Private Paris

by James Patterson

  I said, “After your accomplice Haja Hamid busted her burn phone, she tossed the pieces out her bedroom window. Two pieces landed in a Dumpster. But the SIM card hit the scaffolding and landed in a flower box a story below. Hoskins called the last number Haja called, and we got you. I recognized that phrase you like to use—that some person is ‘either stupid or nuts.’”

  “This proves nothing,” Sauvage said firmly. “Since I have owned this phone, I have gotten many wrong numbers. As if the number had been used many times. The fact that this Haja person called me is pure coincidence.”

  I laughed in disbelief. “Major, you are without a doubt the most cold-blooded, conniving, lying bastard I have ever met. You, Haja, and Captain Mfune here murdered five of France’s finest people to try to set off a war against Islam.”

  “Why in God’s name would I do that?” he said calmly, though the muscles on his neck were stretched as taut as piano wire.

  “Because for whatever reason you and Captain Mfune hate Muslims as much as Haja does,” Louis said.

  “And because,” I said, “starting a war against them would give you the opportunity to engage in the kind of atrocity I just witnessed. We’ve read up on you. We know you were investigated for brutality in Afghanistan.”

  “General,” Sauvage said, “this is slanderous and un—”

  “Enough!” General Georges bellowed. “Major Sauvage, Captain Mfune: you are under arrest for murder, conspiracy, and treason against France, a nation you were both sworn to protect.”

  The captain hung his head. But not Sauvage. He laughed scornfully. “Treason?” he said, and thumped his chest. “Against France? The country that we love more than life?

  “No, General. If anything, the captain and I are France’s greatest patriots. We are the only ones willing to see the obvious: that this nation is already at war, and has been since we started letting Muslim immigrants come here in the sixties. Look at the massacre at Charlie Hebdo last year. They want our culture erased, and their numbers are growing faster than ours. Unless people like Captain Mfune and me and Haja Hamid act, France as we know it will be destroyed, and—”

  General Georges cut him off, thundering, “By any definition and despite any intentions you may have had, you, sir, are a dishonor to your uniform, and you will be tried for your crimes against your country, against Paris, and against humanity. What you did tonight? We call that genocide where I come from. Cuff him. Get him the hell out of my sight.”

  Four soldiers surrounded Sauvage, who stood with his head held high and defiant, glaring at all of us in turn. They put zip restraints on him and pushed him forward.

  From the windows of the immigrant housing towers, people began to cheer and jeer and trill like nomads calling in the desert.

  The major went berserk as he and Mfune were led away.

  “You hear them!” he shouted at us. “The Muzzies want people like me silenced. They want the great cathedrals and monuments of Paris burned or reduced to rubble and built up again as grand mosques. Our food. Our music. Our free speech. Our culture will be swallowed whole and turned to shit if they’re not stopped!”

  Ignoring Sauvage’s rants as they faded, General Georges marched up to me and said in open fury, “Morgan, by rights you should be in a brig along with him. You did exactly what I explicitly ordered you not to do.”

  I hung my head. “Yes, General. But I knew you were handcuffed, awaiting your rules of engagement. And, I don’t know, I heard the pace of the shooting, and I thought—well, both Louis and I thought—that someone had to come in here and bear witness. So I did.”

  “And it’s a good thing he did,” Hoskins said.

  The general stood there fuming. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  I said, “Let me show investigators what I saw and where I saw it from, and then I’ll go home. When I’m needed, I’ll return to testify at my own expense.”

  Georges continued to stand there and fume.

  Juge Fromme said, “General, I’m sure the minister of justice will agree to Monsieur Morgan’s proposal. He’s as sick of Morgan as you are, and wants him out of France as soon as possible.”

  The general said, “It’s on the minister, then. After Morgan makes his statement, I want him taken straight to de Gaulle and put on the first plane out of Paris.”

  Nodding, I said, “With one important stop on the way.”

  I thought the general was going to punch me.

