“All right, then,” I said. “A little girl named Lindsay Sorkin was snatched from her parents’ room at Hotel d’Étonner on the night you carried their luggage and delivered their room service. While you wheeled in their tray, you intentionally left the door open behind you. Someone snuck in, opened the coat closet with a key, and hid in there until Vince and Lori Sorkin went to bed. Give me that someone’s name, or we switch stalls to that first one with the log in it.”
“No, no. Okay.” He spoke faster than a cokehead in the middle of a talking jag. “He called himself Hugh, but I don’t think that’s his real name.”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t really, I just met him once before that night.”
“Where?”
“At a pizza parlor near the Bastille. There were two of them. Look, man, I had no idea they were going to take that girl. They said the lady owned a bunch of expensive jewelry and they wanted to grab it, the price of gold being what it is. I swear. I never would have gotten involved if I knew they were kidnappers, man. You’ve got to believe me.”
“What did they give you for your cooperation?”
“Five hundred euros up-front. They were supposed to give me another five hundred after they moved the jewelry, but I never saw them again, I swear.”
“Where are they from?”
“They didn’t say, but they spoke German to me. From their accent, I would guess the metro area.”
“Where were they staying while they were in Paris?”
“I have no idea, man, I swear it.” He continued to sound panicked.
Behind us, someone opened the door to the ladies’ room.
“Occupied,” I shouted.
The door squeaked closed.
“All right,” I said. “You and I are going to do one last thing together. We’re going to take a taxi to the Bastille to find that pizza parlor you met these two gents at, and we’re going to see if anyone recognizes you and can identify the men you were with.”
“Please, I just want to go home.”
“It’s the Bastille or National Police Headquarters, blondie. What’s your decision?”
“Fine, man, I’ll go with you.”
I lifted his head out of the toilet, feeling sick to my stomach. I derived no pleasure from this whatsoever. On the contrary, I’d have much preferred to turn him over to Davignon and have the lieutenant sweat Fleischer under the hot lights. But there was no time.
As I turned I noticed some graffiti on the stall wall.
It read: FLUSH HARD. IT’S A LONG WAY TO THE STATES.
Chapter 10
The waitress at the pizza parlor in the Bastille was a shapely Algerian girl who spoke little English. But she recognized Johan Fleischer straightaway. Said she remembered the two men he was with a few days back, as well. How could she forget? The two Germans had been dining there every afternoon and evening for a week. Ordering pizza and hitting on her. Getting drunk on Kronenbourg and inviting her back to their room—their room at the Hotel Lyon Bastille on Rue Parrot.
I kept Fleischer’s passport but let Fleischer himself scurry down into the Metro. He’d served his purpose and seemed on the verge of passing out. I was confident I’d extracted all the information he had. Bringing him to justice for his role in Lindsay’s disappearance wasn’t my job. The French police could handle that. Without his passport, it was unlikely that Johan Fleischer was going anywhere outside the EU anytime soon.
I held off calling Davignon and headed on foot for the Hotel Lyon.
The hotel lobby was bright and airy, colorful, but I wasn’t there to admire the decor. I went straight to the front desk and spoke to a short young man wearing glasses.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for a couple of friends of mine. German fellows. Hope I’m not too late. They may have checked out a couple of days ago.”
“What are their names, monsieur?”
I shrugged as though it were the most ridiculous question in the world. “That I don’t know. Met them at the pub. We made plans to get together, but then I spent the last couple of nights with a young Norwegian model I met at Le Cab.” I ran my hand down my stubble to show I hadn’t shaved the past couple of days.
The young man seemed impressed. He smiled and said, “I understand, yes. Please, wait just one minute, I will check.”
I reached into my pocket, ready to pull out my wad of euros, if necessary. In my job, I spent more money on information than most people spent on food, clothing, and shelter combined. And it was worth every damn penny.
After checking his computer, the young man picked up the phone and dialed three digits I couldn’t see. I tried to draw his attention but he wasn’t looking my way. Seemed as though he was avoiding my gaze. After sixty seconds he hung up the phone and turned back to me.
“Interesting,” he said. “I do remember your friends, but I have not seen them the past couple of days. I checked the computer and it shows that they are still registered guests. I called their room, but there was no answer.”
“What’s their room number, so I can call again later?”
He hesitated. “That I am not permitted to say.”
I smiled. “Understandably. Well then, what are their names?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I am afraid I am not supposed to divulge that information either.”
“Come on,” I said, still smiling. “I’m staying all the way over on the other side of the city at the Four Seasons. Don’t make me trek all the way back here this evening, only to find that my friends aren’t here again.” I leaned in on the desk, hoping like hell I didn’t still stink of Fleischer’s rubbish. “Besides, I’m going to look like a complete ass if I don’t remember their names. These are the guys that introduced me to Liv, that Norwegian model I told you about. Just, please, do me a quick favor and pull up your copies of their passports. I’d really appreciate it.”
The young man sighed. “Really, monsieur, I cannot.”
My read was that money wouldn’t persuade this guy. Besides, there were too many cameras hanging over our heads.
