Kim and Whitey reached the corner.
A blue van screeched to a halt in front of them.
Whitey grabbed Sherman’s granddaughter, and she screamed, “I don’t have it anymore! I threw it—”
The pale man pushed her inside. The van squealed away, leaving the Nose, who had slowed to a walk. I hadn’t. He saw me coming just before I tackled him and knocked him to the street.
“What is this?” he yelled, and began to struggle beneath me. “Police!”
“You like hitting people with hammers?” I shouted, and was about to pop him low and in the back so he’d stop squirming.
But out of the corner of my eye, I saw something white and brown launch at me from between the parked cars. On instinct, I ducked a second before it landed on me and started viciously biting at my ear and neck.
Surprised by the pain, I rolled off the guy below me, and tried to defend myself. But the dog was in a frenzy, making these satanic throat noises that had me convinced a pit bull or something like it was attacking me.
“Napoleon!” a man shouted. “Napoleon, no!”
As soon as he yelled, the biting stopped, and I sat up, feeling blood drip from my ear and from wounds to my neck. The Nose was gone, and a twenty-two-pound wirehaired Jack Russell terrier sat about two feet from me, tongue hanging from his bloody muzzle as he panted through what looked like a smile.
A tanned man in jeans and a black leather jacket was running across the street, looking mortified. “Napoleon, what have you done?”
The dog was wagging its tail but barked when Louis pulled up, gasping and looking at my wounds in disbelief.
“I am so sorry, monsieur,” the man said. He was in his early forties, carried a leash, and was built robustly for a Parisian. “I’ve never seen him do anything remotely like that! Bad dog, Napoleon! You are a little terrorist!”
The dog cringed and lay flat on the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” the man asked me.
“Does he look all right?” Louis asked, handing me a handkerchief.
“My God, you’ll need stitches,” the man said.
“And a rabies shot,” Louis said.
“Napoleon is up to date on all his shots,” his owner said.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I just need to see a doctor.”
“Of course,” the man said. “There’s one nearby, I’m sure.”
“We’ll take you to Private Paris’s contracted doctor, Jack,” Louis said.
“Private Paris?” the man said, sounding surprised.
“We both work for the company,” I said, gingerly touching my ear.
“This makes it all the worse, then,” the man said. “Again, I am so sorry for my little terrorist’s activities, and…”
“You have a name, sir?” Louis asked. “Somewhere we can contact you with the bill?”
He hesitated, but then reached into his coat and handed Louis a business card. “My name is Rivier, Phillipe Rivier. I’m just up here from Nice on business.”
Louis glanced at the card as I got up, and the dog came up off its belly and growled. Rivier took a quick step toward the dog and it lay down fast.
“Be quiet now,” he growled. “You’re in big trouble when you get home.”
“How about you put the emperor on his leash?” Louis said.
“Oh,” Rivier said, looking chagrined. “It’s just that he’s usually spot-on with his voice commands and—”
“The leash,” Louis said.
“Right,” Rivier said, and clipped the lead on the little dog’s collar.
Louis’s cell rang, and he turned to answer it.
Rivier smiled weakly at me. “Again, I couldn’t be more sorry. And please, I’m more than happy to pay for all medical expenses—and dinner. Let me buy you dinner, Monsieur…?”
“Morgan. Jack Morgan,” I said.
“Please. We are here for another day or two. Call me if you think of it. You have the number there.”
Louis turned, the cell pressed tight to his ear and his eyes squinting.
“I can’t promise anything,” I said, glancing at the dog, which had not taken its attention from me.
Rivier smiled weakly, and went off, scolding the dog, which skulked along beside him.
My ear was throbbing, and I was berating myself for letting Big Nose get away, when Louis said, “No one else sees it until we get there, Ali. And get the concierge doctor on duty to meet us at the offices. Jack’s suffered a dog bite and requires stitches.”
He hung up, looking shaken.
