Same answer?
Stupid answer. She was just an American girl. A flighty Yankee as scared of commitment as he was. She couldn’t stay two months in the same spot. Perhaps that’s why she was on his mind so much…
John gripped his blankets again, threateningly. He’d ripped comforters for less in the past. His sleep was precious, blankets were replaceable.
Slowly, he began to drift off once more, pushing thoughts of Adele from his mind as the alcohol did its usual trick. And then… as sleep came to claim him—
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
“Merde!” he shouted now. A pause, then a couple of thumps upstairs as his neighbor reacted to the noise.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mayna!” he called to the ceiling, wincing. Anyone else, he would have likely just shouted again. But Mrs. Mayna was a military mom—her son lived with her. Or, at least, what was left of him after three deployments. If anyone needed—no, deserved—sleep it was her.
He grabbed his phone where it still buzzed from on top of the alarm clock and chucked it, hard, across the room. It hit the dry wall, leaving a dent, then thudded to the wooden floor.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
John growled and threw his covers off, stomping over to the phone. He raised his foot, half prepared to smash the obnoxious thing, when he saw the name.
His foot lowered. Maybe she really was causing him to lose sleep.
American Princess, said his phone. With a sigh he dropped to a knee, picked up the device, and said, “How may I help your highness?”
After a moment, Adele replied, “What?” Her voice chirped on the other end with far more energy than anyone had a right to at this ungodly hour.
“Nothing,” he said. “What is it? The case, or have you missed me? What are you wearing, honey?”
“John, shut up. I need you to check on something.”
“What… like now?”
“Yeah, at the resort.”
“I’m not at the resort. I’m back at my apartment for the night.”
“Umm… why?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, with no inflection whatsoever.
“Oh… Yeah… Sorry. Is Robert at the resort?”
“He is. I can get there in a couple hours. What is it?”
“You sure?”
“Christ, Adele, spit it out.”
“Okay, jeez—no need to bite my head off. Look, I was speaking with the concierge, and did some digging after to verify… Looks like he set up an excursion for the Benevetis.”
John leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. With his toes, he snagged the pillow that had fallen from his bed and pulled it toward him, like a child seeking the comfort of a security blanket.
“Okay? What expedition?”
“That’s the part that’s insane,” she said. “I—I still can’t even believe it’s a real thing.”
John cracked an eye, staring into the dark illuminated only by the faint blue glow from his screen. “What is it?” he said, curiosity piqued.
“It’s…” Adele stuttered. “Flat out ridiculous. But apparently something a lot of the high-end resorts offer. They keep it off books. Don’t want the general public to know, but for the sweet tune of fifty thousand dollars…”
“What? They don’t hunt humans, do they? I think I’ve seen that movie.”
“No, not that,” said Adele. “It’s ridiculous not evil. But I need you to check if the Swiss couple booked a similar expedition. Some of these groups use outside companies for the more exclusive stuff. I want to see if there’s a connection.”
“Okay… what am I looking for?” John passed a hand over his face, rubbing some of the sleep from his eyes.
“Have a notepad?”
John paused, allowing enough time for her to think he’d retrieved one, but sat still, motionless. “All right, go ahead,” he said. “What am I looking for?”
“The company the Benevetis booked with is called Prestige Entertainment. They take clients along a lot of the resorts in the Alps. The resorts all get a cut for exclusivity.”
“All right, Prestige Entertainment. You want me to see if the Swiss booked anything?”
“Yeah. Check as soon as possible.”
“Adele, it’s five a.m. And don’t give me that bullshit about justice not sleeping or whatever. Justice might not sleep, but John does. And if he doesn’t, he gets cranky and dropkicks justice across the room.”
“Right, fine.” It seemed as if Adele might have lowered her phone for a moment, and he heard a muffled voice mutter, “And I’m the princess.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, her voice discernible again.
“What exactly does this company offer? High-end prostitutes? Fur sweaters knitted from kittens?”
“No. It’s not like that. Basically, from what the concierge tells me, the super wealthy pay the price, then are flown by helicopter to the top of an Alpine peak and served champagne and a gourmet dessert made with ice shaved right off the peak.”
John blinked. “That…”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Sounds awesome,” he concluded.
Adele muttered something again, but then, louder, said, “One way to look at it. But they keep it secret. Especially with the degrading conditions of the Alps. It’s not readily advertised, so you might have some trouble finding out if the Swiss booked anything.”
“I’ll check,” said John. “I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
“All right, take care, John. Sorry for interrupting your sle—”
He hung up, turned off his phone, slipped it into the pillowcase, and tossed it across the room before stomping over to his bed and collapsing. Adele had been excited; it had sounded urgent.
But a couple more hours couldn’t hurt anything.
***
“Sleep well?” said Robert cheerfully, standing at the bottom of the hotel steps. The tall Frenchman looked like he’d been beaten with pillows.
John growled as he adjusted his sunglasses and approached the shorter man. “Fine,” he muttered. “Get my text?”
