Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  “Then why is it Dick gave me two keys to the apartment?”

  “Just to make you feel like you have something tangible, Señor.

  That makes no sense whatsoever, but I'll let it go.

  "Last but not least, each entry door has an old-fashioned floor pole lock that is probably superior to all the other fancy technologies I've shown you. Sometimes it is impossible to improve upon hundreds of years of the tried and true.

  "Every square inch of the apartment, inside and out, is continuously scanned with infrared spectrometers, motion detectors, electronic beam arrays and fiber-optic intrusion-detection systems. They will trigger when someone whom they do not recognize enters the apartment. On initial entry, the system automatically photographs the visitor's face, and you will have approximately ten seconds to accept or reject the person by pressing either the green Accept button or the red Reject button on the wall panel of the door they enter, or you can use the green Accept, or red Reject buttons on the remote control device. Or, you may simply say aloud, "accept” or "reject” and the voice recognition system will carry out your command.

  "Of all the security features, the apartment offers; this is perhaps the one you must learn and follow precisely. It is where most residents fail and end up with a potential liability on their hands when the rejected person is suddenly incapacitated with a spray of pepper gas to his face. And, by the way, whenever that happens try to position yourself out of the line of spray. Three spray nozzles are located in the ceiling above (she points them out), each rotating to follow the target as his position shifts, but the spray is pretty quick, so keep that in mind.

  "The entire apartment is under constant surveillance by various hidden IP cameras, triggered by motion detectors. Each camera streams live audio and video to a dedicated computer and a backup. Any remote computer or smart phone can also access live streams using the correct software and IP addresses. I will provide those addresses for you if you wish."

  "I would like to have those, thank you." Speed will need them.

  "The water in the apartment is supplied through a self-contained purification system, so there is no possibility for contamination from outside intrusion. Waste is captured through another self-contain system, and all piping into the apartment is designed so re-entry back into the apartment plumbing is impossible. Garbage is shredded and reduced to a liquid form and released into secure containers outside and removed daily by a private company. Every room has shredders built into a designated wall for quick disposal of anything paper, plastic, and even light metal. Electrical power to the apartment is provided by generators located underground.

  "Fire and gas detection and suppression systems are located throughout the apartment, and every room is equipped with emergency portable oxygen, if needed, as well as night-vision goggles. Under this rug (she points with her toe) is a large floor safe for storing valuables the combination of which is the same as you designated for the entry doors.

  "The apartment is Smart Home designed, but it is actually smarter than your run-of-the-mill Smart Home. This Smart Home operates not only all lighting and sound systems, including stereo music but also provides various sound effects such as a party in progress; people socializing and meandering throughout the apartment, barking dogs of various breeds, meowing cats, parakeets, parrots, even the roar of lions. All sights, sounds, movements, vibrations, odors, smoke, gases, body heat, infrared patterns and changes in barometric pressure, humidity and temperature are constantly monitored, recorded and adjusted. Should you want a live dog as your companion, we can provide Rottweiler, Pit-bull, terriers, and poodles - small barkers.

  We walk into an adjoining library with beautiful cherry wood paneling.

  “In this room if you press on this panel (she presses, and the panel rotates outward like a revolving door) you can quickly slip inside, and the panel will return to it's original position undisturbed, providing you with a quick and easy place to hide if you require it. It is standing room only but for a short, period of time can be very handy."

  She walks across the room and presses another panel, and it also rotates outward revealing what appears to be a very large closet. “This is the apartment's safe room should you need to disappear for a longer period of time. There is a thirty-day supply of fresh water and food and other necessities, a sink, toilet and boat shower, a fold-down bed, table, chair, and computer from which you can control all the systems of the apartment, including surveillance cameras. There is a satellite telephone for outside communication. The room is completely fireproof and bullet proof and has its own self-contained ventilation, water and power systems independent of the apartment's utilities. There is also a small exit passageway to the outside alley.

  She walks over to the third wall and presses another panel that rotates open, revealing an assortment of weapons, including Tasers, pepper spray, brass knuckles, nightsticks, garrotes, stun guns, dart guns and blowguns, blackjacks, collapsible batons, even a baseball bat.

  At the fourth and final wall, she presses a panel revealing a fairly large closet.

  “In this closet, you will find an assortment of costumes, including wigs, beards, mustaches, and cosmetics. Costumes range from Barcelona police uniforms including badges, and whistles, to women's wear should you prefer. The Kevlar vests are quite popular with our clients.”

  She reaches for a necklace hanging from a hook, holds it out and places it around my neck.

  “I would highly recommend you wear this necklace under your shirt at all times. It is similar to the Med-Alert necklace popular with the senior people. We call it the Dick-Alert. Pressing the button on this necklace will send an emergency alert directly to Dick's people who monitor twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It will alert them you are in danger and transmit your precise location, so they may dispatch aid. The GPS locator is set to constant, so they can monitor your exact location at all times. If you wish to turn the locator off, just press this other button."

  "The Dick-Alert. Fascinating," I say.

