Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  But as Igor crossed through the narrow streets, heading towards the river, a thought floated into his mind like a loose thread that, once pulled, began unraveling everything. What if Renard had set him up? Yes, go to Clara’s apartment; it’s only her and Hart there. You’ll take them both out, like a lovers’ murder-suicide, lovers who’d done one too many wrongs. Had Renard known who Clara was? She certainly wasn’t simply a subordinate at his company.

  There was only one way to scratch the itch he had. He’d always trusted his instincts, and they were telling him what to do, because nothing was adding up. He needed to find Renard.

  He pulled his other phone and dialed the secure satellite number he memorized. Renard answered on the second ring.

  “Is it done?” he inquired.

  “No.” Igor fought to control his rage. “We need to meet.”

  Renard hummed. “Very well. Tomorrow I have my monthly massage at the Mandarin. See you then.”

  Igor hung up the phone. He didn’t have a good feeling about any of it.

  38

  Paris

  The voices were soft but animated, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He regained his senses and woke, momentarily forgetting where he was and what had happened the night before. Hart rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around the small apartment, the sun trickling through the closed wooden shutters. He sat up on the couch where he slept and strained to hear the voices coming from the kitchen. Rising to stand, he bumped into the glass coffee table, knocking over several candles. The voices in the kitchen stopped, and Clara peered out from behind the wall.

  “You’re up.” She gave a faint smile.

  “Thought I’d let you know,” Hart said as he picked up the candles that fell onto the floor.

  “Bonjour, Paul.” Justine stepped out into the living room and smiled, more dressed since their late-night drop-in, wearing a white-collared black sweater and jeans. She exchanged a quick glance with Clara. “I am going to the boulangerie. À tout de suite.” She grabbed her purse and jacket, waved, and went out the front door.

  Clara leaned against the doorframe in an outfit borrowed from Justine. She looked pensive, as if she was waiting for Hart to explode in anger, but the truth was he didn’t know how he felt.

  “I could go for some coffee.” He clapped his hands softly, his body ridding itself of its nervous energy.

  Clara disappeared into the kitchen. He found her at a small kitchen table with a laptop open, scrolling through the news of the attack. The pictures were graphic, but mixed in were smiling faces, pictures of the deceased in happier times.

  Hart poured himself a coffee and drank in silence for a moment. It was as if neither of them had the words nor will to speak.

  Hart finally broke the silence. “Why did we leave last night?” The question was simple, but it carried the weight of the world from Hart’s chest. If he were to go on the run in a foreign country, he wanted to know exactly why.

  Clara pursed her lips, then let out a deep breath. “Maxim thought you were guilty of helping Renard from the moment he met you. But I knew you had nothing to do with it the day we met at the museum. No offense, Paul, but you are a pawn in a game that even we don’t understand. Maxim was too nearsighted to see it and only wanted to see what he was looking for. There were no other suspects, and he wanted to clear the case. But I was with you at the market. I saw Igor. Maybe I recognized your contempt for the man and doubted you for a moment, but I knew who you were, what you’re capable of, and it isn’t sinister.”

  She looked up from the inside of her coffee mug, the one she seemed to have been talking to. Their eyes met, Hart could almost see Clara searching for a sign of forgiveness or understanding from him.

  “But that doesn’t explain why we fled the scene of a crime. If you’re a cop, why didn’t we just stay?” Hart shook his head.

  “Igor took Maxim’s gun, and they wouldn’t have believed there was someone else who escaped. Igor is not even on our radar, and by the time things could have been cleared up, we would lose days. But most importantly, if Maxim had reported that you and I became intimate...” She had a sip of coffee before continuing. “He despised that, because a long time ago I turned him down. Men and their egos. He wanted to find you guilty. You think the police would overlook that? You and I found in an apartment with the man, murdered in cold blood, who wanted to arrest you, my new lover? By the time the ballistics report was done and everything was figured out, Igor would be long gone, and I cannot accept that.” Her tone was resolute, and her eyes fierce. “We have a chance now. We owe it to Maxim to find out the truth. If we stayed, we would’ve lost that chance. I am sorry I’ve gotten you into this, but now we have to find a way to get the truth out. We are both innocent, but more importantly, we need to find Igor and understand what it is he’s done.”

  Hart sat back in the chair, exhaling forcefully through his nostrils. Part of him was angry with Clara, because she’d made life-changing choices for him. But there was another part of him that felt admiration for her. She was brave and resourceful, and he understood why she’d made the choices she did. Oddly enough, he found himself trusting her, even agreeing with her actions. He let Clara know with a nod that he was with her.

