“So where does that take us?” Vince said.
“To the most viable route of escape.”
I moved toward the entryway and told them to follow. When I exited the hotel room, I surveyed the edges of the hallway ceilings for cameras.
“CCTV is set up only in the elevators and the main lobby,” Davignon said.
“Then our man would have taken the stairs,” I said.
Davignon nodded. “Closest exit is to our left.”
“Your men searched the stairwell, I assume,” I said as we moved down the hall.
“Of course,” he said. “It was clean.”
When I entered the stairwell, I raised my arm against the flickering fluorescent lights. Like a vagrant, I assiduously searched the steps for cigarette butts, a dropped coin, something, anything that could connect me to the next dot. But the stairs leading to the fourth-floor landing were empty; those leading to the third, the same. On the fifth step down to the second floor, I found something.
“What is it?” Davignon said from the landing above me.
“Something your men evidently missed,” I called up to him.
The pill was crushed to pieces and spread over two steps, but one taste told me it was the same chemical I’d discovered in the Sorkins’ hall closet. An off-white tab of MDMA with a stamp on the face of it. Only it was in too many pieces to make out the stamp.
“Stay there,” I said as Davignon and Vince started down. “I need the light.”
I knelt on the second step and tried to piece the bits of the pill together like a puzzle. It was damn difficult, required more concentration than I thought I could muster in this dingy stairwell with the flickering lights.
The stamps on Ecstasy tabs were marketing tools, like the various brand names for heroin and marijuana. I’d seen Mitsubishi Turbos stamped with the car manufacturer’s logo; dolphins; doves; playboy bunnies; shamrocks; hearts, stars, and diamonds; crowns; peace signs; smiley faces. Some were even stamped FBI or DEA, though I’d never seen one marked for the U.S. Marshals.
This pill appeared to be stamped with letters. Or was it numbers?
“What have you got, Simon?” Davignon called down.
It was numbers. I continued to piece the top of the pill together as best I could. Three distinct numbers finally materialized before my eyes.
“Simon,” Davignon called down again, unable to contain the impatience in his voice. “Tell us, what is it you’ve found?”
“Bond,” I said under my breath. “James Bond.”
Chapter 5
Following a long conversation with Davignon about Paris’s present drug scene, I decided there was nothing much I could do until the sun went down. Dipping into the governmental coffers, Davignon provided me with enough money to get through the next few days in Paris. The first thing I did was grab a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich at a nearby café, forgoing the espresso I was dying for because I knew I’d need to get some sleep before night came.
I hadn’t promised Davignon that I would stay if I found a lead, only that I’d leave if I didn’t, but I was never one to play with semantics, and the truth was, I wanted like hell to find Vince and Lori Sorkin’s little girl. I knew what the Sorkins were going through, thoughts as black as night racing through their heads like an invading army. I knew they’d be unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to make the slightest efforts to maintain their health, to preserve their bodies. They would age a year for every day Lindsay remained missing, until their hearts finally grew calluses that not even the sharpest blade could penetrate. Even then, they’d loathe themselves for allowing their little girl to go missing, regardless of whether they could have done anything to prevent it.
I was put up in a small hotel on a quiet cobblestone street a few blocks away. The room, which contained nothing but a wooden desk and a double bed, was quaint and cozy, with matching floral-patterned wallpaper and bedding that reminded me of Tasha’s favorite bed-and-breakfast back in Newport, Rhode Island. I filled a plastic cup with tap water, then finally stripped out of the clothes I’d been wearing since I arrived in Paris.
The moment my head hit the pillow I was out. But before I reached my first dream there was a loud rap at my door. Bertrand, returning my luggage. I spent the next forty-five minutes fading in and out of sleep, then finally leaped from the bed, dressed, and headed to Rue François to buy whatever I’d need for the night.
When I returned to my room, I downed another cup of tap water and again tried to get some sleep. Although this attempt was met with substantially more success, the hours I spent in bed were plagued by familiar memories-turned-nightmares, and I woke several times in a cold and clammy sweat that had drenched the sheets.