“That was Farad. AB-16 just sent Private Paris a letter, Jack, and he says the contents are beyond explosive.”
Chapter 54
15th Arrondissement
6:20 p.m.
“WHY YOU, LOUIS?” Sharen Hoskins demanded the second she barged through the doors into the lobby of Private Paris’s offices, which were situated in a newer building near the Porte de Versailles.
“It was not addressed to me, but to our newest associate,” Louis said. “Ali Farad, a recruit from the narcotics bureau in Marseille. The second Farad saw what it was, he acted to protect it, and the envelope, then called me immediately. Then I called you immediately, non?”
“Where is it?” said Juge Fromme, who limped in behind the investigateur. “What does it say?”
“It’s in the lab being analyzed by our best people, and we only just got here,” I said. “We haven’t read it.”
“Stop all tests until we’ve seen it,” Fromme insisted.
“As you wish, juge,” Louis said. “We are on your side here.”
“That remains to be seen,” Fromme replied curtly. “Take us to it.”
Louis went to a bulletproof door below a security camera and put his hand on a fingerprint reader, his eye to a retina scanner. The door whooshed open.
“You expecting terrorists?” Fromme demanded.
“We always prepare for the worst-case scenario,” I said.
Louis led us into a large open area where the agents worked, and then down a staircase to the lab, which was virtually identical to our state-of-the-art facility in Los Angeles. Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, who ran the L.A. lab and was better known to us as Sci, also oversaw all forensics for Private, and he insisted that every lab be as well equipped as his.
It had cost me a small fortune, but the results were convincing. Outside of the FBI’s labs at Quantico, and Scotland Yard’s facilities in London, Private’s forensics were the finest in the world.
We passed techs working on evidence from the two AB-16 crime scenes on our way to an anteroom, where we were issued clean white paper jumpsuits, latex gloves, and operating room caps and shoe covers. After passing through an air lock, we entered a clean room where Ali Farad was watching Marc Petitjean, Private Paris’s head of forensics. Petitjean was peering through a ten-inch magnifying glass mounted in a frame above a plastic evidence sleeve containing a piece of paper and an envelope.
“Move away from the evidence, please,” Fromme said.
Petitjean, who had a strong French ego, looked insulted and almost started to protest, but Louis and I both made cutting signs across our necks.
“Juge Fromme and Investigateur Hoskins wish to read the letter, Marc,” Louis said.
“There is much here besides the letter,” Petitjean said, openly peeved as he stepped aside so the magistrate could limp to the workbench and pick up the evidence sleeve.
He and Hoskins studied it for several moments, growing graver and paler by the second, which made me wonder what in the hell the letter said.
“Who has seen this?” Fromme demanded.
“Just myself and Marc,” Ali Farad said.
“It will remain that way,” the magistrate said. “This comes with me.”
“Wait. What?” Louis said. “Our lab meets—”
“I don’t care,” the magistrate said. “French national security is at stake, and under our censorship law, I forbid these two from disseminating this
message in any way whatsoever. Are we clear?”
Neither Farad nor Petitjean seemed happy about it, but they nodded.
“How did the letter arrive?” Hoskins asked. “There’s no stamp.”
“It was there at the front desk, waiting,” said Farad. “Juliette, the receptionist, went to the toilette, returned, and it was there.”
“Did we pick up the drop-off on security tapes?” I asked.
Farad hesitated. “I hadn’t looked.”
“We need to,” Louis said, nodding to Petitjean.
The scientist picked up an iPad and asked Farad, “About what time?”
He shrugged. “An hour ago?”
Petitjean gave the iPad some instructions, and a flat-screen hanging above the examination table blinked on, showing the lobby with a running time stamp. Farad had the envelope in hand and was talking to Juliette. The scientist sped the tape in reverse, and we saw images of Farad walking backward through the bulletproof glass door, and then the receptionist returning to find the letter.
“There he is,” Louis said when the squiggly image of a man went by. “Take us to when he comes in.”
