands to my face, apologizing between my fingers. “Is it bad?” He lifted his shirt a little. I’d taken a chunk out of his side, right above his hip. “I’m totally sleeping on the sofa tonight, aren’t I?”
Frank wrapped the scarf around his waist, knotting the ends at his wound. “It was an excellent shot, V.”
No sofa for me! “Good thing it wasn’t a blank, huh?” Considering that the only reason I used to get the first one blank to begin with was to prevent me from shooting him, it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to say. “At least it wasn’t a rocket launcher.”
He scowled. “Sofa. And you’re coming back up here to clean up this mess.”
I nodded. I was also stuck carrying both rifles back down to the gallery. It was fortunate that it was still so early. Even I didn’t look innocent enough to carry around two black duffel bags.
I handed Hans’ personal effects to Joe, watching guiltily as Frank went to the bathroom to clean up his wound. To think just a few months ago we were in there reuniting with Bella.
“Is he okay?” Joe asked.
“He was blocking my shot.”
Joe winced. “You’re on the sofa tonight.”
“Yup.”
We waited until Frank returned, then Joe used Hans’ phone to call Simon. He put it on speakerphone right as Simon answered, “Are you in position?”
“I don’t think Hans is a morning person,” Joe said.
Simon clicked his tongue. “Dear me. Was he late?”
“Well, he’s late now. Don’t tell me you went to the trouble of getting Hans out of bed just for me, Simon.”
“A mere precaution, Joseph. You obviously took precautions yourself.”
“Yes, but I was hoping Malkolm might show up.”
Simon laughed. “The simpering fool. No, just me and Hans. I offered to get some information for Malkolm as a favor.”
“Since when do you offer Malkolm favors?” Joe asked. Straight to the fucking point!
“Since he offered to give me Silva’s book. I’m guessing you have it now?”
“Not on me.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much. You probably sleep with it tucked under your pillow.” Ouch. “I want it.”
“And I want information on Malkolm. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement with the book.”
I was about to protest when Frank grabbed my mouth. I scowled and went to pace the gallery, moving away from them so I could mutter profanities under my breath. If I’d known that Joe was going to give away our hits I never would’ve given him the book.
“What sort of arrangement?” Simon asked.
“What sort of information can you give me?”
Simon grumbled in frustration. I was right there with him. “Malkolm called me a few days ago. His handler had apparently followed some boy from the haute couture shops to the art gallery. I’m assuming you know this already?”
I looked to Frank. Simon hadn’t mentioned the apartment, but that didn’t necessarily mean Malkolm wasn’t aware of it.”
“Keep going.”
“This boy had drawings of Bella, whom Malkolm is obviously seeking. The boy’s signature on whatever painting he was carrying was unfortunately illegible.” And fortunately Casey's wallet was in his pocket. “Malkolm asked me to speak with Mr. Barker, and find out who he represents so we could get the boy’s name, perhaps find an address. Would you like me to provide Malkolm with a name?”
Casey’s signature being illegible was something Frank had insisted upon when it became clear that the kid’s career was going somewhere. The C and E were about the only distinguishable characters. Joe glanced briefly at Frank. “Caleb Ewing.”
“Not his real name?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Shall we meet at the agreed time then? We can go over the book.”
“That would be fine, but someplace else.” Joe looked at the scarf tied around Frank’s waist. “Hans was a bit messy.”
“Gare du Nord? I’m actually still in London. I was going to take the chunnel. That’s the tunnel under the English Channel.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “I know what it is.”
“It’s settled then. Ta!” He hung up.
“Those were our hits,” I said.
Frank put his hands on my shoulders. “We needed the information, V.”
“But he could’ve been lying!”
Joe calmly said, “We have leverage, Vincent. We know what he wants. I’ll meet with him, give him a few hits, and if he continues to provide useful information, he can have a few more. Not everything in that book can afford to be put on hold while you two deal with Malkolm. Some of the hits are time sensitive and we don’t know when this Malkolm situation will be over.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
“You fellas take care of the body and go home. I’ll deal with Simon this afternoon. If I get any more information from him I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” Frank said.
