by A W Hartoin
“That is lucky. Nothing else?”
“No. We think he had his getaway well planned.”
I decided to help them out. Not just because I didn’t like police detectives looking bad. I didn’t want Paris in an uproar when it needn’t be. “I think I can help you calm the situation.”
“Can you? How?”
“Get Thyraud and we’ll see,” I said.
“You know who the terrorist is,” said the partner. “Tell us now.”
“Thyraud or nothing.”
They hesitated and then left, promising to find Thyraud. I pulled out the Novak phone and found a text from Calpurnia, a mugshot of a moderately handsome man staring smugly at the camera. Angela’s Panera guy, Marius Bombelli. Holy crap, Angela. What were you thinking? First, you have an affair and then that’s the guy you choose? I’d grown sort of fond of Angela, but this was testing my regard.
I texted Novak for Angela’s and Chuck’s locations. Happily, we were in the same hospital on different floors. Neither was in ICU and they weren’t under guard. Next, I took a deep breath and called Spidermonkey.
“Hello, Mercy,” said Loretta.
“Hi. I have a name for Spidermonkey,” I said.
“He has one for you, too.”
“What is it?”
“Marius Bombelli.”
Dammit. He beat me.
Spidermonkey knew all about Marius and I didn’t bother to hide the phone when Sandrine came back with painkillers. I palmed them when she wasn’t looking and drank the water out of the teeny cup she gave me. I nodded when she told me the pain would be better soon. She frowned at the phone and I whispered, “My mother. She’s upset.”
She gave me a commiserating look and left. I settled in for Spidermonkey’s info as told by Loretta. Spidermonkey figured out the Panera guy hours before and had begun digging with Loretta’s help. He found an unindicted co-conspirator in the Bombelli case. That was Angela and she kicked off the government’s whole case.
Marius Bombelli had targeted Angela. After I heard his plan, I realized she didn’t stand a chance. According to the federal investigation, Phillip Riley kept a lot of Fibonacci files in his house. He had a state of the art security system that the Bombellis had tried to breach and failed. Antonio Bombelli wanted to take over the Midwest territory that Calpurnia controlled, but he needed information and he wasn’t above pimping out his son to get it. He gave Marius the assignment and Marius had spent six months formulating his plan to get in with the wife of Riley. He hacked her Facebook account and studied her likes and dislikes. He knew about the cologne her beloved high school boyfriend wore and he bought it. He listened to the music she liked and watched Chocolat until he could quote it. He bought the clothes she looked at from Gap and Banana Republic online. He stopped smoking and started drinking martinis because Angela thought martini-drinking men were sexy. He gave himself a heartbreaking backstory that mimicked her favorite romance novel. Marius became an orphan with a wife, dead from breast cancer. The Bombellis had no shame and I began to think a broom beating was too good for them. Loretta got terse as she told me how Marius had seduced Angela, a woman with a cold husband and a boring little life.
The affair didn’t last long, a couple months. Marius weaseled some information out of Angela and then blackmailed her with it. Then Angela did the last thing Marius expected. She went to the Feds and cut a deal where she gave them everything Phillip had on the Bombellis’ operation, which was considerable. Calpurnia had been gathering information herself to make a move on Antonio’s Vegas operation. So that was the deal. Angela gave them everything on the Bombellis and nothing on the Fibonaccis. Then she went into protection. It was an extreme solution, but Angela must not have felt she had a choice. So now I knew, but I didn’t know everything. Since I was as nosy as my mother, I had to know. I had to talk to Angela.
“I can’t believe he didn’t go to prison,” Loretta hissed. “He is pond scum.”
“Why didn’t he?” I asked.
“His father cut a deal so he could stay out and the charges weren’t much, compared to the other brothers: blackmail and menacing.”
“I guess he never believed Angela was dead.”
