by A W Hartoin
Once I was in an exam room, the police descended. I’d been named as the one who tried to distract the terrorist on the boat and fired at him in the water. Apparently, my outfit was unforgettable. Stupid style.
An officer named Malraux glowered at me from the end of my bed. He was so tense, the hairs on his hands were sticking straight up. The word terrorist had that effect on first responders and I regretted saying it, but I wasn’t the only one. The gun Poinaré had pointed at me on the bridge was identified as a Škorpion machine pistol and witnesses thought it looked like a terrorist weapon.
“Why did you lie about your name?” he asked for a second time.
“I didn’t lie. I was out of my head. Who in their right mind would say they were Boba Fett?”
“You were concealing your identity.”
“But Boba Fett? Get real.”
“The name isn’t important,” he said, putting his hand on the footboard and clenching.
I laughed. “Have you looked up Boba Fett?”
He grimaced and another officer came in. Malraux asked him, “Avez-vous entendu parler de Boba Fett?”
The other officer’s eyes went wide. “Stars Wars Boba Fett?”
“Star Wars?”
“Oui. Boba Fett est un personnage de Star Wars.”
Malraux looked at me and I shrugged my good shoulder.
“You said you were Ellen Ripley as well,” he said.
The other officer started laughing and left.
“She’s the main character of Alien,” I said.
Malraux slapped his forehead. “Why do that?”
“I don’t know. I’d been shot.”
“Why did this man,”—he held up his phone with a picture of Poinaré pointing the Škorpion at me—“threaten you? Who is he?”
I shrugged again. “How should I know who he is?”
“He threatened you.”
“He was chasing that woman and I got in the way,” I said.
Malraux pursed his lips and twisted them to the side. Not buying it.
“You put her in a life jacket and threw her overboard.”
“He was going to kill her.”
“How did you know that?”
I snorted. “He shot at her.”
“And you.” Malraux straightened up and crossed his arms.
“If he wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it on the bridge,” I said.
“He knew who you were. You spoke on the boat.”
My doctor, a young Briton, came in and told Malraux he had to leave. Malraux told me in no uncertain terms that he didn’t believe me and that he’d be back. I said, “Okay,” like I didn’t care. I did care and I didn’t know what to say to get him off my back.
The doc examined my wound and declared it non-life-threatening. No surprise there. I tried to get out of bed and failed. The doc took off and a couple of nurses came in, thwarted another escape attempt, and prepared to clean the wound.
“I need my phone,” I said. “Do you know where my purse is?”
“No, mademoiselle,” said Elaine. “Lie back and relax so that we may care for you.”
Relax. Right. That’ll happen.
“I really need my phone.”
“You have been shot. This wound must be cared for.”
“Rub some dirt on it. I’ve got to go.”
“Dirt?”
“It’s an American thing. It means I’m fine.”
She frowned and said, “You had much blood loss. We will keep you overnight.”
No, you won’t. I’m so out of here, sister.
“I’ll pass on the overnighter,” I said and winced as she gave me a shot of lidocaine. While it was kicking in, the nurse tried to wrestle me out of my clothes and I’m happy to say that for once, I won. If they got me into a gown, I was going nowhere.
“Mademoiselle, please,” said nurse two, Sandrine.
“Please, yourself. Tell me about Chuck Watts. How is he? Nobody will tell me anything,” I said.
Sandrine glanced at my chart. “Watts. Is he your husband?”
“Er…why, yes he is, and I demand to know his condition.” I would’ve crossed my arms in defiance, but I could barely move my fingers on the left one.
“Monsieur Watts is in stable condition,” said Elaine.
“I could’ve told you that. I assessed him at the scene. Does he have a concussion? Did he have a CT?”
She sighed. “Lie back. Do not get yourself excited.”
“Too late. Don’t worry. I’m a nurse. I can take it.”
“A nurse?” Both of them brightened up. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a pain-in-the-ass patient. I was one of them.
“I could prove it if I had my purse,” I said.
Elaine made a call and then told me Chuck did have a concussion and they were keeping him overnight in case a bleed turned up. Other than that, he was fine and complaining as much as me. Since I was a nurse, they also told me that Trudie was in surgery. Her liver was perforated and her bowel nicked, but she was expected to survive. The crew member was enjoying chocolate mousse. He would be released that evening.
Thank you, Lord.
Angela remained a mystery. Nobody mentioned her, even when I hinted about other victims. I was about to break down and ask when Aaron ambled in, eating a sausage. Elaine and Sandrine tried to hustle him out, but I promised to be good if they let the little weirdo stay. They agreed out of desperation and I was good with it.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I’m nauseated.”
Aaron stared at me.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I said with an eye roll.
“I can make you hot chocolate.”
“We’re in a hospital.”
He shrugged and I held out my good hand to him. He took it with his sausage grease-covered one and sat with me through the cleaning and bandaging. I yelped, but he never wavered, telling me all about his latest incursions into Empire territory in the game. I had no idea what game he was talking about, but it helped to distract me from the insistent poking.
