The numbers were driving her nuts. It was the hardest part of the lessons from the famous chef. In class she’d often cheated just by eyeing the amounts.
Chef Emile stopped his pacing short and looked down that long nose at her. “Of course I am sure, Madame Joan. We French have been using the metric system since the First Republic.”
“O—kay.” Holding back a groan of exasperation, she picked up her pencil again.
He let out a long sigh and stared out the window. “Odette was always headstrong. Even as a little girl. And impeccably neat. She kept her room just so. Every doll and every knickknack in its place. She was always so careful with everything I gave her. I used to shower her with gifts. Little ceramic horses, music boxes, china dolls with beautiful lace dresses. I suppose I spoiled her.”
And so she thought she could get her way with anybody, even a vicious criminal. And now she was learning better. Reality was a bitch, wasn’t it?
Joan felt for Chef Emile, but she couldn’t forgive his niece for what she’d done, even if she’d done it because she was incredibly spoiled and naïve.
But Joan didn’t dare utter her thoughts to the chef. They had to stay focused. “Let’s keep going.”
Chef Emile shook himself out of his reverie. “You are right. What is next?”
Joan studied her notes again. The lock only went to fifty, so each number had to be only one or two digits. “Two hundred twenty-five could be a two and a twenty-five,” she said aloud, writing it down.
“Or a twenty-two and a five.”
“Or a two and another two and a five. Do you think he’d have used so many single digits?”
“How do I know?”
Wade was right. This was going to take forever. But she wrote down the possibilities.
“I will try them.” Chef Emile moved back over to the safe, and just as he had the first dozen times, he turned the knob on the lock the way Wade had shown them. “Deux, deux, cinq.”
The two, two, five set.
The chef sighed. “We need two more numbers.”
“Right.” Might as well stick with the single digits. So the hundred would translate to one and zero. She read them off.
“Un et zéro. Voila.” He pulled the handle. It didn’t budge.
Damn.
Just as Joan pressed her eyes shut to stem back the mounting frustration, there was a knock on the door.
She jumped and blinked at it. Was it was someone come to tell her Dave was dead?
Instead a male voice said, “Chef Emile? Tout va bien?”
“Who’s that?” she whispered.
“My assistant.” Chef Emile strode to the door and opened it.
Instinctively Joan opened a drawer in the desk and shoved her papers into it. Then she recognized the guy they’d seen with the chef at the blackboard downstairs. That seemed like a lifetime ago.
“What is it, Labossiere?”
“I am waiting for the menu decisions.”
Chef Emile waved his hand as if annoyed. “Oui. You are right about the au jus for the chateaubriand.”
“And the duck?”
“Oui, oui. Orange sauce with the duck.” He started to close the door on the man.
“Are you not coming down?”
“Non. I am—otherwise occupied.”
“But chef, I cannot possibly finish all the preparations by myself.” The assistant pushed the door open and spotted Joan sitting at the desk.
She folded her hands and gave him the most pert smile she could manage.
For a long moment he stared at her with an expression of surprise that quickly turned to disgust. He must think the chef had brought her here to seduce her or something. At the moment, Joan didn’t give a fuck what he thought.
Chef Emile started to close the door again. “Call Henri. He will help.”
“Henri? Is he qualified?”
“Of course he is. Now I do not wish to be disturbed again for the rest of the night.”
“Very well.” And with another snide look at Joan, Labossiere left.
“I apologize.”
“It’s okay.” She nodded toward the door. “Henri? The assistant from the school?”
“Yes. He works here occasionally. It is how he and Odette met. They used to be engaged.”
“Really?” It was hard for her to imagine that. “What happened?”
He lifted a shoulder as if it didn’t matter, though it clearly did. “She grew tired of him. Felt he was beneath her.”
Another endearing quality. But for the first time Joan noticed the worry lines in Chef Emile face. Up to now he had been in denial, but he wasn’t there anymore. If he was willing to neglect preparations for the big day tomorrow, he knew his niece was in trouble.
Trying to think of something else, Joan thought of the look Labossiere had given her and wondered what sort of rumors he would start downstairs in the kitchen.
She smiled. If Dave ever found out—Dave.
The smile faded as terror gripped her and fatigue clouded her brain. They were getting nowhere. Time was running out. What would happen if they didn’t figure out the right combination? Would that awful man on the phone carry out his threat?
Of course, he would.
She suddenly had a vision of Dave’s body floating in the green waters of the Seine. And all she could do was put her head down on the desk and weep.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It hadn’t taken long for the agents to form into teams and get a basic plan together. Soon Miranda found herself in the back of Nadeau’s Audi again with Parker next to her and Haubert before her in the passenger seat.
Four other cars holding four or five agents each were also on the move.
All of them sped through the brightly lit streets, maneuvering around buses and bikes and bunches of partygoers who hovered anxiously on street corners waiting to hurry across the crowded intersections to the next bar or nightclub.