“Listen,” I said. “Liv’s got a younger sister named Elle. Maybe the four of us could go out for a drink tonight.”
His cheeks glowed red. “You are very persistent,” he said. “One more moment, please.”
He turned and opened a drawer, plucked out a file. He opened it just enough that I could see two color copies of German passports. I couldn’t read the names but tried like hell to burn their passport photos into my brain. He closed the folder and stuffed it back into the drawer.
“Their first names are Dietrich and Karl,” he said.
“And the last?”
“Sorry, monsieur.”
“But if I call later—”
“If you give me your name, I will leave a note for the evening staff to connect you.”
“Simon,” I said. “And thank you.” I turned to leave, but spun back around. “Would you mind ringing their room one last time before I leave? Maybe someone was in the shower when you called the first time.”
The young man appeared irritated, but swallowed hard and said, “Of course.”
I watched him dial. It looked as though his fingers punched the numbers 506. He held the phone to his ear and waited. After sixty seconds he hung up and shook his head.
I walked away, a little angry.
Oh, how I hated people who always played it straight.
Chapter 11
Instead of heading for the doors, I waited until the desk clerk turned away, then made straight for the elevator. I punched the button for the fifth floor. When I stepped off, I checked both ends of the hall. A maid’s cart was standing a few doors down to my left. I headed for it. From a few feet away I saw a set of keys on a ring, with an electronic card dangling from the end.
Hell, I thought, at least some things have to be easy.
I heard the maid whistling from the far end of the room she was in. I snatched the key ring, held it
tight so that the keys wouldn’t jingle, and moved quickly up the hall to 506. There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Too bad. I intended to disturb them. I slid the key in, waited for the red light to blink off and the green to blink on, then I turned the handle.
I shoved the keys into my pocket and let the door shut behind me.
The room was a mess, hadn’t been cleaned since they had fled. Crushed cans of 1664 were everywhere and the room stank of beer. Cigarette butts peppered the floor, and they’d ashed on every single piece of furniture, including the two double beds. I doubted they’d brought Lindsay here, but I was hoping to find something that would give me an idea about where they’d taken her.
I emptied the wastebaskets first, sorted through the aluminum cans and paper scraps. Nothing of use. I searched the desk. Room-service menus, entertainment brochures, television guides, but nothing that Dietrich and Karl had left behind. Same with the nightstands. I opened the drawers, all of them. Nothing but a Bible and more cigarette butts.
I got onto my knees and checked under the bed. More beer cans. The closets were empty except for the hotel hangers. They’d probably stolen the bathrobes. I flipped the light on in the bathroom. Shaving cream on the mirror, tiny hairs stuck to the sink. Toothpaste on the faucet, more cigarette butts in the toilet. Where had I gotten it into my head that all Germans were neat?
Piss on the floor. But also something I needed. A Rail Europe train schedule. I unraveled a bit of toilet paper and wadded it up. Bent over and lifted the schedule. It was from the week before. Two trips were circled. The first was 4:04 A.M., Berlin to Mannheim. The second was 9:41 A.M., Mannheim to Paris.
I let fly a little sigh of relief. If Berlin was where Dietrich and Karl had come from, chances were, that was the city to which they’d returned.
And that was where we’d find Lindsay Sorkin.
*
“Let me try to understand this,” Davignon said. “You are going to Berlin to find two blond-haired blue-eyed German men named Dietrich and Karl.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“You may as well search for two specific rats in the Paris sewer system. You have nothing to go on.”
“I have an idea what they look like,” I said. “I saw their passport photos.”
“From more than three meters away.”
“Have you got a better idea, Lieutenant?”
We were standing over espressos at a tall table in a tiny café near the Eiffel Tower. The café was owned by Davignon’s brother. His brother had closed up for the next few hours so that we could use the café as a base. The Sorkins were waiting in the backroom. Ever since the media arrived, Davignon had been shuffling them around in disguise or under cover of darkness.
“And this Johan Fleischer, you let him get away?”
I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out Fleischer’s passport. Slid it across the table.
“He’s still in Paris,” I said. “Your men can pick him up if they want. Or not. Doesn’t matter. I got everything there was to get from the guy. Fleischer thought he was setting the Sorkins up to lose some jewelry, not their daughter.”
“But the timing of all this tells us that the Germans were here specifically for Lindsay Sorkin.”
“That it does.”
“Then why no ransom demand? Why no demand for information? What in the hell is their endgame?”
“We can’t rule out the possibility that something went wrong,” I said. “That the girl is dead.”
“Merde,” he mumbled.
“Either way,” I said, “my guess is that our answers are in Berlin, and that’s where I’m going.”
“Very well. Let’s move to the back room and speak with the Sorkins.”
*
Lori Sorkin was almost unrecognizable. Her eyes remained vacant, her neck hung loosely at an odd angle, her jaw had gone slack. She appeared heavily medicated. She had the same stare Tasha had when I returned home from Romania to find that Hailey had gone missing. Tasha had blamed me, of course. For being in Bucharest hunting a fugitive when Hailey was taken. In time, Tasha would come to blame herself a whole hell of a lot more. Enough to take her own life with prescription pills.