  Chapter 110

  11th Arrondissement

  8:04 a.m.

  MICHELE HERBERT WAS awake but drowsy when I knocked on her hospital room door. I still had mud all over me and wore a pair of ill-fitting boots that one of the soldiers had given me. I hadn’t showered or shaved or slept. I hadn’t even been allowed to return to the Plaza Athénée to pay my bill or gather my things. They sent Louis to do all that, with orders to meet me at de Gaulle.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a weak, slurred voice.

  “I owe you dinner for saving my life,” I said, and produced a cup of ice chips.

  Michele smiled wanly. “Bon appétit.”

  “They say you’re going to be okay.”

  She nodded, swallowed, and gestured at the television, which was on mute and showing still shots of Sauvage, Mfune, and Hamid.

  “I saw what happened,” she said.

  “Fighting back. You were an important part of it.”

  “Too much hatred in the world,” she said.

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Not enough love.”

  “Double agreed.”

  Michele smiled again, and blinked sleepily.

  “They’re booting me out of France,” I said. “My jet’s coming in to get me in a couple of hours.”

  “Your jet?”

  Before I could reply, a man said, “What the hell is he doing in here?”

  Looking over my injured shoulder, I saw François, her agent with the crazy hair, coming into the room with a cup of coffee.

  “Paying my respects,” I said.

  “You almost got her killed!” François shouted. “One of the greatest artists of her time and you almost kill her!”

  “François,” Michele said. “He uncovered the AB-16 plot.”

  “I don’t care,” François said. “He’s a danger to you, Michele.”

  That seemed to amuse her. She looked at me. “True?”

  “I hope not,” I said, and then caught something out of the corner of my eye on the screen. “Do you have the controls for the television?”

  “Please leave,” François said. “You’re not wanted here.”

  “On the table,” Michele said.

  I turned off the mute. We watched as Imam Al-Moustapha, FEZ Couriers owner Firmus Massi, and Ali Farad were released from La Santé prison. They each made a brief statement condemning the intent of AB-16, swearing their allegiance to France, and reiterating their belief in nonviolence.

  The screen cut away from them, and the anchorwoman quoted other condemnations that were rolling in from around the world against Émile Sauvage and the rest of the AB-16 conspirators. Parisians of all persuasions were said to be outraged at their methods and goals.

  After a few man-on-the-street interviews, the anchor said, “In other news: One man is trying to show that Paris is not burning by simply going on and celebrating in memory of one of the murder victims.”

  The feed cut to Laurent Alexandre. Wearing a black mourning suit, Millie Fleurs’s personal assistant stood in the middle of her haute couture showroom. It was packed with white folding chairs. There was a large picture of the designer on an easel surrounded by floral bouquets.

  “I think what AB-16 wanted was obscene and unthinkable,” said Alexandre. “All of Paris, all of France, should stand up against this kind of thinking by showing them that our culture goes on. This afternoon, many of the best designers in the world will unveil dresses made in Millie’s honor and in defiance of AB-16.”

  “Mor
gan?”

  Sharen Hoskins stood in the doorway. She tapped on her watch. I nodded, and turned to Michele. As I did, I saw a model appear behind Alexandre. She wore a stunning black cocktail dress. Millie Fleurs’s assistant gestured to it and said, “This is my contribution.”

  “Beautiful dress,” Michele whispered, almost asleep.

  “I have to go.”

  She roused, looked at me. “Come back?”

  “God no,” said her agent.

  I nodded. “To testify, at least.”

  “Call me?”

  “Definitely. And you should come to L.A.”

  “Not happening,” François said.

  “I’d like that,” Michele said, and paused. “You know you’ve never kissed me. You’ve never even tried.”

  “I thought you were out of my league.”

  “She is,” her agent said.

  “You’re not,” Michele said.

  “My bad, then. It will never happen again.”

  Then I leaned over and kissed her tenderly.

  Chapter 111

  11:18 a.m.