  "Finally, through this door (she takes me) is the garage which you may or may not remember from last night. You have at your disposal, a car, and a motor scooter. The car is a nondescript, white Mini Cooper, but it is a special, customized model. It is armor plated and with bullet resistant windows. The engine is more powerful than the average Mini Cooper, and there are other design features that, frankly, I cannot recall but in the glove box is a manual describing them all. The motor scooter is the all-popular Vespa. A helmet is located under the seat. Paperwork and remote controls for the garage door for the Mini Cooper are located in the glove box and under the seat of the Vespa.”

  As we walk back through the door to the garage, we come to two other doors.

  “This door is an exit to the rear alleyway. This other door opens to a passageway to my house next door. Please feel free to visit us anytime, day, or night. We, as you might have already guessed, provide a wide variety of services to our clients, from the bizarre to the unnatural. We will strive to do everything within our power to fulfill any need, want, or desire you may have. And please do not hesitate to make any request. I doubt you could have any special needs with which we are not already familiar. However, if there is something of that rarity, not only would I like to know about it, but we'd be honored for the challenge.”

  "Señor Blue, we are here to please you, and to make your time with us as enjoyable as possible. Please do not hesitate to call upon me for anything you would like or wish for. It is my pleasure to have you with us, Señor."

  “Madame Bovarie I am overwhelmed with everything you've shown me, and I thank you very much for your time and attention, and all you've done for me thus far. I look forward to my stay with you. Thank you."

  And with that the Madame departs, and I’m off to Park Güell to find out just what the hell is so important James needs to see me.

  forty-five

  Lunchtime, Sunday, 7 September.

  The Park Güell, Barcelona.r />
  The cafe is nothing more than a couple of dozen tables under giant palm trees in the middle of one of the broad avenue-like walking paths running throughout the park. Along the outside of the path runs one of the strangest walls I've ever seen, but maybe not so strange for Park Güell considering it's probably the world's weirdest park anyhow. This wall stands fifteen or twenty feet high and looks like a long row of broccoli sprouting from individual cone-shaped planters, all a tan color, all made of stone - large castle-wall-like stone for the planters and a sort of lava-like stone for the broccoli. Like everything in Park Güell - Disneyland on drugs - it's all very cool looking. That Gaudi fellow who designed this place and spent the last twenty years of his life living in this bizarro-berg, had to have been doing some world-class hallucinogens to come up with this stuff.

  When I spot James sitting at one of the tables, my mind rewinds and plays the backstory I'd gotten on this guy from Ebba when we were walking back to the Fira from our dinner at the Taverna la Tomaquera last Monday night. I can hardly believe it was only a week ago. How time flies when you're living the most fucked-up week of your life!

  Of course, this comes from Ebba, so you've got to take that into consideration. But, according to her, James comes from an old-name, wealthy Southern family that long since lost the plantation and just about everything else, squandered by James' mother who inherited the family fortune and committed suicide after the bankruptcy court ordered the sheriff to evict her and auction everything off. James had attended the University of Georgia but switched to pre-med at Emory but was forced to drop out when the tuition titty dried up. From there, he joined Eastern Airlines as a flight attendant. He'd considered nursing, but the glamor of flying the world and meeting young men the globe over (and keeping them at a safe distance) was just too irresistible.

  “Hey, James,” I say reaching out to shake his hand.

  “Thanks for coming, Tucker. Hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and ordered a couple of club sandwiches and iced teas since it's lunchtime. I didn't want to take up a table without ordering something, is that okay?” he asks.

  “Fine, ” I say just as the waiter shows up.

  “Muchas gracias,” James says to the waiter, and he departs. James wastes no time and digs in while I take a sip of tea.

  “I'm sure you must be busy today, and I do apologize for barging in, so, rather than me giving you a long and winded prelude to what I want to discuss with you, I'd like to ask if you wouldn't mind calling this number and asking for the agent on the card,” he says. “You do have your cell phone with you?” he slides across the table a business card.

  “So what is this all about, James?” I ask picking up the card and noting the official-looking logo for the United States Department of Homeland Security.

  “Just indulge me, please, Tucker.”

  I pull out my cell and dial 011 then the phone number printed on the card.

  As the ringing commences he says, “They will tell you, agent Culpepper is in the field and not available. Just tell 'em it's a very urgent matter and to please pass you through."

  When a woman's voice (one sounding suspiciously familiar) comes on the other end with, "Department of Homeland Security may I help you?” I repeat what James has asked me to say, and my call begins ringing though. A moment later, James’ cell rings. He answers, “hello, Tucker,” while looking me straight in the eye then closes his phone and lays it on the table next to his club sandwich. He then reaches inside his coat pocket and extracts a leather billfold, and lays it open on my side of the table showing off a very official-looking gold shield with two blue stripes, one over and the other under a spread-winged eagle holding a clutch of arrows in one talon and a branch of leaves in the other. Sunlight glistens off the badge. On the facing side of the billfold is a very official-looking identification card with a headshot of the same guy sitting across from me. The words, Department of Homeland Security are embossed above, and below, the words, James P. Culpepper, III, Special Agent. I pick the billfold up, study it for a moment then fold it closed and slide it back across the table.