When we were done, I promised to not run away and they left me alone with Aaron and a call button. They said they’d try and locate my purse, but I doubted it. It was a busy day.
“Did you tell the cops anything about Angela?” I asked as soon as the door closed.
“Jango Fett crossed the border and I—”
“Aaron!”
“Huh?”
“We’ve got a situation here. Did the cops question you about me?”
“No.”
I pushed the up arrow to get me into the seated position. “How’d you get in here?”
“I walked.”
“Nobody stopped you?”
He shrugged. I couldn’t believe it. They let a little weirdo eating a sausage walk right in and I couldn’t get out of bed without alarms going off. “Do you have Novak’s phone?”
Aaron handed it over and started in on Jango again.
“Novak, it’s me,” I said, keeping an eye on the door.
“Finally. How’s the lidocaine?”
“It sucks…wait. Did you hack the hospital?” I asked.
“Naturally, how else would I keep an eye on you? Spidermonkey sends his love. Your parents talked to your doctor and are trying to get on a plane.”
I glanced at my hat on the rolling table beside my bed. “Damn. I thought the hat might’ve concealed my identity.”
“It did. Chuck was less concealed and he’s very popular,” said Novak.
“What do you mean?”
“He already has Facebook fan pages and there’s a campaign to give him the Légion d’Honneur like the Americans on the train.”
“He was pretty impressive.” I smiled. “Like James Bond.”
“In this case, I agree. It was very Bond,” said Novak. “Why don’t you ask me about Angela?”
“Where is she?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Is she alive?”
Angela was alive. According to Novak’s information
, she’d clammed up good. The fall onto the boat roof had knocked her out and the gunshot to her chest had lodged in a rib with no significant damage, thanks to me.
“Me?”
“Your dive saved her. The bullet passed through your shoulder and into her chest. You took the brunt of it, from what I can see,” said Novak.
“From what you can see?”
“It’s all over the internet. You did this in front of a crowd.”
“I didn’t exactly pick the place. That was Angela. She was trying to kill herself.”
Novak laughed. “She hasn’t been in Paris long enough then. The fall wouldn’t have killed her. La brigade fluviale has to fish many jumpers out of the Seine every year.”
“They don’t drown?”
“They’re usually found clinging to pylons. Sometimes the current gets them, but the survival instinct is strong. Listen to me now. Have the authorities interviewed you yet?”
“Yes, but I didn’t really tell them anything,” I said.
“They will get more insistent. Don’t tell them anything about me.”
“I would never,” I said, flexing my fingers.
“You must ask to talk to Jean-Yves Thyraud at DGSE and talk to no one else,” he said.
“What’s DGSE?”
“The French CIA, if you will. Don’t tell him about Calpurnia. Tell him you were hired by Gina to find her sister. Leave Spidermonkey out of it. He knows me. You found her through the picture Gina took and then recognized her at d’Orsay.”
“Should I identify Poinaré?” I asked.
“Yes. Tell him about the metro and the Novotel.”
I got more nauseated. “What if he arrests me?”
“He won’t. You can give him the trail. You just won’t tell him who found it. He doesn’t want this to be a terrorist action. Corsican mafia is much more palatable.”
“He can still arrest me for withholding evidence,” I said, picking up the pink emesis bag the nurses left me.
“Arrest the heroine who kept her head and held off a killer? No. He won’t. You are a heroine. With a record like yours, the public won’t want that questioned.”
“Have I been identified on the news yet?”
“No, but Chuck has. It won’t be long.”
I sighed. “No. Not long.” Why couldn’t Angela have kept on running, gotten in a cab, or thought of something other than a very public suicide? What did she say before she jumped?
“Before Angela jumped, she said that now somebody knows she’s alive. It was enough to push her over the edge. Literally.”
“Ah yes. That. Spidermonkey found the link. He believes the Bombellis hired Poinaré to track you and kill Angela Riley.”
“Why? Who are the Bombellis?”
“Too much to explain now. Call Calpurnia and tell her the plan. She must be kept out of this.”
“No kidding. My parents cannot find out about her.”
“Or Chuck.”
I groaned. How I could lie well enough to fool him? “Should I tell Calpurnia about the Bombellis?”
“It’s up to you. Angela hasn’t been identified yet.”
I groaned again and hung up.
Aaron swallowed the last of his sausage and then said, “You hungry yet?”
“Not quite.” I called Calpurnia, my stomach twisting into a complicated knot.
“Miss Watts,” said Calpurnia. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
“You’ve seen the news?”
She laughed her throaty laugh. “This wasn’t the ending I imagined.”
“What did you imagine?”
“That you wouldn’t find Angela, of course. It would’ve been much simpler.”
I agreed. Much simpler. “I have a plan and I hope you’ll go along with it.”
Calpurnia made a sound of disapproval.
“I want to keep you out of this completely. I want to say that Gina hired me. That Oz gave her my name because I helped with his sister and I couldn’t say no.”
“I can do that.”
“Really? Thank you.”