The coroner had ruled Tasha’s death accidental. But I knew otherwise.
“It’ll be seventy-two hours tonight,” Vince said.
“If we’re dealing with professionals, as the evidence now seems to suggest, then we may have a wider window than we originally thought,” I said. “That doesn’t mean we can slow down, but it does give us reason to maintain hope.”
Vince nodded. “Lieutenant Davignon says you’re leaving for Berlin. I want to come with you.”
I shook my head. “That wouldn’t be wise. First, you’d be bringing the media along with you, and that puts Lindsay at risk. It destroys the element of surprise. Secondly, I’m a professional, and I work alone. No offense, Vince, but you’ll only get in the way.”
Lori said softly, “What will you do if you find these two men?”
“When I find them, I will do whatever is necessary to make them lead me to Lindsay. Let’s leave it at that.”
Vince reached into his jacket and removed a thick envelope. “You’ll need money,” he said, holding the envelope out to me. “I’ve withdrawn ten thousand euros from my bank. If you need more, please call me.”
I took the envelope. “All right.”
“You will also require some new clothes,” Davignon said. “I have taken the liberty of calling Francesco Smalto’s. They have prepared several suits using the measurements they took yesterday. Bertrand is picking them up now.”
From the corner of my eye I caught Lori dabbing at fresh tears with a ball of tissues. It reminded me of what our home looked like in the days following Hailey’s disappearance. Tissues everywhere. On tables and counters, on carpets and hardwood floors. Tasha had carried a box of tissues around as though it were a life preserver. Carried the box around even more often than the phone. A couple of nights after Hailey went missing, she’d placed the box of tissues in the middle of our bed. At first I was angry that she wouldn’t let me comfort her anymore. Then I realized how much I needed her to comfort me. That night I experienced a second loss and it continued to eat at me even now. All it had taken was a box of tissues to keep me and my wife from holding each other while we waited out life’s most brutal storm.
“You’ll need each other to get through this,” I said to the Sorkins. “At times you’ll want to pull away. After you get tired of blaming yourself, you’ll want to blame each other and that’s fine. Have it out. Fight like hell, but never stop loving each other. Never think that it would be better if you were each on your own. Until we bring Lindsay home, there’s no one in the world who will fully understand what you’re going through except the two of you. Your shared history, your shared love of Lindsay, that’s what will get you through. It may sound trite, but it’s true.”
Although the words were unsolicited, Vince wrapped a long arm around Lori and pulled her to him. She set the ball of tissues down on her lap and nestled her head on his chest while stroking his arm. Silently, she mouthed the words thank you.
I turned back to Davignon. “I’ll also need transportation when I arrive in Berlin.”
Davignon nodded. “An automobile?”
“No, something I can really maneuver. A motorcycle. And since I’m heading to Germany, best make it a BMW.”
“It will be arranged,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I’ll need a gun.”
Chapter 12
I arrived at Tegel Airport early the next morning, following a two-hour Lufthansa flight from Charles de Gaulle. I picked up the silver BMW K 1600 GTL at a rental agency and drove straight to Tiergarten, where Kurt Ostermann now maintained his office. I hadn’t seen Ostermann in ages. Eight years earlier the private investigator had aided me in tracking down a twelve-year-old girl and her father. When we found them, the father gave himself up
straightaway. The girl, on the other hand, ran. Ostermann and I chased after her through the slush-covered streets of Berlin. The chase ended with the girl darting out in front of a night bus. The girl lived. But the matter nearly became an international incident. Ostermann, a former member of the parliamentary police, used his considerable influence with the Ministry of the Interior to keep the matter under wraps.
Ostermann’s new office was located in a rather utilitarian building that resembled some federal holding facilities back in the States. The building looked as though it had been carved out of a single slab of concrete. The entire structure was cold, uninviting. I had half a mind to phone Ostermann and ask him to meet me outside. But then, Ostermann didn’t know I was coming. Given our history, I thought it better that I request his assistance face-to-face.
I stepped into the building and stopped at the security desk. I was wearing one of the new suits procured for me by the French police. I hoped it was enough for me to gain entry. Only this wasn’t a nightclub; it was a place where important business was conducted.
“Identifikation,” the guard said.
“Sorry,” I said, emphasizing my British accent. “I am afraid I’m not carrying any. I’m here to see Herr Ostermann.”
As a child I’d clung to my English accent as though it were a life preserver. Drove my father crazy, and the more it did, the thicker my accent became. It was the cause of a few ass-kickings, both at home and in the schoolyard, but by the time I reached college I’d realized it didn’t hurt with the American girls, so I did nothing to dilute it. By the time I married Tasha, it was like a stubborn rash, impossible to get rid of. Now that I spent more time in Europe and Asia than I did stateside, it served me well. Especially in countries that didn’t particularly care for American foreign policy during the W years.
“Is Herr Ostermann expecting you?”
“Of course.”
“Name?”
I couldn’t exactly throw the name Simon Fisk around Germany since the incident with the girl.
Good As Gone (Simon Fisk Novels) Page 5