by Cindy Dees
“Beware,” someone whispered in my ear.
I lurched and spun around, my hands up in a defensive posture. Nobody was there. What in the hell was going on with me? I didn’t think of myself as a person who spooked easily, but I was sure as heck spooked now.
I crossed the street in the middle of the block to get to the other side, closer to the river. There were more linden trees over here, but there were no storefronts or alleys for an assailant to jump out of, either. I sped up my steps, heading for the bright stripe of the Pont Neuf ahead of me. The wide stone bridge crossed over the Seine a few blocks in front of me.
Something scuffed behind me. I looked quickly over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of what might be a man back there. Sometimes I wished I carried a weapon. Maybe I ought to start. Fat lot of good it was going to do me now, though.
I cursed my two-inch heels as my calves began to ache from the punishing pace I was setting in shoes not meant for race walking. I began to keep an eye out for an improvised weapon. A stick or a big rock, anything I could use to defend myself. But this area was too clean for such projectiles. I settled for bending down, almost without breaking my stride and scooping up a handful of freshly spread sand from the square of dirt around the base of a tree. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. In my left hand, I clutched my key ring, slipping my middle finger through the large ring so the keys made a crude set of brass knuckles.
I thought I saw a movement across the street to my left. I looked quickly and saw a man. He had a hat pulled down low over his eyebrows and his hands were jammed in the pockets of an overcoat. It wasn’t that cool a night.
I glanced over my shoulder. A second man was behind me. Coming up fast. Not good. By the time I could pull out my cell phone and call the police these guys would be on me. Sometime it’s best to stand your ground and fight, and sometimes it’s best to flee and return to fight another day. Tonight I tucked tail and ran.
Immediately, I heard the slap of footsteps behind me. Uh-oh. These guys were definitely after me. I kept an eye on the figure across the street who was keeping pace beside me. One more block to the bright lights of the bridge. The guy across the street waited until a delivery truck passed by and then veered into the street.
Coming straight at me.
I dodged to the right of the line of trees and put on a burst of speed. Thank goodness I ran a little cross country in high school! It had been a few years, but I still had some get-up-and-go in the old legs. My arms pumped hard and I kept my chin up as I sucked great breaths of air into my lungs. Only a couple hundred feet to go. I lost sight of the guy to my left, but I wasn’t about to waste any energy or speed looking around for him.
A steady stream of cars crossed the bridge, and I made out pedestrians leaning over the wide stone balustrades of the Pont Neuf. Craving the safety of lights and people I ignored the burning in my lungs, the sweat popping on my forehead, the fear twisting in my gut. I didn’t know who those guys were behind me, and I wasn’t about to confront them and try to find out.
I careened past the last tree and into the open. Still not out in the bright light yet. Please let them not catch me. Straining with every muscle I had, I sprinted for the bridge. I didn’t stop until I was a good dozen yards onto the stone span and had charged past several startled-looking couples. There. I was right out in plain sight. Now if those bastards wanted to come after me, they’d have witnesses and cell phones and police to deal with.
I dropped my forgotten fistful of sand, letting it trickle out between my sweaty fingers. I planted my hands on my hips, breathing hard in the damp night air. There was nothing quite as unpleasant as the sensation of a silk shirt plastered wetly to my skin. The poor blouse was ruined. I unbuttoned my tweed jacket and twisted my hair up off my neck to try to cool myself after my impromptu sprint. I turned to look behind me, to see if the two men were still back there. Nobody was following me that I could discern. But then, a number of lone men were leaning casually on the railing, looking down into the river. Any of them could’ve been my tails.
I would stop at the other end of the bridge and hail a taxi to take me the rest of the way home. The stitch in my side was finally easing, although my clothes still clung disgustingly to me. I twisted around, trying to pluck my blouse off my back. And that’s when I saw the headlights jump the curb behind me and head straight at me.
Pure survival reflex took over. I didn’t stop to think. I turned for the bridge railing and jumped.