Joe handed me the contents of Hans’ wallet. “It wasn’t technically a job, but I’m sure Frank mentioned that you shouldn’t work for free.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Joe.”
“I bet you feel good now that you’ve shot someone, don’t you?”
“I’d feel a lot better if I hadn’t shot my husband.”
Frank grumbled and muttered, “That makes two of us.” He obviously wouldn’t be joining me on the sofa this time.
Chapter Seventy-Five
It might’ve been a sign of my maturity level that I still woke up early on Christmas morning, but after spending most of my childhood thinking my life would end before my eighteenth birthday, then nearly having it end shortly after, I figured I was allowed to creep down the stairs before the sun came up.
This was the one day of the year I woke up before Frank, and since I already knew what he got me, I headed to the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.
Casey was at the table in his yellow jellybean pants and a shirt that matched his stupid purple hat, talking on his cell phone.
“Merry Christmas, Maggie!” I called out, even though it would still only be Christmas Eve in Oregon. Poor Casey. He was more of a mamma’s boy than Frank. This was probably the first Christmas they’d ever spent apart, and she hadn’t even been here to mend his black eye.
“She says ‘Merry Christmas’, Vin.”
I smiled at him and started the coffee, helping myself to the sweet treats Frank had spent all night baking. He couldn’t stay brooding over being shot by his husband when there was Christmas to attend to. I brought Casey the second cup of coffee from the pot. The first cup was Frank’s, who was nice enough to save me the trip upstairs by coming down to get what would’ve been his coffee in bed.
“Joyeaux Noël,” he said, addressing Casey first but kissing me so it made up for it. “Morning, baby.”
Casey hung up his phone, then nearly dropped his coffee cup. “You’re up early.”
Bella was more than up early, she was fully dressed, wearing the perfume she’d spritzed in our library that smelled like sexy cookies and carrying a large red purse. Everyone else was in pajamas. “Shall we open presents?” she asked, a familiar evil grin on her face. I didn’t want to open presents from Bella, and not just because I hadn’t gotten her anything in return. “Come here
, Vincent.”
“What did I do?” I whined. Frank not only released me, but actually pushed me toward her. She pulled a small box out of her purse, small enough to be a girly bomb to blow off my face. “Happy Christmas.”
“Open it, Vin!” Casey exclaimed, obviously unaware that I was about to be killed. Or worse, horribly disfigured!
“Open it, Vin.” Frank gave me another shove forward.
I grabbed the box and ripped it open while they were all close enough for shrapnel. Then I screamed like a little girl and hugged my new best friend in the whole wide world.
“You’ll have to pick it up in the city, but you already know what it looks like.”
I held my new car keys, not caring that I couldn’t—wouldn’t drive in this country. I had a Ferrari. Vincent Sullivan-Moreaux owned a Ferrari! Again!
Bella winked at me, which reminded me that I was still scared of her. “Frankie’s turn.”
Frank didn’t like getting presents. I was still only allowed to buy him books to show my appreciation, or provide sexual services. Every Christmas he would buy me a coat, and I would buy him all the copies of Wuthering Heights that I could get my hands on. Those were the first gifts we’d ever given each other, and it was tradition. He did not look pleased when Casey brought two wrapped boxes from his bedroom.
“From both of us.” Bella smiled. Casey was smiling too, but it was the I’m-about-to-get-in-trouble smile I knew all too well.
Frank suspiciously opened the first box, giving the two of them a dirty look despite the obvious quality of his new boots. Casey beamed at him. “I figured you could use them.”
“Hmm,” Frank grumbled as he opened the next box. More boots.
“Sorry,” Casey winced, then burst out laughing when Frank turned the left one upside down and a bullet fell out.
Frank set the boots on a kitchen chair and picked up the bullet before Kiki could try eating it.
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 38
