The Wife of Riley

by A W Hartoin

  “It’s three. Go back to sleep. I’m having a nightmare.”

  Click.

  My Serbian snoop hung up on me. The nerve. I wasn’t crazy or a nightmare. I was right.

  I tried again. “Novak. Listen to me.”

  He groaned. “You again. What do I have to do?”

  “Listen, obviously. The Corsicans were after me, not Chuck. That’s the important thing and we were ignoring it.”

  “The Klinefeld Group thinks you have information.”

  “Chuck and I are working together on the Marais apartment. Poinaré saw us together there. It’s pretty obvious. Chuck should, in theory, know what I know.”

  Novak started to sound more awake. “Yes. This is true.”

  “But they went after me when Chuck was off doing apartment stuff and I was chasing Angela. Chuck could’ve gotten in the apartment and found the box or whatever The Klinefeld Group wants, but Poinaré didn’t care. It’s not about the apartment. It’s Angela they want. Poinaré was hoping I’d lead him to her.”

  A flurry of typing started. “Budala” he muttered.

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “I’m an idiot. Of course, he’s after Angela. It’s the reason you are here in Paris.”

  “Yeah, well, it seems obvious now, but the Corsicans didn’t show up until we found out about the apartment. It made sense at the time.”

  Novak groused and continued typing. “He’s in his room. No activity.”

  “You found where he’s staying already?” I asked, astonished.

  “Simple. Poinaré was outside Elias’s when you got back tonight. He stayed until the lights went out and then returned to his hotel. George V.”

  “Holy crap. Crime really does pay.”

  “He has a standard room, not a suite.”

  “Still, that’s high class,” I said.

  “Yes. The price on Angela must be very high. My information says Poinaré is very good, and therefore, very expensive. Now that we have his location, I can warn you when he leaves in the morning and keep tabs on his internet activities.”

  “I thought he was encrypted.”

  “He is, but I have his room. He’s using the hotel server. I can’t see what he’s doing on the websites his room is accessing, but I can see what they are. He’s the only one in the hotel who is interested in Corsican news. Have you told Spidermonkey and his lady yet?”

  “So you talked to Loretta?” I asked.

  Novak laughed and then yawned. “Yes. His life is going to be more difficult in the future.”

  I agreed and hung up before calling Spidermonkey, ready for a grilling by Loretta. I didn’t get it. Spidermonkey answered and was wide awake, fueled by buckets of coffee. He was thrilled by my revelation. It made his life easier. He could look for a crime family with Corsican connections instead of looking at anybody who was into credit card fraud, which was pretty much everybody.

  “I got it narrowed to the East coast before this,” he said. “The cards were primarily used in Maryland, Jersey, and New York. St. Louis is an aberration.”

  “So definitely not anyone from Calpurnia’s crew?” I asked.

  “I’d say no. Go back to sleep. I’ve got a connection to find.”

  “Say hi to Loretta for me.”

  “I will.”

  I cuddled down into the pit, going to sleep straight away. For the first time since sleeping in Elias’s bed, I had no dreams. Knowing Poinaré was sleeping in his luxury linens was a good thing.

  Chuck was on fire. He had me up and out of the apartment by nine. I wasn’t thrilled. He didn’t care. We were getting into the Marais that very day. He was certain of it and he wanted to get out to interview the old apartment manager before he went out for the day and we lost our chance.

  It was Chuck that insisted I wear the three-piece suit and Casablanca hat. I felt like I was wearing a costume, but he said I looked hot so I went with it. I think he was just trying to get me out the door and would’ve said I looked hot if I’d been wearing footy pajamas.

  He tried to skip getting Aaron because he was afraid it’d be a class day and he was done with me baking. I insisted because I had to hand over Novak’s phone.

  Aaron answered the door and said we didn’t have class. I ducked into the kitchen to say goodbye to Monsieur Barre, but he was in a stupor over being fed New York-style cheesecake for breakfast and could barely nod. We walked down the stairs instead of squeezing into the tiny elevator. Chuck started to unlock the building’s front door and Aaron grabbed my arm.