Chapter 6
A t the last second before it slammed into the heavy stone balustrade, the car—a Peugeot—swerved back across the pedestrian walk and into the roadway. It sped off into the night. From my awkward position sprawled along the wide stone ledge, I couldn’t make out the license plate number. A middle-aged couple rushed over to me, and the man helped me down off the bridge.
“Mon Dieu! Do you wish me to call the police, mademoiselle?” he exclaimed.
“I am the police,” I replied wryly, brushing off my jacket with a trembling hand. Turns out being the target of attempted murder rattles me a bit.
I glanced around at the small crowd that had gathered, perhaps a dozen witnesses. “Did any of you catch the license plate number of that car?”
No one had, and the agitated bystanders quickly latched onto the idea that the driver had been a drunk who lost control of his car. I wished. Four or five men joined the back of the crowd. Were any of them involved in chasing me or that near miss on me moments ago? I tried to get a good look at their faces, but every last one of them either turned away or was placed so I couldn’t get a good look at him.
I’d had enough of being a sideshow. After one last reassurance to everyone that I was fine, I resumed crossing the bridge. I wasn’t fine, but I wasn’t about to stand there any longer letting them fuss over me. I walked on wobbly knees to the far end of the bridge and hailed a taxi. It took several minutes, but one finally stopped. Thankfully I only lived a few blocks north. By the time the cab stopped in front of my apartment, the smell of my own sweat and fear was beginning to fill the confines of the vehicle most unpleasantly. No wonder these cabs smelled the way they did. People like me rode around in them.
I paid the guy an extra few euros to watch me enter my building and make sure no one followed me inside. I made it into the lobby all right and waved to him through the long window beside the door. The taxi took off and I was alone.
Not surprisingly, I had a burning desire to gain the safety of my apartment, lock myself in and get the heck out of my sweaty clothes. I rushed up the stairs and fumbled with the locks in my haste as I alternated looking furtively over my shoulder and swearing at the uncooperative dead bolt. I suppose it was stupid to have a panic attack after the fact, but my adrenaline was sky-high, and my pulse felt as if it were about to explode out of my throat.
Finally, the lock gave way. I flipped on the lights and breathed a sigh of relief at my empty living room. Quickly, I searched my apartment. And yes, I looked under the bed and in all the closets. But I figured I was authorized a little paranoia after my scare down at the Seine. I did stop myself from checking the front door locks a third time, though.
I stripped out of my ruined suit, took a quick shower and crawled into sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. Comfort clothes. I even made myself a cup of hot chocolate. My comfort food.
And then I darned near spilled the whole scalding lot down my front when somebody knocked on my door. Who the heck was here to see me at this time of night? It was only a little after nine o’clock, but my friends didn’t show up unannounced that late on a weeknight.
I have to admit the first thing that came to my mind, besides the thugs who’d chased me, was that Robert Fraser had followed me home and wanted to talk to me. I scowled at the accompanying leap in my stomach at the thought. He. Was. Not. My. Type. End of discussion.
Leaving on the chain, I cracked open the door and peeked outside.
A man stood there, all right. Middle-age
d. Too paunchy to have been either of the guys who’d chased me onto the Pont Neuf, with washed out brown hair combed over a balding spot and kind, serious eyes. Definitely not dark, dangerous, bad boy Robert Fraser.
“Good evening, Agent Reisner. My name is Carl Montrose. May I come in?”
After my recent scare I wasn’t about to let a total stranger into my home just like that. “Can I see some ID?” I asked.
“Of course. Forgive me.” He pulled out his wallet and showed me his driver’s license, a credit card and even a library card.
“Okay, so you’re Carl Montrose. What do you want with me?”
“I want to talk about our mutual friend Elise. I work for—” He broke off, glancing up and down the hall.
Very cloak and dagger. I wasn’t impressed. Just because he knew Elise’s name didn’t mean he wasn’t one of the bad guys trying to kill her. But then he pulled out another ID badge of some kind and held it out for my inspection. Okay, now that impressed me. It was an access badge to Pierre Dupont’s private offices.