Petitjean rewound further and hit play. A man with swarthy skin, a scruffy black beard, and sunglasses entered the lobby carrying a motorcycle helmet with the FEZ Couriers logo clearly visible. He dug in a messenger bag with gloved hands, came up with a manila envelope, and left it, turned, and exited the lobby.
“You don’t get a very good look at him, do you?” Hoskins asked.
It was true. Other than the suggestion of Arab features and the color of his neck and cheek, he gave us no clear view of his face.
“There’ll be a record at FEZ of who the messenger was and where the letter came from,” Louis said.
“I can call Firmus Massi,” Farad said. “We attend the same mosque.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Fromme said, eyeing him before turning to Petitjean. “You indicated there was more here than the letter.”
“Physical evidence,” Petitjean confirmed. “Under fluorescent light you can see several stains on the page. And there were hair fragments in the envelope and in the glue. Three of them. And what looked like fabric lint.”
“They’re here?” Fromme said, shaking the evidence sleeve.
“Here,” Petitjean said, holding out four small sealed sleeves that carried stickers and numbers indicating that they’d already been logged into our system.
Fromme took these as well, and had Hoskins take note of the time of day and the names of the witnesses to the evidence exchange.
“Monsieur Farad?” the magistrate said.
“Yes?”
“You will need to come with us.”
“Why?”
“We want to know why you received the letter.”
“I can tell you right here. I have no idea.”
“And the fact that it came from a messenger from a friend’s service?”
“Massi is more an acquaintance than a friend,” Farad said. “We attend the same mosque. Beyond that, it’s a coincidence.”
“Perhaps,” Fromme said. “But we would like you to come with us, or I can have Investigateur Hoskins arrest you and bring you in for questioning.”
“Juge,” Louis sputtered. “What you’re insinuating here is…Farad was a decorated officer with the Sûreté, and Private Paris is—”
“Out of this investigation,” the magistrate said strongly. “This has gone to a whole different level, Langlois, and the government’s probe cannot be compromised in any way. I’m sorry, but that is the way it must be. Monsieur Farad must be looked at vigorously, and Private Paris will sit on the sidelines.”
Louis looked at Farad. “Go with them. I will call our attorney.”
“I don’t need one.”
“It’s a federal investigation now,” Louis insisted. “You need a lawyer.”
Farad looked beyond angry, and I couldn’t blame him. He’d done exactly the right things and was now under suspicion for God knows what.
When Fromme, Hoskins, and Farad had exited the air lock and were out of earshot, Louis looked at the forensics expert and said, “Feel like ignoring the magistrate’s order?”
“And break a federal law for a colleague?” Petitjean said. “But of course.”
He went over to the keyboard and gave it a command.
A screen quickly showed a blown-up image of the letter and the envelope.
It was written in French in letters cut from various newspapers and magazines. I got the gist of it, and my stomach yawned open into a deep, cold pit.
Chapter 55
8th Arrondissement
8:10 p.m.
“YOU’LL FIND AN attorney for Farad?” I said, climbing out of an Uber car in front of the Plaza Athénée.
“First thing,” Louis promised. “Get some sleep.”
In a mild daze, I entered the lobby, imagining a hot, hot shower and long, long uninterrupted sleep in my big empty suite. That’s all I wanted.
“Monsieur Morgan?” called a woman’s sweet voice.
I blinked, fought back a yawn, and spotted Elodie rushing out from behind the concierge desk. She danced over and said quietly, “I wanted you to know that we took care of Mademoiselle Kim for you.”
It took a moment to penetrate my exhausted brain. “Kim is here?”
“In your suite. We gave her a key. That’s what you wanted, yes?”
“Uh, yes,” I said, flashing on that image of Kim being thrown into the van outside the Hôtel Lancaster and wondering how she’d escaped.
“When did she arrive?”
Elodie thought about that and said, “Two?”
That was right after I left the hotel and two and a half hours before we saw her taken.