  I stepped behind Chuck’s back and Aaron flashed me the screen on Novak’s phone. 112. Huh? I didn’t get it. Aaron mouthed, “911.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Chuck opened the door and turned around. Aaron hid the phone behind his back and I’m sure we both looked guilty as hell.

  “Oh what?” he asked.

  “I…uh…forgot to tell Monsieur Barre a…um…message from The Girls,” I said.

  Aaron and I took a step back.

  “Leave it,” said Chuck. “You can call him.”

  “I could do that,” I said.

  Chuck frowned at me. “So call him.”

  I glanced out the door at the bright sunshine slanting down through the trees. “Um…you should check outside. You know, in case Poinaré’s out there waiting.”

  “He doesn’t know about this place.”

  “I think he might. He followed Aaron and me yesterday somehow.”

  Chuck stepped out with one foot. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. I’ll take a look.”

  I pushed him the rest of the way out the door and closed it. “Thank god.”

  Aaron gave me the phone and I’ve never dialed so fast in my life. “What happened?”

  Novak’s voice came through tight and fast. “He’s on the move as of three minutes ago.”

  “By on the move, you mean…”

  “Left his room,” he said.

  I heaved a sigh. “Dude, you scared me. So he’s still in the hotel, nowhere close to me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Elias’s. About to walk out the door. We’re going to the old Marais manager.”

  “Good, you’re closer. You’ve got to ditch Chuck now.”

  “Did I miss something?” I asked.

  “I told you I was monitoring Poinaré’s internet use?”

  Aaron bobbed up and down, pointing to the door. Chuck would be back any second.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Get to it.”

  “He checked out the Conciergerie this morning about five minutes before he left.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s where Angela is volunteering this morning.”

  My heart started pounding and so did Chuck on the door. “He doesn’t know who she is.”

  “We didn’t think he knew about Elias’s apartment, but he found out. Get over there and warn the woman.”

  “He’s going to kill her,” I said breathlessly.

  “Yes.”

  Shit. Double shit.

  I saw the code being put into the security system. Chuck was coming to get me. I had to lie or tell the truth. No truth. Truth bad.

  He opened the door. “What the hell, Mercy? We’ve got to go. We could miss this geezer.”

  “I know,” I said, pushing between his bunched pecs. “So you have to go right now.”

  He grabbed my wrist. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I can’t…family crisis. The Girls and Barre, the sketches. I have to deal with it.”

  “You can do that later,” he said.

  I pushed again. “No, no. I can’t because…”

  I’ve got nothing. Say something. Something now.

  Aaron came to my rescue and peeled Chuck’s fingers off my wrist. “Mercy owes The Girls.”

  Chuck relaxed. “Sorry. Of course you owe them. Hell, I owe them. Maybe I should stay, too.”

  Aaron and I pushed together. “No. Not necessary. You go. This won’t take long. Be the
re asap. Bye.”

  Chuck went out the door and I closed it firmly behind him. “God that was a pain.”

  “You could tell him the truth,” said Aaron.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll get right on that.”

  I took Aaron’s hand and dragged him top speed through the building and out into the inner courtyard that was surrounded by all the buildings on the block. There was a service entrance two buildings down from Elias’s. We squeezed out past a plumbing van and two flower delivery trucks and peeked out onto the street. Chuck was nowhere to be seen. Thank God.

  We ran left and dashed over cobblestones and through narrow streets across the Ile de Saint Louis to the Pont de la Tournelle. We sprinted across the arched expanse to the left bank. It was too far to run, especially in my kitten heels. Poinaré would beat me. George V was much farther, but he’d be in a cab. Cab. I needed a cab.

  I looked up and down the street, packed with cars and scooters. “We need a cab. We’ll never make it.”

  Aaron didn’t shrug or say, “Huh?” He stepped out into the middle of the street and flagged down a scooter.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  He waved me over. “He’ll take you.”

  “He’ll take me?”

  “Yeah.”

  The scooter guy flipped up his visor and his blue eyes widened. He was about eighteen and couldn’t believe his luck.

  “Conciergerie?” I asked, praying he wasn’t a freak.