It seemed to take forever but at last the Audi reached the outskirts of the city. The section Turmel had pointed out on the map back at headquarters.
This area didn’t share the typical charm of the other Paris streets Miranda had seen.
With rows of old, boxy red brick buildings that might have been built in the thirties, it reminded her of some of the seedier places of New York. But as she peered out the window, the shadowy silhouettes in the distance seemed even more sinister. Had to be the abandoned railway Haubert had mentioned.
Nadeau parked along a deserted street, waited for the other cars to do the same, and one by one everyone got out.
Huddling together the agents muttered to each other in French, then Haubert turned back to Miranda, Parker, and Nadeau. He gestured to Nadeau and he went to the trunk, retrieved four maglites, and handed them out.
“This way,” Haubert said, switching on his light and pointing toward the eerie silhouettes in the distance.
Man of few words, Miranda thought, and followed the director and Nadeau onto a grassy stretch beyond the sidewalk with Parker close at her side.
The resemblance to a slum grew stronger as they climbed down a short brick wall and picked their way across the gravel and overgrown weeds of the old splintered train tracks. A gray T-shaped building stood alongside the opposite wall. A place where long ago railway personnel directed train traffic. Now its door was boarded up, it windows were broken out and its siding was covered in colorful French graffiti. A place where kidnappers wouldn’t easily be discovered. But could they function here?
“How far is that cell tower that was pinged?” Miranda hissed to Haubert.
He pointed behind them and to the left. “About half a kilometer that way.”
It was a solid clue, all right. She glanced at Parker for any sign of doubt but his face was expressionless. This time she couldn’t read it.
They climbed over the wall on the opposite side of the tracks and started across a junkyard, dodging piles of odd-looking debris of indeterminable origin. The agents moved in si
lence like a small army. Traffic noises faded behind them.
Again Miranda’s gaze swept across the silhouette of tall structures in the distance. She couldn’t make out much in street lights but they looked like they had been warehouses or maybe old flats once upon a time. Was Becker really in there? Were Yanick and Odette and the Russian mob guy there, too?
If so, they weren’t giving him up without a fight. They wanted their hundred million Euros. And if Haubert’s hunch was wrong about this, if those buildings were as deserted as they looked, they’d be back at square one.
Nerves began to dance in her belly. “Are we sure they’re here?”
Haubert gestured in the direction they were heading. “Those empty buildings up ahead would be a perfect place to hide. Some renovation has begun there. I believe some of the units may have limited utilities.”
That was an interesting bit of information. That meant it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable for four people to hold up in there for a few days.
“I agree,” Parker said, squinting into the darkness. “A place like that is where I would go if I had kidnapped someone.”
He’d taught her you had to think like the criminal at times.
He turned his head to glance at her. “What do your instincts tell you, Miranda?”
She focused on her body and the sensations it was giving her, but her spidey sense didn’t seem to be working too well this time out. She felt nothing but the warm air and nerves.
“I don’t know. It’s worth checking out.”
He nodded and turned to the director. “If they are in one of those buildings, we’re going to have a hostage situation on our hands, Rene.”
“I have considered that. I hope your negotiation skills are in shape.”
“As do I.”
She hadn’t thought about that. They certainly had enough manpower but if they tried to overtake Yanick and Kosomov by force, there would be bloodshed.
Becker would be the first to go. Odette next.
These bastards still had the upper hand.
Anger pushed her legs across the remaining length of the field to the first building. She studied it.
Seemed to be a large station with waiting rooms where the privileged once passed the time until their passage arrived. Beyond it stood more buildings. Storehouses for railway equipment maybe. Or hotels for an overnight stay before heading to the city the next day.
Suddenly Miranda felt something. Not exactly the spine-tingling sensations she’d had before but a steady pressure low in her gut.
Going with it she turned on her maglite and forged ahead of her group, making her way through the overgrown weeds.
“Where are you going, Miranda?” she heard Parker hiss behind her, warning in his tone.
“Following a hunch,” she hissed back.
But she stopped to pull out her weapon. Holding it in front of her, she adjusted her light and kept going.
When she reached the far corner of the building she peered into the shadows along its side. She ran her light over the bricks, making sure the beam didn’t reflect into any of the windows. But they were all boarded up here. And then, about twenty yards away near the opposite end of the structure she saw what they were looking for.
“You were right, Haubert,” she said as Parker and the others reached her.
“What is it?” Parker asked.
She pointed to the spot. She didn’t need the flashlight. The street lights were enough to make it out.
There alongside the old building, looking just as it had in the photograph outside Jacques du Coeur, was the white van.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Five sheets were now covered with numbers. None of them worked.
Feeling as if her sore ass was glued to the leather chair, Joan sat at the ancient desk, checking off the combinations they had tried. She had gotten over her crying jag. And two more that had threatened to overcome her when sequence after sequence had failed to open the safe. Right about now she felt as if she were going nuts. Especially while Chef Emile had looked on as she cried, handing her tissues, compassion in his kind blue eyes.