“When did she leave?” I asked.
“She didn’t. At least not through the lobby while I’ve been on duty.”
I smiled. “She got by you or ducked out a side door because I saw Kim later, around four thirty. Could you check and see when the door to the suite was opened after she went in?”
Elodie appeared miffed but went behind the concierge counter and worked on a computer. She looked up at me, chagrined. “Fifteen minutes later.”
“Perfect, really. Thank you for your graciousness.”
The concierge beamed. “Je vous en prie, monsieur.”
When I entered the suite, the lights came on, and I stood there in the living area, thinking. Why had Kim come here, and for only fifteen minutes? Her time of entry—roughly 2 p.m.—was less than twenty minutes after Louis and I got in an Uber car in front of the Plaza, leaving a heated discussion about hot chocolate in our wake.
Was that a coincidence? Had she come to us for protection, and found me missing? Or had she been watching, waiting to see us leave?
But why would she?
In my befuddled state, I couldn’t come up with an explanation until I thought of what I’d heard her scream as Whitey threw her into the van.
“I don’t have it anymore!”
She had hid something in here.
A good part of me wanted to sack out and look for it in the morning, but as I moved through the living area toward my bedroom, I kept thinking of how brazen and violent the men after Kim had been again and again.
They were willing to kill. Would they be willing to torture?
I had to imagine they would. And I had to imagine that, unless there were dimensions to Kim Kopchinski that I did not understand, she would break. And then they would come for whatever was hidden in my suite. Whitey and his pal had broken in once. They’d no doubt try a second time.
Realizing I would not sleep worth a damn there now, I went to the toilet, turned on the cold water in the basin, and stuck my head under it until the cobwebs cleared. Then I set about searching the place.
I went through my bedroom, my closet, and my bathroom from top to bottom. I checked under the mattress, in the drawers, and under my clothes, and even rifled through my suitcase.
Nothing.
I began to doubt myself. Why would she bring it here in the first place?
For safekeeping, I supposed. It was the simplest answer.
I checked the safe in my closet: still locked. I typed in the six-digit code I’d given it, and found my passport and extra currency untouched. After hurrying into the room Kim had used, however, I entered the closet, took one look at the safe, and knew she’d locked something inside.
Elodie knocked at my door fifteen minutes later with a workman carrying a red toolbox.
“I must have slipped putting in my code,” I said. “I’ve tried twice and I know it will lock up for an hour if I try a third time.”
“No problem,” Elodie said. “It happens.”
But when I led her toward the room Kim had used, she balked.
“This isn’t your room,” she said.
“My suite.”
“Yes, but…”
I pulled her aside and murmured, “Remember the guys who shot up the place a few days ago?”
She nodded sourly.
“They’ve got Mademoiselle Kopchinski, and I have no doubt that eventually they’re coming back to the Plaza because of what is in that safe,” I said. “Now, Kim is my client. I was hired to protect her by her grandfather, who was beaten into a coma, I believe because of what is in that safe. So, to get the Plaza out of the line of fire and help Kim, I need that safe opened. What’s it going to be?”
The concierge hesitated, but then said, “You’ll remove this thing from the premises?”
“Immediately,” I promised.
Elodie nodded to the workman and we followed him into the closet. He attached a digital override device to the safe with coaxial cables and gave it several instructions before typing in a six-digit number. The safe made a whirring sound and then a click.
Before I could tell the workman not to open the door, he did and shined a flashlight inside. The beam picked up the glimmering object inside.
“What is it?” Elodie asked.
“A cigarette lighter,” I said.
Chapter 56
16th Arrondissement
11:20 p.m.
ON THE AVENUE de Montespan, Guy LaFont carried a briefcase as he climbed from the back of his car. A tall, elegant man in his late fifties, LaFont bid his driver adieu in front of the doors to the courtyard of his building. He used a key to flip the dead bolt, stepped inside, and closed and locked the door behind him.
Private Paris Page 15