“No. He’s been watching the whole time. Marius’s security isn’t as good as it should be. My beloved got into his laptop. He knew Gina went to Paris and he figured something was up when you were summoned to Calpurnia’s house. When you flew to Paris, he hired the Corsicans to follow you.”
“So that’s it,” I said, feeling more and more tired. The lidocaine was wearing off and my shins weren’t made for high impact. I felt like I’d been beaten with a broom.
“That’s it,” said Loretta. “My beloved has fallen asleep at his keyboard and I’m going to put him to bed. May I suggest you get some rest?”
“No rest for the wicked,” I said.
“It’s for the weary.”
“Not in my world.”
“Well, since you won’t rest, go talk to Angela and make sure she doesn’t fling herself out the window.”
“It’s too late for that now. The whole world knows she didn’t die six years ago or will shortly.”
Loretta sighed. “You know nothing about motherhood. Having your children find out that you betrayed their father and his boss and then abandoned them is a fine reason for flinging oneself out a window.”
I didn’t know stink about motherhood, but I suspected Loretta was right.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jean-Yves Thyraud was in no hurry to see me. He didn’t show up for three hours, during which I broke down and took my painkillers. I went to sleep and woke to find Aaron holding my hand and gnawing a stinky andouillette sausage. He chewed noisily as his teeth bounced off the coiled intestines.
“Oh my god. Where did you get that?” I asked, reaching for the emesis bag.
“Mathieu Torres.”
“He was here? Anybody else?”
“Chuck.” Aaron took a big bite and made a slurping sound. My stomach flipped like the first time I rode the Screaming Eagle at Six Flags. I was six and spewed in Dad’s lap.
“I think I’m going to hurl. How mad is he?” I asked.
“Huh?”
I poked my partner. “Focus. Chuck. How mad?”
Aaron shrugged. “He’s okay.”
The door opened and a man looked in. “You’re awake.” His voice was slangy and drew out vowels in unexpected places, what Monsieur Barre would call a peasant’s accent, maybe from northern France.
“Yes,” I said. “Come in.”
A small man, no bigger than Aaron, came in, carrying a fat briefcase. He wore a cheap off the rack suit that was rumpled and smelled of cigarette smoke, but his round face beamed at me, jolly and open. “Mademoiselle Watts. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He held out a hand with stubby plump fingers with buffed nails, an odd combo. Then again, he was odd all over.
I shook his hand and asked, “And you are?”
He smiled and laughed. “Can you not guess?”
It can’t be.
“Um…Monsieur Thyraud?”
He bowed slightly. “At your service.”
I tried to wipe the look of astonishment off my face but it wouldn’t go.
“You were expecting perhaps Daniel Craig or Sean Connery?”
“Well…you don’t seem like a—”
“Spy?” Thyraud pulled up a chair and nodded at Aaron, who kept munching away. “That is rather the point.”
I sat up and folded my legs underneath me. “How do I know it’s really you?”
“Ask me anything…anything I’m willing to answer, that is,” he said.
“Okay. How did I get your name?”
“Novak, a Serbian living in our beautiful city.”
“What does he like to wear?”
Thyraud laughed hard, his face turning bright pink. He looked exactly the way I pictured Mr. Fezziwig from A Christmas Carol to look, generous and jolly, but he couldn’t be if he was who he c
laimed to be. “Novak wears the most atrocious biking outfits, the more garish, the better.” His arm swept through the air, indicating my clothes. “Nothing like what you are wearing.”
“I didn’t pick it out.”
“Ah yes, Madam Ziegler. She has exquisite taste,” he said.
“How did you know it’s from her?”
“I’d recognize her work anywhere. The hat, the little shoes with bows. Madam Ziegler has a way with women. And men, from the look of your husband.”
“Er…”
“Never mind your fib. It was necessary. Mr. Watts is doing quite well and will be released shortly.”
I relaxed back on the bed. “Thank God. How is the girl, Trudie?”