  He looked me up and down. “Êtes-vous une actrice?”

  I said yes. I didn’t give it a moment’s consideration. I could be an actress. Why not? He held out his hand and I perched on the back of his seat, sidesaddle with my skirt hitched up. The Girls were right again. I did need to know how to ride sidesaddle and it did come in handy. Who would’ve thunk it?

  Scooter guy revved his engine and we peeled off, weaving between cars and a couple of buses, but he was fast, super fast. That seven-minute ride took at least three years off my life. The roads were incredibly crowded and there was, in the distance, an odd, booming sound like music, but not that good.

  We cut off a cab and zipped onto the Pont Saint-Michel, then braked so hard I cracked my nose on my driver’s shoulder.

  “Pardon!” he yelled before hitting the accelerator and racing onto the wrong side of the road. I pictured my un-helmeted head hitting the concrete. This was such a bad idea. We drove onto the island and the crowds got worse. There were musicians everywhere and scooter guy drove up onto the sidewalk, scaring the crap out of a tour group. Their flag bearer dropped her flag and screamed at us in German.

  “You’re going to kill us!” I yelled.

  I could feel him laughing through his leather jacket. “We get there, Mademoiselle.”

  He jolted to a stop to avoid ramming a gelato cart. The rear wheel popped up and I screamed. He laughed again and we zoomed around the cart. I could see the black spires of the old prison up ahead. Almost there. And that’s when I saw the source of the boom, a freaking parade float right in the middle of the street. We had to stop. The crowd was huge, surrounding the unmoving float and band behind it. All I could see was a pyramid that looked like it was made of gold tinfoil.

  “What is it?” I yelled.

  “Futbol,” he yelled.

  What the…

  I hopped off the back of the scooter, hugged him, and ran into the crowd. Everything was at a dead stop. I pushed my way through the crowd, none too gently, and got a load of what was so exciting. I should’ve known. Girls in scant bikinis danced on a platform. I couldn’t see any connection in the Mayan theme to futbol, but that wasn’t bothering the transfixed crowd. I shoved my way past, marveling that the cars stuck behind the float weren’t honking. They sat there patiently as I squeezed past them. I was concentrating so hard on going fast that I went right past the ticket office and didn’t realize it until I was in front of the Palais de Justice courtyard.

  “Shit!” I spun around and ran back to the office. They hadn’t opened yet and I pounded on the tall glass door, shouting, “Emergency! Help!”

  People were staring at me.

  Oh right. Wrong words. What are the right words?

  “Urgence! Nécessité!” I shouted at the door. Angela should be there. She was supposed to volunteer at nine-thirty.

  The doors rattled and an older woman opened the right one. She was shocked at my barrage of bad French.

  “You can speak English,” she said.

  “Thank goodness. I’m looking for Angela…I mean, I’m looking for Corinne Sweet. I understand she volunteers here. It’s an emergency, a family matter. I have to find her. Is she here?” I asked, all in a rush.

  “Come in. Come in,” she said, waving to the ticket desk and the security guard behind it. They fought about letting me in for a minute before he relented.

  “Mademoiselle Sweet should be here,” she said. “But I don’t know where she is.”

  “You have to buy a ticket,” said the guard.

  “Fine.” I dug in my purse.

  “Not now. When the museum and chapel is open.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, giving him the big eyes before looking over my shoulder in case Poinaré had caught up with me. He hadn’t.

  “Laurie,” said the woman. “Let her in. It’s only a few minutes.”

  He grumped and insisted on rummaging through my purse and giving me a pat down. I bet none of the other tourists would be getting that. The woman smacked him with a brochure until he sold me a dual ticket for Sainte-Chapelle and the prison. I grabbed my purse off the counter and rushed for the courtyard door, only to double back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to them. “There might be a man coming, a Corsican. He’s looking for Mademoiselle Sweet, too, and he’ll probably have a gun. Don’t let him in.”