“Was the taxi ride back comfortable?”
John glowered. “Since when are you so interested in my comfort? Drop it. Two hours in a taxi that smelled of leaf. It was great. Now about Adele’s errand?”
Robert rocked on his heels, his hands at his side in a genteel posture. “Yes. I scheduled an appointment with the concierge. You said Adele already spoke to the one at the Wolfsschluct Resort?”
“Sounded like it. He wasn’t particularly helpful. Think our guy will be different?”
Robert shrugged delicately and turned on his heel, gesturing for John to follow. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said. “Whatever the case, he’s willing to meet with me.”
“You? Or us?”
Robert smiled over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re welcome. But, ah, my private connections are proving useful on this case.”
John’s glower deepened and he followed after the smaller man up the hotel steps to meet with the French concierge.
They reached the office. “Ah, yes, hello—I do believe we have an appointment.” Robert poked his head through the open doorway to peer down the hall. In Robert’s estimate, the room was built like a private chapel, with stained glass windows overhead. Instead of a podium for prayer, though, there was a single desk with a man seated behind. The man looked up, smiling instantly.
He was round with dimpled cheeks and a good-natured grin which was already out in full force. The smile became somewhat brittle as it flashed from Robert to John, and he took in the two hoodies and stained pants.
“Yes, of course, yes, Mr. Henry?”
Robert nodded and approached the desk, taking a seat and gesturing John should do the same opposite the concierge. “One and the same. I hope I catch you at a good time.”
“Of course, of course,” said the man, nodding so hard his cheeks wobbled. “How might I serve you?”
Robert tapped a
finger on the desk and said, “We’re wondering about clients of yours. Mr. and Mrs. Hanes.”
The man’s smile not only became brittle, but fractured now. “Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “And… Mr. Henry, why are you asking?”
“Hmm,” said Robert, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps I wasn’t so upfront on the phone. We’re not actually looking to partake in an excursion. Rather, we’re interested in investigating one. See, my colleague and I work for DGSI.”
John and Robert, in near perfect uniformity, drew their badges and flourished their credentials. And with a similar flourish, they pocketed them once more before the concierge could take a beat. John and Robert didn’t look to each other, but kept their eyes fixed on the hotel employee.
“I assure you,” he said, laughing nervously, his smile entirely fixed at this point, “we are all up to date. Our tax files are readily available. There are no, ah, shenanigans on our part—I guarantee it.”
“Look,” John said, “we’re interested in the Haneses’ whereabouts. Not yours. Nor your small little racket here.”
“Racket? I assure you, we’re properly accredited.”
“Pardon my sins while you’re at it?” John muttered, glancing around at the stained glass. “This place gives me the creeps. Regardless, we’re specifically interested if the Hanes couple interacted with a Prestige Entertainment.”
The man stared at them now, unblinking.
Robert waited, listening, as John pressed. “A nice little excursion for the average bloke’s annual salary, you can visit the top of the Alps and eat gelatin or some such nonsense. I don’t rightly remember.”
“I don’t know of anything like that,” the concierge said, hurriedly.
John’s eyes narrowed. Robert leaned in, placing a soothing hand on the tall agent’s leg. “You’re certain? No connection at all? What about the company he mentioned?”
“Prestige Entertainment? I’ve heard of them. We don’t work with them. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, all our listed activities are available in the visitor brochures. Certainly no… helicopter trips for gelatin.”
“Never said anything about a helicopter,” John pointed out.
“I inferred,” the concierge snapped, his eyes dull chips of granite. “I’m afraid if there’s nothing else, I’m a bit busy.”
Robert smiled politely. “But you said when I asked earlier you had plenty of time.”
“Things change,” he retorted. “Good day.”
Robert sighed. “Are you certain you can’t help? Two lives were lost.”
“I’m certain,” he snapped. “Jobs are also being lost. And the longer this foolishness goes on, the fewer clients and customers there are. People have to eat and feed their families you know?”
“Feed them gelatin,” John muttered.
“I think you mean gelato,” the man retorted.
Robert, though, knew defeat when he saw it. He raised his hands and got up from his seat, turning to leave. John, though, didn’t move. Robert glanced back and watched as the larger man leaned across the table. He gripped the concierge’s tie and gave it a little tug.
“Little crooked,” he said. “There you go, I straightened it out for you.”
The man squeaked in the face of the scar-faced agent. “Thank you.”
“Any time.” John smirked. “If you change your mind, give us a call. You have his info.” Then John shoved off his chair and began stalking out of the room without a backwards glance.
Before they’d left earshot, John—loud enough for not only the concierge to hear, but anyone within a few hundred feet—said, “Bastard is lying through his Colgate teeth. I’d stake my job on it.”
“There, there,” Robert said, patting John on the arm.
“I don’t like liars, Agent Henry. I truly don’t.”
Robert nodded, still patting John and leading him out of the concierge’s parlor and through the hotel. “Perhaps they booked it separately, outside the resort.”