When I finally woke for good I spent twenty minutes under a steaming-hot shower, trying to clear my head. The morning had stirred up the worst that lay on the floor of my subconscious, and I feared it would be weeks, maybe months, before these things settled at the bottom again. For the time being, all I could do was try to make sure these intruders didn’t fully rise to the surface and cloud my thinking. I couldn’t allow them to affect my judgment if I had any hope at all of finding Lindsay Sorkin.
Late that night, I went clubbing. And looking to score. By eleven, I had tried most of the trendy clubs—MadaM, Batofar, Le Gibus, Elysée Montmartre—but was unsuccessful in procuring any 007s. Pink Supermans seemed to be the “in” thing; mixed with a bit of ketamine and GHB, the combined effect was fittingly called an EKG. One dealer I found suggested I try one of Paris’s most infamous after-parties, an underground late-night rave held nightly at an abandoned cathedral. Still, I hoped to draw a bead on James Bond well before four in the morning.
So next I visited some of Paris’s more exclusive clubs: Le VIP, Showcase, L’Etoile, Le World Place, and Le Cab. Fortunately, I’d dressed the part, looked like money. I’d spent a chunk of the afternoon at Francesco Smalto’s, getting fitted for a sharp black suit that hung meticulously on my lean, muscular frame. Speaking English to bouncers at the door didn’t hurt my chances of gaining entry. Neither did the few hundred euros I slipped those doormen who were staring down longer lines.
It was in the ultramodern club Le Cab, also known as Cabaret, where I met a slender, attractive man who immediately came on to me. Said I didn’t give off the vibe but that I was hot enough that he had to give it a shot. I thanked him for the compliment but didn’t hint either way about my sexual orientation. I let him buy me a diva martini and we talked.
“Know where I can get some E?” I said over the deafening house music. The club was packed. Not a face or a body in sight that couldn’t pass for a model’s.
“Of course,” he said, his English nearly as good as his French.
He dipped into his pocket, pulled out a tab, and told me to stick out my tongue.
“What kind is it?” I said.
“Baby, you’re in Paris. What does it matter?”
“I scored some 007s last night,” I said, taking a pull off my martini, “and I was tripping balls till eleven this morning. Tonight, it’s James Bond or nothing.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, popping the tab onto his tongue. “You’re a drug snob.” He put his index finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but I am, too. Tell you what. I’ll take you out for some 007s later, but how about some tina while we enjoy our drinks?”
“Crystal?” I said. “Never touch the stuff.”
“Bad experience?”
“You could say that.”
I didn’t tell him about the meth-head father I’d recently tracked down in San Salvador. Bastard put a gun to his teenage boy’s head. Better dead than with his puta mother in New Mexico, he told me. When I dropped my gun, he turned his .22 on me and fired. The gun jammed. The kid ran. Then I beat the father to within an inch of his life. Told him if he ever went near the boy or his mother again, I’d finish the job. I’d never made a more truthful statement in my life. And the father believed me.
“Let’s finish t
hese martinis and get out of here,” my new friend said. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“Simon. Yours?”
“Claude.” He polished off his drink and shot up off the cushy fuchsia seat. “Now let’s go find ourselves a little Daniel Craig in pill form.” He stared into my eyes as a pair of A-list celebrities brushed past us. “Or do you prefer Pierce Brosnan?”
“Actually, I prefer Sean Connery.”
“Oh, he’s like eightysomething,” Claude said, making a face. “Well, to each his own, I guess.”
*
Claude brought me to Le Queen on Champs-Elysées, a once-hot gay nightclub, he advised me, that had been shanghaied in recent years by heteros. We didn’t go inside but rather loitered around the premises, Claude surreptitiously eyeing the crowd for someone he recognized. The air was as crisp as a new five-hundred-euro banknote, the City of Light lit well enough to live up to its name. I glanced at my new TAG Heuer, courtesy of the French police, courtesy of a coke kingpin they took down earlier in the week, and saw that it was closing in on one A.M. Forty-eight hours since Lindsay had been abducted. The little girl was fast running out of time.