  “So, tell me how you can connect Igor and Bichot. This is crucial to understand.”

  “Well,” Hart started, taking another sip of his coffee, “I asked a friend who has access to bank information in the UK to run a simple search related to Igor. He sent me a list of people who were associated with Igor, either by helping create the business account, being an owner, or preparing the actual documents establishing a business. At first, I was curious, but then I became suspicious because on the list I recognized the name Jean Luc Bichot. It had him listed as a part owner with Igor of a small wine shop in Borough Market. Then I thought this was pretty odd considering you’d say Bichot had run away when we first met. So, the day we visited the market to see this shop they shared an interest in, we ended up seeing Igor there.”

  Clara nodded and looked out the small kitchen window to the plane trees partially blocking the view to the Seine. “So, since Bichot was working with Igor, we need to operate under the assumption that Igor is behind this. And because last night was more than just moving money around, and Igor’s invitation to the match, he is much more dangerous than a money launderer.” Clara squinted and shook her head. “The man murdered Maxim, who for his faults was a good man. Igor has to be getting help from someone else. This morning I tried to think of how he could learn my address. There are only two people at Renard Industries that know it: the payroll clerk, who is an old lady, and Renard. We take our privacy quite seriously in France.”

  “What are we going to do?” Hart asked, half to himself.

  “I don’t know.” Clara drummed her fingers on the table.

  Justine entered the apartment, gently shutting the door behind her. She placed a brown paper bag on the small kitchen table. The aroma of freshly baked croissants and pain au chocolat filled the apartment.

  “Bon, we should eat breakfast,” Clara said as she dug into the bag. “Merci, Justine.”

  “There’s always time for chocolatine,” Justine said with a shrug as she reached into the bag and pulled out a pastry.

  Hart, surprisingly, found himself not in the mood to eat.

  Clara began scrolling the news on Justine’s laptop; Hart leaned in close. He hadn’t seen any photos or heard anything new since he picked up Clara the day before. But the first picture online jolted him.

  “Scroll back up,” he said, his heart pounding.

  “What is it?” Clara’s face knotted in confusion.

  Hart pointed to a photo of a man with blond hair and a blue suit and tie. “I recognize him.”

  Clara studied the photo. “My God, that’s Josh Cornwall. We met at the auction. He sat at our table with his wife. He was Igor’s client.” Clara turned to look at Hart. “He’s dead.”

  Hart felt h
is blood run ice cold. He’d forgotten about the trade he’d been asked to make for Renard. He had been so caught up in the pandemonium of the past days he hadn’t made the connection. How could he have been so naïve? So blind? His mind started to race through the next days and weeks. Where would he end up, and how bad would it be before the truth was known? He felt nauseous.

  “This man in the photo, the one th-th-that died yesterday,” Hart stammered as he pointed at the screen. “Renard asked me to make a trade against Cornwall’s company before I went to London with you. He asked me to short the company’s stock. Basically, buying it low so that if the price of the stock fell after bad news, the value of the company would go down, but the short position actually adds value. You make money on someone else losing it.” Hart grabbed the computer and Googled the company stock symbol; the results hit him in the gut. “When he was killed, the stock slipped nearly forty percent before trading was halted on the news its CEO died, but I know Renard made money before that. But I didn’t even know anything about this, Clara.” Hart sat back down, his face white. “I’m being framed. I swear.” His words were drawn out, as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  He took the computer and scrolled the article, trying to learn as much as he could, when he found two beady eyes staring back at him from the screen. The same beady eyes he’d seen just before he’d been clocked in the head after following Igor’s contact that day in Borough Market.

  “There.” Hart spun the computer for Clara to see.

  Justine leaned over her shoulder, reading the description. “This is a photo of the attacker? He looks so young.”

  Clara swore. “It’s the man from the market.”

  “It is. I will never forget those eyes.” Hart slumped in the kitchen chair.

  “Paul, this is bigger than money. I think we’re the only ones who know how big this really is.” Clara looked at Justine and back at Hart. “We need to get to Renard. He’s either entirely behind this or in real danger, but whichever way, we have to talk to him.”

  Hart shook his head. “We can’t just walk into the office. There’s police and security cameras. By now, they will be looking for us. As a matter of fact, how come they haven’t thought to look for us at Justine’s?”

  Clara waved the question away. “Because we met on a trip to Malaysia in college years ago, and there’s no record of us on social media or anything. We’re safe. Trust me.”

  The room sat silent for a moment. The coffee pot beeped three times and shut off. Hart could hear the bustling morning work traffic outside, commuters eager to get to the office so they could start their weekend early.