He said quietly, “I work for this man.”
“Who’s been your contact at Interpol on this case?” I challenged. So maybe I was being a little paranoid here. But I didn’t enjoy being followed or nearly killed.
“Armande St. Germain for the most part. Although I spoke to a fellow this afternoon by the name of Littmann. He called to tell me about the incident at the conservatory. Extremely nervous man.”
That did it. This Montrose guy was for real. I stepped back, unchained my door and let him in. Gesturing him down onto my sofa, I said, “I apologize for my caution, but someone’s been tailing me and a car nearly ran me down earlier.” Just to gauge his reaction I asked, “Was it your people following me?”
Something flickered across his features. Uh-oh. Had I just let a bad guy in after all? And he was between me and my bedroom door—my bedroom being where my can of mace currently resided, not to mention my Louisville Slugger. Oh, and my service pistol, locked in a metal box and buried somewhere deep in the back of my closet. I’d have felt much better with some sort of weapon in hand.
“I did have you followed,” he confessed. “My men tailed you over the weekend.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you took the case seriously and actually started work on it. But they were called off once it became clear that you were pursuing it.” He studied me for a long moment. “I should have waited until business hours tomorrow to see you at the police prefecture where you would be more at ease. But events are moving quickly and the president is very worried.”
“Exactly what’s got Dupont so worked up?”
“That is what I came here to discuss. As you no doubt know by now, Pierre Dupont has a personal interest in this case. But there is more to it than his old friendship with Elise Villecourt. Much more.”
“And it’s this other piece of the puzzle that makes it a matter of national security?”
Montrose nodded, then asked casually, “Would you mind if I sweep the room for bugs before we go any further?”
I blinked, startled. “Uh, go ahead.”
The man stood up, laid his briefcase beside me on the sofa so I could see into it when he opened it, and pulled out a small black sensor. I watched, bemused, as he slowly circled my entire living room.
As he finished up, I offered politely, “Since we’re both being so cautious, do you want to see my credentials?”
He closed his briefcase and sat back down on the other two thirds of the sofa. He leaned back and said solemnly, “No, thank you. I’ve seen photographs of you. Your extraordinary eyes are identification enough.”
Like I said before, I don’t think of myself in terms of beauty, so a comment like this caught me off guard. I had no idea what to say next, so I waited for him to pick up the reins of the conversation.
“How are you coming on your investigation?” he finally asked.
Whew. Solid ground once more. I answered, “Slower than I’d like. It does, indeed, seem as if Madame Villecourt’s claims that someone is trying to kill her are true. Today’s shooting leaves little doubt about that.”
He nodded grimly. “The other reason I came here tonight is to impress upon you the importance of solving this case. Quickly.”
“And what is it about this case that’s so terribly important?”
Montrose sighed. “That is the question of the hour, is it not? Monsieur Dupont hopes that by giving you all the information we have, you can help us more effectively.”
Finally. Someone was going to give me something concrete to go on. No more smoke and mirrors. I hoped.
The thief frowned. Looked over his shoulder into the darkness. He slid deeper into the night, easing forward silent and fast. There it was again. That noise behind him. He wasn’t one of the most accomplished burglars in Europe for nothing. He had hearing like a cat. It had already saved him once tonight.
He’d just been settling down in front of the television to watch a Jerry Lewis movie when he’d heard the faintest scratching sound at his door. In the vicinity of the lock, in fact. Somebody was very quietly, very deftly picking the lock. He’d leaped out of his chair and ran for his bedroom, locking the interior door behind him. He’d grabbed his rubber-soled shoes, the statue and a rucksack of gear, and sprinted for the bathroom. He’d locked that door, too.
Out the window fast and onto the windowsill. He’d balanced briefly, then made the precarious leap across a wide gap to the retracted fire escape hanging against the wall to his left. He’d practiced the move a dozen times just in case the law ever caught up with him and he had to get away fast. Except that hadn’t been the law at his door tonight. It had been someone imminently scarier than the police—his client.