“See the man you’re looking for?” I asked Claude.
“No, but I think I see his flatmate. Over there.” I followed his finger to a lanky lad who looked to be in his midtwenties. “Name’s Geoffrey. Want me to call him over here?”
“Please do.”
Claude whistled. Geoffrey and a few others looked our way. Claude motioned him over, and Geoffrey held up an index finger, then grudgingly peeled himself away from the Asian girl he’d been chatting with.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Claude warned me. “Geoffrey and his flatmate are both straight.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” I said.
Geoffrey couldn’t speak English. Or wouldn’t. So Claude translated. Told him I was an American looking to roll, but I’d only pop 007s. After some back-and-forth, Claude turned to me and said that Geoffrey’s flatmate, Remy, was back at the flat with a woman and didn’t want to be disturbed tonight.
“Tell him I won’t be any bother. I just want to purchase the pills and run.”
Geoffrey seemed to understand me. Instead of waiting for the translation, he replied to Claude in French.
Claude said to me, “Geoffrey says, ‘Forget it. Not tonight.’ But he can sell you something better. He has blue Batmans, green Christmas trees, and Mickey Ds. Any one of those can get you off longer than a 007.”
I pulled a wad of euros from my pocket and spoke directly to Geoffrey in English.
“Listen,” I said. “I’ll pay your flatmate a hundred euros a pill for three pills, and throw in another two hundred for you in order to show my appreciation. Now what do you say?”
Geoffrey stared at the money. “I say you are either crazy or you are a cop. Maybe both.”
“Maybe I’m just rich and used to getting what I want,” I said. “Do you know anyone else in Paris who can sell me some 007s?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “Remy is the only one in the whole city. These 007s, they are not even in fashion.”
“Well, I intend to bring them back into the limelight. So do we have a deal or not?”
Geoffrey pulled out his iPhone.
Chapter 6
Geoffrey and I took the Metro from George V to Saint-Michel in the Latin Quarter. From there we walked to Geoffrey’s flat on Rue Galande. We didn’t speak two words the entire way. I could tell the kid was nervous, his hands constantly twitching, eyes darting among passengers like a pinball machine. I’d told Claude to wait for me at Le Queen. If things turned messy, I didn’t want to risk his getting involved or even hurt. He made me promise I’d return. I promised, knowing it was a promise I wouldn’t keep. Luckily, all he was out was the price of one diva martini at Le Cab. Wouldn’t take him very long to get over me. Not in Paris. Not at Le Queen.
The third-floor flat was exactly what you’d expect of an Old World apartment in Paris. A tight space, lots of strong, weathered wood. Solid furniture that didn’t look like it came from IKEA. It was an impressive place for a couple of twentysomething bachelors. I stood in the living area, as instructed, and stared out the window at the dark, narrow cobblestone street as Geoffrey slipped down the hall to retrieve his flatmate.
Following a tap at his door, I heard Remy’s voice. Sounded as though Remy didn’t want to be disturbed, indeed. Too bad. I intended to disturb him.
Through the door, Geoffrey tried to reason with him. The word euros was used more than once. After a few minutes, I heard the creaking of door hinges.
“Merci,” Geoffrey said, then the door slammed shut.
That wouldn’t do at all. I met Geoffrey at the end of the hall. He was staring down at his palm, pushing pills around with his finger. He was startled to see me.
“I told you to wait near the sofa,” he said.
I immediately grabbed Geoffrey by the shoulders and spun him around.
“I need to have a brief talk with Remy,” I said.
Geoffrey began to protest in French, but I slapped a hand over his mouth and told him to calm down and remain silent. I flung open Remy’s door without knocking, holding Geoffrey in front of me in case Remy had a piece.