“Out of surgery. She’s expected to recover fully,” he said. “Are you satisfied that I’m Thyraud?”
“No,” I said, smiling at his surprise. I pulled the Novak phone out from under the covers and texted Novak for a description. He texted back instantly and it matched the man sitting by my bed. “Alright,” I said. Where do I begin?”
“With why you are in Paris and proceed from there,” said Thyraud.
And so I proceeded, leaving out Spidermonkey and Calpurnia. Thyraud texted while I talked and it was unnerving. “And that’s it,” I said. “I ended up here and Angela Riley is upstairs, outed to the world.”
He finished texting and looked up, a hard, focused look in his warm eyes. “You must stick to that story to everyone, including your illustrious parents and your boyfriend.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth,” I said.
He nodded. “I believe it is the truth, but not the whole truth.”
I stayed silent.
“It doesn’t matter. Poinaré is what’s important. We will catch him this time.”
I must’ve looked doubtful, because the jolly look came back. “I’m optimistic.”
“Why? You don’t even know what he really looks like,” I pointed out.
“Optimism is essential in my business. I must believe that we can win or what’s the point in trying?” asked Thyraud.
“I see what you mean. What happens now?”
The jolly spy stood up. “I will inform our people what has happened and the press will be briefed.”
“But what’s the story?”
The story was just crazy enough to be believable. Poinaré was a Corsican mafia member, known for his terrible temper, who got into an altercation with an American woman. He decided to track her down and kill her. Angela Riley would remain Corinne Sweet and I was an innocent bystander that got caught up in what happened and decided to act. Chuck went into action to save me. There were no terrorists and the general public was safe. All’s well that ends well.
“What about the security guard at the Concergerie? Oh my god. I forgot about him. Is he okay?”
“Poinaré stabbed him. He will recover,” said Thyraud.
“Oh good. But he knows I was looking for Angela before Poinaré showed up,” I said. “He’s going to wonder how I knew he was coming.”
Thyraud opened his briefcase and said, “He and any other questioners will be made to understand what really happened.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Not at all. National security and the public confidence is a priority. They will do what is right for France.” He pulled my purse out of his briefcase. “Nice encryption work on your phone.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t get in then?”
“Miss Watts, be realistic. Mr. Van der Hoof is one self-taught genius. I have a slew of those behind me.”
“Oh no. Uncle Morty won’t be happy,” I said.
“I wouldn’t tell him. We left no trace of our incursion, but I may be contacting him in the future. He’s very talented. It took ten of mine to overcome one of him.”
“That’s good, but I think I’ll keep that to myself for now.” I took my purse from him and looked at my phone. Mom was freaking out. She must’ve sent a thousand texts.
“Call your mother,” said Thyraud. “Mothers do worry.”
“And yell,” I said.
“That, too. And may I suggest that you enjoy the rest of your visit to our city and not do anything that causes more trouble?”
I grimaced involuntarily, thinking about The Klinefeld Group and the Marais apartment. That wasn’t done and I only had a few days left to get in there.
Thyraud closed his briefcase and gave me a cheerful look. “I can see you’re not done causing trouble.”
“I don’t cause trouble. Stuff happens and I’m there. That’s all.”
“Am I going to be getting another call?”
“Not unless you know something about The Klinefeld Group,” I said.
The spook hesitated. It was slight, but he hesitated before he opened the door.
“You know about them,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
Thyraud stopped and looked back at me. “I know about the welfare of my people. If you have anything to say on the matter, I’ll always take your call.”
“How am I supposed to call you?” I asked.
“You have a phone, do you not?” He winked and was out the door.
Yep. Sure enough, I had a new contact in my phone and I couldn’t help but smile. Sean Connery. Nice choice.
I flung my feet over the side of the bed. “Alright, Tonto. We’re out of here. Can you grab my shoes?”
Aaron stared at me, mouth full of smelly sausage. “Tonto?”
“You know The Lone Ranger. You’re my sidekick.”