  ON THE RIDE out to de Gaulle, I relived that kiss over and over, wondering when I’d actually get to see Michele Herbert again. We could Skype and see each other, of course, but I meant to actually hold her, and kiss her more than once, and learn her story by heart.

  My eyelids drifted shut in the backseat of the sedan that Hoskins was driving. Juge Fromme sat beside her, determined to see me aboard my flight and gone.

  I drifted into a buzzing sleep, right on the edge of consciousness.

  Images from the past few hours slipped by me: Sauvage ranting as the soldiers dragged him away, the look on Hoskins’s and Juge Fromme’s faces when I showed them the massacre site, Michele’s wan smile when I left her, and then Millie Fleurs’s assistant gesturing to the black cocktail dress.

  “Morgan?” Hoskins said, waking me. “We’re here.”

  I looked around in some confusion at the entrance to the private jetport at de Gaulle because the image of the black dress lingered with me. And I didn’t know why. Then I flashed on a drawing of the dress, and Millie shaking that swatch of black fabric the one and only time we met.

  Something about it all clicked, and I said, “I don’t think AB-16 was responsible for Millie Fleurs’s death.”

  Hoskins and Fromme twisted around in their seats. “What?”

  “There’s another suspect you should consider,” I insisted. “Her assistant, Laurent Alexandre.”

  Fromme scowled, but Hoskins said, “Why?”

  “The morning before she was killed, I saw a drawing of the dress that Alexandre later said he designed in memory of Millie. It was on his desk.”

  “Okay…” Fromme said skeptically.

  “Millie had this piece of black fabric that she said she was using to make Princess Mayameen’s little black cocktail dress that night,” I said. “But when we found her, there was no such dress on the mannequins. One of them was bare.”

  “So maybe she just decided not to make the dress, and Alexandre used the fabric in her honor from his own design,” Fromme said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Millie was adamant that the dress had to be ready first thing in the morning. And the princess told Louis and me that she’d gone to Millie’s workshop after the club specifically to see that dress.”

  “Seems thin to me,” the magistrate said.

  “What do you think happened?” Hoskins asked.

  I thought a moment. I spotted Louis limping down the airport sidewalk toward us, pulling my roll-on.

  “Alexandre designs the dress,” I began. “And maybe Millie just doesn’t have a good idea for a spectacular cocktail dress that evening, but then she sees her assistant’s design, and she steals it for her own.

  “Alexandre kills her in revenge, and pins it on AB-16. He even uses fabric instead of spray paint to form the tag. He comes up with the idea of a fashion show in Millie’s memory. The dress is his again to make a statement in front of the best designers in Paris about the woman he murdered.”

  Hoskins looked at Fromme, who shifted uncomfortably before saying, “We would be remiss if we did not look into your theory, Monsieur Morgan.”

  “It’s been nice getting to know you, but I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I said, and opened the back door to climb out.

  “Morgan,” Hoskins said.

  I stopped, looked at her.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For everything.”

  “Moi aussi,” Fromme said with his hunched back to me.

  “My pleasure,” I said, and got out and shut the door.

  “You look like shit,” Louis said.

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence,” I said, yawning. “The jet here?”

  “Already refueled,” he said. “They have a shower inside you can use before you go. Your clothes and shaving kit are here, and your passport.”

  I showered, shaved, and dressed in cleaner clothes. Louis had nodded off in the waiting lounge.

  “Time for me to leave Paris,” I said after waking him.

  Louis stood and threw his arms around me. “You are a hard man to contain, Jack Morgan.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “No,” he said. “This is a great compliment, a—”

  His cell rang. He looked, raised his eyebrow, and answered. “Justine?” Louis listened, and then handed me the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “You caught me about to board,” I said. “Can this wait until I get back?”

  “No, actually,” Justine said. “We just got a call from General Santos with the Rio de Janeiro Olympic authority. He’s nervous that Brazil isn’t handling security for the games well at all, and he wants Private involved.”