His civility had only made her feel shakier. She felt like she was about to go total batshit crazy, on the verge of a total freaking breakdown.
But there was no time even for that. She forced herself to stare at the numbers. They’d come up with so many variations. And there must be thousands more.
“We need a computer,” she said.
Chef Emile who’d pulled a chair near the safe and sank into it an hour ago, sat up as if startled by her voice. “A computer?” he shook his head. “I do not have one.”
She raised a brow at him. “You run a restaurant without a computer?”
“My accountant, yes. He has one. It is in his office downstairs. But I have never used it.”
Big help that was.
They could go to the trouble of hauling it upstairs. But she had no clue how to plug these numbers into it and get it to spit out the right sequence.
She leaned back against the stiff leather and groaned. They needed Wade and Murray. Wade had a laptop and Murray had told her how on some of their recent cases, he had used it to find real dirt on the bad guy. Murray never told her much about her adventures. But Joan had been mesmerized by what she did say. She had even been silly enough to be a little jealous of her friend.
Not anymore. Adventure sucked.
She looked at her watch. Murray and Wade had been gone for hours. Where the hell were they?
She thought of the call Wade had gotten. French Intelligence. The strangers who’d invaded her hotel room this afternoon. What had they found? She knew Murray and Wade were keeping her out of that part of the investigation. She didn’t like it but she had to trust them. They knew what they were doing. But hell. Why didn’t they at least call?
Her temples aching she picked up her pencil. “Come on, Chef. Let’s try again.”
“Very well. Where were we?”
Her eyesight blurring, she squinted at the pad where the chef had transcribed the recipe. “We’ve done the lemon and the coffee fillings. Let’s try the glazes.”
“The dark chocolate first.”
“Okay. Three hundred and fifty grams of the best semi-sweet chocolate, finely chopped.”
“I get it from my cousin. He is one of the top chocolatiers in Paris.”
“Oh, yes,” she remembered the chef mentioning him in class. She continued. “One half tablespoon of the finest butter. So now we have a three, a five, a zero, a one and a two.” She wrote it down and shook her head at the numbers.
There was too much repetition. What if they were supposed to add or divide the numbers? What if they were supposed put them together in a way they hadn’t thought of. And what about all those fancy garnishes?
The cream puffs could be mounted on sponge cake and embellished with ribbons or flowers or chocolate and arranged in the shape of anything the baker could imagine.
There were just too many variations. “I was going to make one of these for my friends,” she said on a miserable sigh.
“The detectives?”
“Uh huh. It’s their wedding anniversary soon. Dave and I were going to—” Her voice trailed off. And then she remembered her own anniversary was tomorrow.
She closed her eyes and reached for a tissue.
“Would you like to see some of the creations of my father and grandfather? Perhaps they would inspire you.”
That caught her attention. Nodding she pressed the tissue to her nose. “Sure.”
Chef Emile went to the cabinet he and Wade had pushed aside earlier, pulled down a large volume from a shelf. He set it on the desk then pulled his chair over.
Fanuzzi knew he was trying to distract her, and probably himself, from the horrible anxiety they both were enduring. But the photos were so beautiful, they really did take her mind off things.
Chef Emile pointed at the first picture. It was old and faded. “My grandfather made this one.”
>
It was a rendition of the Eiffel Tower, the structure’s scaffolding made with delicate caramel that shimmered like gold.
“It’s gorgeous,” Joan said.
“And these are some of my father’s works.” He turned a page.
The neoclassical Pantheon with golden spirals done in spun sugar for the columns and more spun sugar for the dome. One of the flying horses on the Alexander bridge, chocolate lace for its wings.
Joan turned another page and sucked in her breath. It was the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. A carpet of green-frosted cake held the tiny steps that led to the lovely cathedral with its white columns and domes.
“That was my father’s masterpiece.”
It was done in white chocolate with a design so intricate, it looked real. “How did he do that?”
Chef Emile smiled wistfully. “He was one of the best at chocolate work.”
She turned another page and saw a sketch of the Arc de Triomphe. “Wasn’t this one done?”
The chef shook his head. “It’s the one I was supposed to construct for tomorrow’s celebration.”
Joan’s shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry.”
He reached for her hand. “We will get through this, Madame Joan. I promise. And I will make amends for what Odette has done.”
She stared into his kind pale blue eyes wondering how he was going to do that.
He got to his feet. “We must get back to work. Read me the next set of numbers.”
He was right. This was all they had.
Picking up her pencil again, Joan found her place and began to read.
Chapter Thirty-Four
They were at the building now. Miranda gazed up at a long rusted drain pipe and the colorful French graffiti spread over a wall that had seen better days.
The structure was about five stories high. She studied each floor, as much as she could from the outside. And when her gaze hit the top story, her heart stood still.
Near the very top was a lone window. Too far up to be destroyed by vandals, the pane seemed to still be intact.
And there was light coming from it.
Zero Dark Chocolate (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 5) Page 15