“I’d rather protect your reputation than not.”
Uh oh.
“Why?” I asked, so afraid of the answer that I stopped breathing.
“I may need you again,” said Calpurnia.
“And if you cover this for me, I’ll owe you again.”
More throaty laughter. “You catch on fast.”
I’m so screwed.
“You’ll tell your people and Gina what the deal is?” I asked.
“I will if you tell me why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why Angela did it?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will.” I told her about Poinaré and the Corsican connection to the Bombellis. Calpurnia got quiet, very quiet when I said Bombelli.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“I am.”
“So who are the Bombellis?”
“A rival family. A former rival family.”
“Former?”
The Bombellis were definitely a former family. There wasn’t much left of them. Four years ago, the patriarch, Antonio Bombelli, was arrested on multiple charges, including racketeering and human trafficking. Two of his three sons followed him. They were all convicted and given long consecutive sentences. Antonio had his throat slit in the prison shower. His son, Tony, was beaten to death with a broom and Sammy, an epileptic, had a seizure and died in his cell in the middle of the night. Only Marius, the youngest son, was left and he was without the organization his great-grandfather had built. Marius had been taken in by the Gravano family but was nowhere near the top.
Convictions two years after Angela disappeared didn’t give us an obvious connection.
“Was…your family involved with the Bombellis?” I asked.
“You know better than to ask that, Miss Watts,” said Calpurnia.
“I guess so. Do you happen to know what Marius looks like or is that off limits, too?”
Her voice got sharp. “Why do you want to know?”
“My source says the Bombellis hired Poinaré. Marius is the only one left,” I said.
“Poinaré isn’t Marius, if that’s what you think. I’ve seen the video from the bridge,” said Calpurnia.
“I know. Humor me.”
Marius matched the description of Angela’s Panera guy, but thousands of men could. He wasn’t that distinct. “Do you have a picture you can send me? I can’t really do a Google search easily right now.”
“I’ll find one, but I want to know how this came about. Are you saying that Angela was in the witness protection program?”
“Yes. She was,” I said.
“Then she gave up the Bombellis.”
“Looks like it. The question is how did she have anything to give up?”
“Leave that to me,” said Calpurnia.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “I can’t. It’s gone too far. I have to know everything.”
“Miss Watts, you don’t want to know everything.”
“I said, ‘have to’ not ‘want to’.”
“I see,” she said. “When you know how it happened, I’ll tell you why.”
We had a deal and hung up as the door opened. I stuffed the phone under the covers and Malraux walked in with new determination. Before he could open his mouth, I said, “I want to talk to Jean-Yves Thyraud at DGSE.”
Malraux stopped short and gaped at me. His partner, the laugher, came in behind him and glanced between the two of us. “Has something happened?”
“She wants someone at DGSE,” said Malraux.
“Who?”
“Jean-Yves Thyraud. Do you know him?”
The partner paled and turned to me. “You know Thyraud?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We have what I would term as a friendly connection and I’m not saying another word to anyone else.”
“Mademoiselle Watts, that will take some time,” said Malraux.
“I’m sure it won’t. He’s here in Paris. Make a call.” I picked up my water pitcher and sipped on my straw. Aaron stood up and made a shooing motion at them.
“Who are you?” asked the partner.
“Aaron,” said my partner.
Malraux flipped open a notebook. “And your surname?”
No answer.
“Monsieur, your surname.”
“Give it up,” I said. “He’s not a talker.”
Just to prove me wrong, Aaron began talking in French and told them to take a hike.
“Who is he?” asked the partner.
“Family friend.”
“What does he do?” Malraux asked it with a sniff like he expected the answer to be dung shoveler or something equally repugnant. I had to admit, dung shoveler did look more likely than chef.
“He’s a chef,” I said, surprising myself with the pride in my voice. Aaron, my partner, was awesome, even if he smelled like hot dogs and looked like hell.
A change came over both the detectives’ faces. “Where does he cook?” asked the partner.
“He has a restaurant in St. Louis now, but he used to cook at Guy Savoy,” I said.
Surprise registered on both their faces. “We’ll be checking into that.”
“Go for it. But, before you do, I have a couple questions.”
It was their turn to cross arms. “You want to question us?”
I suspect they thought it was going to be about national security or how bad they were doing their jobs. It wasn’t. “Did you catch him?” I asked. “The man on the boat, I mean.”
They shuffled their feet. I guess it was about how they did their job.
“No,” said Malraux.
“Are you serious?” I asked. “There were hundreds of people watching him run away. Where the heck did he go?”
“He blended into the crowd.”
“He was soaking wet.”
“Nevertheless.”
I groaned. “That isn’t going to look good.”
“We are well aware of the implications. A terrorist on the loose in Paris. The people are alarmed.” Both detectives seemed to feel the failure keenly, but it wasn’t their fault. Poinaré was a master.
“You found nothing?”
“A black wig, sideburns, and false teeth in a dumpster,” said the partner. “We were lucky there. A maid dropped her bracelet in when taking out the trash and saw the pieces.”