  “That’s not what he said after the World Cup,” I said.

  “Things change.”

  “The games are in what, less than four months?”

  “Fifteen weeks, Jack,” she said. “Which is why I’m afraid you’re not coming home to L.A. Tell the pilot you’re bound for Rio.”

  Acknowledgments

  Private Paris could not have been written without the gracious assistance of many people. First and foremost, our deepest gratitude goes out to Paris expert and author Heather Stimmler-Hall for guiding us, opening doors, and introducing us to the right people.

  Thanks to Detective Nicolas Gouzien of the New York Police Department and Detectives Luc Magnien and Eric Trunel of the Paris Police Prefecture for patiently explaining “La Crim,” the French judicial system, and the racial tensions in the eastern suburbs.

  Jean-Manuel Traimond took us into several public housing projects in the suburbs and helped us to understand the forces behind the volatility in those areas.

  At the War College, we were greatly helped by Rear Admiral Marc de Briancon, Brigadier General Christian Beau, and Colonel Thierry Noulens.

  Chef Cristophe Saintange with Chef Alain Ducasse brought us into the world of three-star Michelin cuisine.

  We learned about Parisian high fashion from Laurent Dublanchy, Stephanie Coudert, Eric Charles Donatien, and Eymeric François.

  Isabelle Reye at the Academy of Fine Arts helped us. So did hotelier Nicolas Bourgeois and Parkours expert Thiboult Granier.

  Léttitia Petrie and Emmanuel Schwartz were kind enough to take us inside the Institute of France and explain how it works.

  The staff at Plaza Athénée, especially Elodie, could not have been more helpful.

  Any mistakes are our own, and to one and all, Merci beaucoup!

  Detective Lindsay Boxer chases an elusive, possibly very dangerous suspect…

  her husband, Joe.

  For an excerpt, turn the page.

  IT HAD BEEN a rough week, and it was only Monday.

  My partner, Rich Conklin, and I had just testified against Edward “Ted” Swanson, a cop who had, over time, left eighteen people dead before the shootout with a predatory drug lord called Kingfisher took Swanson out of th
e game.

  All of the SFPD had known Swanson as a great cop. We had liked him. Respected him. So when my partner and I exposed him as a psychopath with a badge, we were stunned and outraged.

  During Swanson’s lethal crime spree, he had stolen over five million in drugs and money from Kingfisher, and this drug boss with a murderous reputation up and down the West Coast hadn’t taken this loss as the cost of doing business.

  After the shootout, while Swanson lay comatose in the ICU, Kingfisher figured that his best chance of getting his property back was to turn his death threats on the lead investigator on the case.

  That investigator was me.

  His phone calls were irrational, untraceable, and absolutely terrifying.

  Then, about the time Swanson was released from the hospital and indicted on multiple charges of drug trafficking and murder, Kingfisher’s phone calls stopped. A week later, Mexican authorities turned up the King’s body in a shallow grave in Baja. Was it really over?

  Sometimes terrifying events leave aftershocks when you realize how bad things could have become. Kingfisher’s threats had embedded themselves inside me on a visceral level, and now that I was free of them, something inside me unclenched.

  On the other hand, events that seem innocuous at the time can flip you right over the edge into the dark side.

  And that was the case with Swanson.

  A dirty cop shakes up everything: friendships, public trust, and belief in your own ability to read people. I thought I had done a good job testifying against Swanson today. I hoped so. Richie had been terrific, for sure, and now the decision as to Swanson’s guilt or innocence was up to his jury.

  My partner said, “We’re done with this, Lindsay. Time to move on.”

  I was checking out of the Hall of Justice at just after six when my husband texted me to say that he would be home late, and that there was a roasted chicken in the fridge.

  Damn.

  I was disappointed not to see Joe, but as I stepped outside the gray granite building into a luminous summer evening, I formulated a new plan. Rather than chicken for three, I would have a quiet dinner with my baby daughter, followed by Dreamland in about three hours, tops.