“No.”
“No, you’re not my sidekick? Come on. You can’t be the ranger. Get real.”
“I’m Spock. You’re Uhura.”
I slipped out of bed and put my one available hand on my generous hip. “What the what? Uhura never does anything. She answers the freaking phone. I do stuff. I’m the queen of doing stuff.”
Aaron stood up and picked a meaty crumb off his shirt. He ate it. Ew. “You’re Uhura.”
“Okay. If I’m Uhura, who’s Captain Kirk?”
He grabbed my shoes and squatted in front of me, shrugging as if it were obvious. “Chuck.”
“Chuck? Are you kidding me? He didn’t do as much as I did. Kirk goes places, gives the orders, and has sex with all the hot women.”
Aaron nodded. “That’s Chuck.”
Dammit. He had a point. Chuck had practically made a career of getting hot women like Kirk did.
“Alright. But I still think it’s sexist. Just ‘cause I’m a girl doesn’t mean I have to be the girl. I want to be somebody cool. It can be a man or a woman.”
“You can be Nurse Chapel.”
“I will kick you.”
Aaron buckled my shoes. He wasn’t worried. Nobody ever kicks their sidekick, however they might deserve it. I asked him to help me put on my blood-soaked jacket, leaving it loose over my arm in its sling. Then I put my everlasting hat on with a rakish tilt before opening the door and peeking out into the deserted corridor. “The coast is clear. We’re going to see Angela. By the way, just so you know, I’m Tauriel in The Hobbit.”
Aaron trotted beside me down to the elevator. “She’s not real.”
“None of them are real. You’re missing the point.”
“You’re still not Kirk.”
Dammit.
I had Spock distract the nursing staff while I slipped into Angela’s room on the fifth floor. I found her hunched over, clinging onto an IV pole and looking out the window at the skyline of Paris, her refuge that no longer was. The window was a single pane of glass. No way to open it. Thank goodness.
“Angela,” I said softly.
She turned and looked at me with swollen eyes, tears soaking her gown. She said nothing and I wasn’t sure she even recognized me.
“I talked to…someone and your name will be Corinne Sweet for the media and the world. The assassin will be identified. They’re going to say that you and he had some sort of altercation and that’s why he went after you.
I’m going to be someone who got in the way.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, looking back out the window.
“I think it does. Has anyone been here from the embassy?” I asked.
She made a mocking snort over her shoulder. “The embassy. The CIA.”
“They haven’t got anyone on your door.”
“Where would I go?”
Nowhere was the answer, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Nowhere on her own, anyway.
“Have you seen my children, Phillip?” she asked with a fresh flood of tears.
“I saw Phillip. He was doing okay. The kids looked good in their pictures.”
She braced herself on the glass. “They probably don’t even remember me.”
I shook my head. “That’s not true. Phillip has pictures of you up. You’re still there. They see you everyday.”
Angela turned. “Phillip left the pictures up? I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” I described the pictures to her and she gave me a wan smile.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Angela pushed her pole to the bed and lay down. “She’ll have me killed, so there’s not much to do.”
“Who?” I asked. “Calpurnia?”
“She sent you, didn’t she?”
I pulled up a chair, making a terrible screech, and fiddled with my sling. “Well, yes. She called in a marker. Why would she have you killed? You testified against the Bombellis, not the Fibonaccis.”
“She’ll figure out why. Calpurnia is no fool, but I can’t figure out how she knew to send you.”
“Gina saw you,” I said.
Angela gasped and put her hand over her mouth.
“She got married and came here on her honeymoon.”
“But…but…this city is huge and she never travels.” Her voice went squeaky. “My family goes to Branson, not Europe, not here. Gina has problems. She could never get in a plane for eight hours.”
“She has medication for anxiety. It helped her cope. I think the new husband helped, too.”
Angela twisted her gown. “My sister got married again? Is she happy?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Where did she see me?” she asked.