  I can't deny I'm a bit stunned, but frankly, I've been through so much weird and scary shit this last week it takes just about everything I've got not to reach across the table and wring James' puny little head off. My inner monster is still aching for a morsel of someone.

  If the expression on my face communicated anything to this, not-better-than-late motherfucker, it has to be disdain, but I try my best not to show it. Clearly, from the expression on his face; he's highly disappointed his little show failed to elicit the usual golly, gee wiz, I-would-have-never-guessed-in-a-million-years reaction; he's probably all too used to getting with his little act.

  “So, you got yourself a side job, is that what this is all about, James?” I ask with all the sarcasm I can muster. Of course, he hasn't a clue what's going through my mind right now. I'm not even sure I do either except I still want to kill someone so badly it's eating me up inside.

  He returns the billfold to his inside coat pocket, straightens his posture to the full height of a damaged rooster on the rebound, and says, “No, Tucker; that is not what this is all about."

  “Then let me ask you this. Where the hell are Ebba and Terry and what are you and HomeFuckingLandSecurity doing about it?” I shot back in a low but deadly tone, so there'd be no mistaking the depth of anger seething through me right now. He got the message when I saw him jerk back just enough I know I hit home.

  “I know how you're feeling, Tucker and . . ."

  “You have no idea how I'm feeling right now, James, and don't you dare patronize me that you do, because that would be one big Goddamn mistake. Homeland Security doesn't mean shit to me right now, and it sure doesn't cut any mustard over here; otherwise, you'd be showing me Ebba and Terry safe and sound and not that worthless tin badge." (I can't believe I actually got a chance to say, 'tin badge.')

  “Tucker, if you'd just calm yourself down for fifteen minutes I'll tell you what we do have on Ebba and Terry's disappearance. I'll admit we don't have them tucked away safe and sound just yet, but if you'll just hear me out, I think you'll be glad you did. We're not doing nothing, Tucker. We're doing a lot. There are things going on you haven't the first clue about, and I'm here to fill you in."

  “Why? Why are you filling me in?” I'm determined to stay aggressive with this guy. I see it's affecting him. He responds to it. Probably likes it.

  “Because there are things you need to know for your own safety and, Monica's too."

  Now I know this twerp doesn't know shit if he doesn't even know Monica's been snatched.

  “Get on with it James, I've got a lot of shit on my plate right now, and I'm not a patient camper. I've got a ransom to pay, remember?"

  “I know you do, Tucker, so I'll get right to the bone."

  You didn't really say that did you?

  "Lisa is my partner in this . . ."

  “You're kidding?" Holy shit. Now I know the country is in trouble.

  “No, I'm not, and before you start into more sarcasm, Tucker, you should know things aren't always as they appear."

  “I've been told that any number of times on this trip, for some reason and up until now I've had no idea why. But now that you've revealed yourself and Lisa as Special Agents . . . well, I think I'm beginning to understand. Go ahead, Lisa's your partner."

  “We have been running an undercover investigation on a scam operation that's been going on for a long time, and we think we've got a pretty good handle on it."

  “You think? What does that mean? And what does this have to do with Ebba and Terry's kidnapping?"

  “The scam is called, the Spanish Prisoner."

  “You're kidding."

  “You've heard of it?"

  “I saw the movie."

  “Yeah, so did I. Anyhow, it's one of the oldest scam there is. It's been around since the mid-sixteenth century."

  “And you guys haven't solved it in what . . . going o
n four hundred years now?"

  “Very funny, Tucker."

  “So, what is it? You think Ebba and Terry are being held hostages in a Spanish Prisoner scam? Is that it?"

  “Yes, but that's not the important part . . ."

  “Pretty important to them; I'd think."

  “I didn't mean it that way. We have reason to believe the members of the flight crew are the ones behind these Spanish Prisoner scams."

  “Our flight crew?"

  “Yes, but not just your flight crew, these scams are operating across various flight crews. Tucker, if you've learned anything from Ebba, you should know it's never the same crew flying the same routes all the time, especially with flight attendants. It's a bidding system that makes up any given flight crew. FA's bid for every flight - for those flights they want to crew that is. Some get the flight; others don't, so crews are rarely the same people every time."

  “I know that. So, what're you saying; there's a freelance group pulling off these Spanish Prisoner scams?"

  Holy shit! If this guy's for real, this throws a whole new twist on everything! I'm in a two-way scam. One by Libica for the lottery ticket and a second one by this flight crew bunch for the ransom money. No wonder the ransom demand was for money and not the lottery ticket. It came from the flight crew scammers, not Libica.

  So, who sent the awful photo? I was sure it was Libica, and if it was, why didn't she ask for the ticket, then? I've gotta get back to my computer and check the originating email address for the photo.

  “It's a little more organized than that but essentially, yes," James says.

  “So, who's in the group that kidnapped Ebba and Terry?”

  “Before I go there, Tucker, I have to know; my bosses have to know, we can trust you to keep this information absolutely secret. No one, and I mean no one, including Monica, can know what I'm about to tell you."

  You don't have to worry about Monica you little prick, I’m thinking.

  “And why are you telling me, James?” Here it comes.