“Yeah, maybe,” John sniffed. “Whatever, I need a breath.”
Robert paused, lowering his hand and jogging now to keep up with the tall agent. For a moment, he thought he should mention his hunch. He’d been mulling it over for the last few nights now, and was starting to see a pattern. But no—perhaps too premature. Not yet… Soon, though. Very soon. What happened next would confirm everything. Robert nodded to himself, smoothed his mustache, and strode with delicate ease after the angered Frenchman.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Mr. Griezmann inhaled the new air. Air filled with possibilities, beginnings. He smiled, surveying the newest addition to the Alps. A resort with the sleekest technology, cutting-edge architecture, the most highly trained staff. He examined the many white and blue buildings above the tree line. He reached up and rubbed at a crick in his neck.
It had opened yesterday, and Mr. Griezmann had been one of the first guests through its front doors. First. It mattered. It always had, regardless of what others might say.
Even the beds were delightful; normally, this early in the morning, he’d be feeling it all up and down his right side. For now, at the very least, the expected pain was localized.
He sighed. Just another one of the small indignities that came with age. He leaned against the metal railing of the outlook in the trees, examining the ski trails beyond. Already, a dozen or so folk were making their way up the slope on the ski lift and then gliding down. The instructors would be out soon, too.
He tapped his binoculars against the metal bar, wincing again at the crick in his neck. Despite his years, the man had been an avid skier. At least, until the accident last year.
Pain. Broken bone during a ski accident of all things. His ankle had never fully healed. Now, arthritis had set in, and if he was too active, or—ironically—too passive, agony would suggest itself in his body. It never seemed to particularly mind where it struck. A broken ankle, and now he woke with neck pains. No rhyme or reason as far as he could see; just more humiliation. An outsider, looking in.
Bird watching took his mind off the accident. A bit. Especially bird watching. He examined a couple of the skiers, looking to see if the silver fox from the tango class the night before might have made it to the lift. No luck.
He rotated the binoculars toward the nearest chalet. His own chalet was hidden in a grove beneath an outcropping shelf of rock. Sometimes people left windows open. Especially at night.
Bird watching. A very distracting sport. The man smiled again, binoculars pressed to his face. Then he heard a crack.
The man would have whirled around if it didn’t pain him so much. Instead, he rotated with quick shuffling steps, his head facing forward, his neck unmoving. He turned completely and frowned. Normally, no one visited the lookout spots until later in the day when the tours came around. Then again, it was hard to completely track the habits of the hotel customers in a new resort. The chalet folk liked their rest.
He glanced around the trail, his eyes skipping over the tastefully arranged stone markers and dipping past the snowy ground. The tiles themselves were heated for a mile radius all the way around the resort. Another feature—another little glory of technology. Say one thing for the younger generations, they’re innovative.
The man nodded and began to turn again. Another crack. He frowned and shuffled once more.
“Hello?” he called in German, scanning the rows of trees lining the tiled trail. “Hello?” he repeated.
No answer. But a flourish. A scarf? Someone standing in the trees. He was sure he could see them.
“Hello?”
Had a bird come close? The man wouldn’t deny the company. He took a couple of steps closer to the trees, peering out now. He glanced up and down the trail. Empty. No one else around. He paused for a moment, but then stepped off the trail, peering toward the scarf waving in the wind. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Then, a flurry of movement. Fast—far too fast. A person in a red jacket, rushing hi
m.
Mr. Griezmann tried to step back but slipped on the snow; he should have stayed on the trail. But too late. He fell to the ground and felt a shock of pain where he landed, immobilizing him all up and down his side. He would be feeling it for days, weeks even. He cursed, uttering a series of obscenities that did very little to release his pent up agony and despair.
He tried to rise, but no matter how he moved, his injury made itself known, twisting his body in pain. He felt tears from the sheer agony seep down the trails of his cheeks. “Help!” he called in the direction of the scarf.
But the blur of movement was on him a second later. He reached up a hand, hopeful, seeking help.
Then he spotted the hatchet. “Wait,” he said, swallowing. “No… No!”
The hatchet glinted in the first few rays of sunshine parsing through the trees. And then it swung in a silver arc like a trout over water. The bird watcher cried out in a strangled voice. And the hatchet continued its work long after the man’s suffering cries and whimpers faded to sickening silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“Why the long face?” Agent Marshall queried, glancing up from her computer. The two agents sat once more in the conference room they’d used for the interrogation. But now, the ski instructor was gone, and a bad mood had taken his place, settling on the otherwise idyllic setting in the mountains.
Adele glared at her own computer. “I’m fine,” she said, shortly. She read the address a second time, searched it, and her glare only deepened.
“What is it?” Marshall said, insistent now.
Adele swallowed her pride and looked across at the young German agent with the close-cropped hair. “It’s just… This company I was looking into: Prestige Entertainment. Their given address on their website just leads to a post office the town over.”
“What is this company—first I’m hearing of it.”
If there was a note of reproach to her tone, she disguised it well.
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