  They both exclaimed and I ran into the courtyard before they could stop me. The door to the prison tour was already open and I darted inside. My heels clicked on the stone steps as I ran down into the Men-at-Arms hall, an enormous area with graceful stone arches where they used to keep condemned prisoners during the revolution. It was eerily empty and my footsteps echoed off the giant fireplaces and attacked my ears.

  At the end of the hall, I dashed up the stairs to the bookstore. A woman jerked upright from behind the counter at my sudden appearance.

  “Corinne Sweet? Ou est elle?” I gasped.

  “Corinne?”

  “Oui.”

  She pointed to the door to the rest of the tour and I ran up more stairs, past the memorial plaque to the cells. There was a man there, sweeping and getting ready for the opening.

  “Corinne Sweet.” I could hardly get it out.

  He told me she was in the cell down the stairs. I assumed he meant Marie Antoinette’s cell and went for it. Lucky for me, there was only one way to go or I’d have gotten lost. I ran into the small chapel where prisoners prayed for a reprieve and then looked into the Queen’s chapel, built where the Queen spent her last day. Its walls of silver tears were barely visible in the dim morning light.

  Empty, of course.

  Poinaré would be coming. I screeched in rage and a head popped up in the window to the women’s courtyard. Angela. She looked right at me and her eyes widened. She recognized me from the Orsay. Damn my face. Even with the hat, it was memorable.

  She ran for it and I dashed out the door to the courtyard in time to see her enter the far door to the Queen’s recreated cell.

  “Wait!” I yelled. “Angela!”

  I chased her back through the prison, into the bookstore, and down into the big hall, past the fireplaces and dodging pillars. She was fast and wearing flats, not teetering on heels. Our footsteps bounced off the stone walls and she hit the stairs at full speed.

  “Angela! No! Don’t go out there! He’s out there!” I screamed so loud it hurt my ears, but she didn’t stop. She ran full steam up the stairs and disappeared. I followed, but not fast enough. By the time I got outside, she
was running past the gate guard. She was supposed to stop and be checked, but it happened so fast, they let her blow by. I wasn’t so lucky. The first guard grabbed me and the other pointed his pistol at me. If I’d had any sense, I’d have stopped. I didn’t, so I stomped on the guard’s foot and slipped past the other one through the gate. I guess he wasn’t prepared to shoot an unarmed woman.

  The guards yelled after me as I went straight into the parade madness on the street. The float was still there and the girls were still dancing. I spotted Angela when she looked over her shoulder for me. I yelled for her, but nobody could’ve heard me over the din of the band.

  She ran past the ticket office and a man stepped out. Poinaré. This time he’d replaced the fanny pack with snug jeans, a fitted tee, and a bulky backpack. He had tattoos up his arms, black hair, and bushy sideburns, but I knew him instantly, not so much by his looks but by his tense manner. The grumpy security officer came out behind him and said something. Poinaré ignored him and went for Angela full throttle. She saw him. There was no mistaking that look. I’d seen it when he tried to nab me in the metro and on Michel Colonna’s face on the sewer tour. She turned into the crowd with Poinaré right behind her and the officer behind him.

  “Arrête-le!” I had nothing. Just freaking pepper spray, and I was too far away.

  Angela darted into the band, ducking behind a tuba player. The startled musician turned and blocked Poinaré and the security officer grabbed his arm, spinning the assassin around. The men were face to face. Poinaré’s shoulder jerked and a jolt of surprise came over the officer’s face. He staggered back into the crowd, still clutching Poinaré’s arm. I ran past them and chased Angela’s bobbing head through the rest of the band into the stopped traffic.

  I didn’t remember that boulevard being so long. It seemed like miles with the crowd and the cars. Angela zigzagged past the float and shoved her way through the line at the Berthillon stand on the corner before the bridge. People yelled and shook their fists at her as she knocked ice cream to the ground and crepes went flying. She glanced over her shoulder at me, a look of sheer terror on her face and then something happened. Her face changed. In that glance, I saw it. Angela Riley changed her mind. She had cornered around Berthillon and was positioned to run down the length of the Ile de Cité toward Notre Dame. Instead, she did a U-turn and ran onto the bridge, weaving through the dense crowds and bumper-to-bumper traffic.