He’d executed his preplanned escape across the rooftops of his ancient neighborhood, taking running jumps spanning three different gaps that would thwart all but the most athletic pursuer. Then he slowed down, staying below the rooflines, creeping another several blocks in the steep, slate jungle that was the nocturnal home of a cat burglar. Down one of several fire escapes he could choose from and into the heart of the Latin Quarter, a place anyone could lose himself in if he tried. Its warren of narrow, winding streets and round-the-clock, eclectic mix of humanity was a no-brainer for a man like him to blend in to.
And that’s why he was so surprised to hear someone behind him as he slipped into a residential street off the rue Cujas. His back should’ve been clean! Now what to do? He had to lose these guys. He had no doubt they’d torture him until he told them where the statue was, and then they’d kill him. Slowly and painfully. And speaking of which, he had to find someplace to hide the lady.
He needed a misdirection. Something to throw them off the trail. He looked around and the perfect distraction came to him. René ought to be holed up by now in his usual rat nest for the night. And it was just a couple blocks away. With renewed energy, he took off running.
He rounded the corner into René’s alley and headed for the back end of it, behind the Dumpsters from the gay bar. Sure enough, the old man was curled up inside the wooden packing crate the Paris garbage department kindly never seemed to pick up. It really wasn’t that uncomfortable looking. René was burrowed down into a deep nest of blankets with only the top of his head showing. Gentle snores emanated from the pile of wool.
“René,” he whispered.
Another snore was the only reply.
“René!” he whispered louder. Still nothing. Oh, hell. He reached inside the box and poked at the pile of blankets. “Wake up you drunk old reprobate!”
A grumble, an elbow tossed at his prodding finger, and René’s face emerged, bleary eyed. “What are you up to, Ives, waking an old man from a pleasant dream?”
Damn. Not as drunk as usual. Oh, well. He’d proceed with the plan, anyway. “Listen. Some men are after me. I need to lose them. Switch clothes with me, will you? They won’t hurt you when they realize you’re not me.”
René’
s red-rimmed eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?”
He shrugged. “I nicked a souvenir from a job and the client’s sent his goons after me to fetch it.”
René’s eyes narrowed even more. “What sort of souvenir? If you went into the Louvre to steal a cup, your idea of a souvenir could be the Mona Lisa.”
“Naw, it’s just a statue. Of a lady.”
René snorted. “The Venus de Milo is a statue of a lady.”
The thief looked over his shoulder nervously at the mouth of the alley. “It’s nothing like that. I swear. It’s just a woman carrying a kid. It’s old, but I checked the Internet and it’s got no provenance at all. As far as I can tell, it’s never even come up for sale, let alone for auction. Can’t be worth much.”
“Then why are these guys chasing you?”
Damn. René was a sharp old bastard when his back teeth weren’t awash in gin. “Principle of the thing. C’mon. Help me out. Trade clothes with me. I’ll let you keep my threads.”
That perked up René. “Permanently?”
“I suppose,” he answered grudgingly. “Just swear you do not have lice before we do this.”
René reared up indignantly. “I take a shower every week at the Catholic mission.” With a hint of the agility that had earned him his reputation as one of the great ones in his day, the old guy extricated himself from his blankets and began to strip off the various layers of mismatched clothing adorning his emaciated body.
The thief was somewhat heavier and in better physical condition, and René’s pants were uncomfortably snug on him. He pulled on a shirt that didn’t fit much better. René might bathe, but clearly he had no use for deodorant. The shirt stunk to high heaven. Ah, well. It lent the disguise credibility.
He pulled René’s secondhand ski sweater down over his shirt and shrugged on the ratty, black wool jacket René passed him. It smelled as greasy and filthy as if it had just come off the sheep who donated the wool to make it. The thief handed over his own handmade, Italian leather jacket with a pang of regret. The coat could be replaced, though. His neck could not. He pulled a black knit watch cap out of the pocket of René’s coat and yanked it down over his ears. They kept their own shoes.