On the bed a naked young woman screamed.
“Geoffrey, tell her to keep quiet and put something on.”
Panting, Geoffrey said, “She understood you.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, but, Remy, I’m going to need a few answers from you. You speak English?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Remy shouted.
“I’ll take that as a resounding yes,” I said.
I grabbed Geoffrey’s wrist and twisted it behind his back till he howled in pain. This was the problem with going private and not carrying a badge or a gun. You always had to display something to assert your authority, and brutality was often all you had.
“Remy,” I said, “grab that pen over on the nightstand and start me a list of everyone you sold 007s to in the past ten days.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you do, I’ll go away. If you don’t, I’ll stay. And take my word, Remy, you don’t want me to stay. I get bored very easily, and when I get bored, I tend to break things. Your flatmate’s arm, for example: it’s all but begging to be fractured. And that’s just a start.”
Remy reached for the nightstand and snatched the pen. As he did, I inched closer to the bed.
“I have no paper,” he said.
“Get creative.”
Remy reached to the nightstand again. This time he opened the drawer. Slowly and just enough for his hand to fit through. I noticed his wrist tense, as though his fingers were closing around something. I glanced at his bare chest; his breathing was growing more rapid.
At that moment, I threw Geoffrey hard into the wall, reached under the sheets, and gripped Remy by the ankles. The girl screamed again. I pulled with everything I had. Remy hung on to the edge of the drawer, pulled it out of the nightstand, its contents crashing onto the floor. Remy’s naked body flew off the bed like a kid’s at the end of a water slide. Only Remy’s body didn’t hit pool water; his back hit the hardwood with a harsh thud.
I glanced at the spilled contents of the drawer on the side of the bed. A bunch of pill bottles, a few vials, a number of one-inch glassine bags. And a .38 Special snub-nosed revolver.
“That was a mistake,” I said, grabbing Remy by his thick, curly hair. I dragged him across the wooden floor, past his fallen friend, toward the spilled drawer. I knelt and picked up the gun, felt its weight in my hand. It was loaded. I stood, pushed Remy facedown onto the bed. Cocked the hammer.
“All right, you want to do this the hard way?” I said. “Fine by me. The first bullet goes into your Achilles tendon. Never seen it done before, but I imagine it hurts like hell.”
“Non, s’il vous plait,” Remy muttered. “Please, I’ll do anything.”
“Now there
’s the French spirit. Tell me, Remy: in the past ten days, how many individuals did you sell 007s to? Lie to me, and I’ll put a bullet in you.”
“About six, maybe seven people.” He was already short of breath.
“How many of those were women?”
“Three.”
“And the men, what were their names?”
Remy hesitated. I pressed the gun into the back of his skull to help him along.
“My friend Andre,” he rasped, “and his cousin Louis. The two others, I don’t know their names.”
“Your friend Andre, where can I find him?”
“He and Louis left on holiday to London last week. That is why he wanted the pills.”
“And the other two,” I said, “how did you meet them?”
Deep breaths. “I met them at a pub in the Marais.”
“What did they look like? Where were they from? Were they residents or tourists?”
“Business,” Remy said. “They told me they were here on business. I don’t know where they were from; they spoke French very well. They were light-skinned. Maybe German or Austrian, I don’t know.”
“Were they staying in the Marais?”
“They didn’t say. Our conversation, it was very short. I was drunk. I made the sale and left the pub. They stayed. That is all I can tell you, I swear.”
I released his hair. The girl was crying. Geoffrey was trembling in the corner. I slowly backed away, out of the room.
“The pills, Geoffrey, where are they?”
Geoffrey stared at me as though he’d forgotten why I was there. The three pills were scattered on the floor next to him. He collected them, stood, and handed them to me.
“Thank you,” I said, unloading the revolver. “I’m going to let you keep the gun. But I’m afraid the bullets are coming with me. Any objections?”
No objections were raised.
Chapter 7
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 3