  “It’s Friday, right?” Hart looked at his watch and read the date, his mind running at a thousand miles per hour. He remembered the massage story from Renard that day in the glass conference room. Hart couldn’t recall the name of the masseuse, but he remembered everything else. “I know where Renard will be today.”

  39

  Paris

  Justine found Hart a change of clothes, left behind by an old boyfriend. Clara had asked to borrow the Renault, and Justine had graciously agreed because of concerns that the mile-and-a-half walk to the Mandarin Oriental would put Clara and Hart at risk of being recognized. The same went for the Metro and the taxi stands. Better to drive and find a parking spot; easier said than done in Paris, but safer.

  The ten-minute ride across the arrondissement was easy, and with divine intervention Clara found parking on Rue Daunou. They walked south towards Place Vendôme and past the glittering fine jewelry shops and five-star hotels, Charvet and the Ritz, before turning east on Rue Saint-Honoré. The late-morning crowds overflowed from the narrow sidewalks as Clara and Hart made their way towards the Mandarin Oriental and Renard.

  Hart felt a numb tingling that he recognized as fear. “Even if he’s there and we get to him, what exactly is our plan?” he asked.

  Clara glanced into the stores as they passed a small mannequin in a gray turtleneck, hand under its chin, the thinking-man position. “Well, we try and have him confess. Tell him that we know about Bichot and Igor. If we can get his confession, he can help us find Igor, and once we do that we are cleared. It’s the only way.”

  Hart frowned. “Seems like a long shot.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?” Her head craned to the side.

  “We have Justine’s car. We could get out of Paris. Maybe go to that island your grandpa lived on. Only for a little while, so we could explain our story. Just you and me. We could leave right now.” His mind played out the two of them driving away, lovers on the run, but he couldn’t picture any more than a few days, though it was something. He pleaded with his eyes: Think about it. Just us.

  They walked in silence for a few paces before Clara responded. “We have to do this. We can’t go, we have to do this.” They both knew it wasn’t an option, but somewhere deep down Hart wished she had agreed.

  She waited a moment before she spoke again. “But after this is over, we’ll go there. To the beach and the Bois de la Chaise, a pier where we can watch the days drift by.” She managed a soft smile: We can’t, not now, but one day.

  They walked hand in hand, and Clara squeezed his three times and spun towards him, coming to a stop. She grabbed Hart by the back of the neck and pulled him in. Their lips touched, and his world melted away, if only for the briefest moment. She pulled back and looked into his eyes, and he met her gaze and nodded. The corners of her mouth turned upwards into a smile. They continued on to the hotel, Hart silently committing himself to his only option, which was to fight to clear their names and bring Igor to justice.

  The hotel was tucked slightly off the street, guarded by two doormen. Clara had decided that Hart should enter first to sit in the lobby. He would wait until he saw Renard and watch him head downstairs to the spa, where his monthly massage would occur. Once Renard was out of sight, Clara, who would be watching from across the street, would enter and find Hart. Together they would make their way downstairs. Clara decided it was best to talk their way past the reception desk by acting like an angry girlfriend of Renard’s, which wouldn’t be hard, she’d said, “Because he has so many, and I am pretty enough to be one. Those girls try too hard.” Hart would lend credence by pretending to be additional security and saying he’d take Clara back to Renard’s spa room.

  Hart had positioned himself on a purple velour chair facing the front door of the lobby and used a magazine to shield his face. He sat for only fifteen minutes before he saw Renard sauntering in for his 1 p.m. appointment with two large men dressed casually compared to the other guests. It wasn’t difficult to guess why they had on oversized track jackets, Hart thought to himself. A rich client with a penchant for associating with criminals needed protection. They would, however, make getting to Renard more difficult.

  Renard strode across the white marble floor and was greeted by several hotel employees, who stopped to offer a hello to their regular guest. He wore boat shoes, red pants, an ice-blue dress shirt, and blue zip-up sweater, looking more like he was ready to go yachting than enjoy a massage. The three men disappeared down the staircase just off the lobby that led to the spa. Hart waited for a few moments while Clara entered the hotel, and when they made eye contact, he got up and followed her down to the spa.

  Downstairs, a young woman at the front desk dressed in a white tunic with turquoise piping smiled politely at Hart and Clara. The spa entrance was flanked by a small waiting room, furnished with crème-colored leather chairs, deep-red burgundy carpet, and black wallpaper with leafy gold flowers. The attendant asked for the name of the appointment, at which Clara sprung into character, spewing angry words at her lover, Renard, who’d apparently done her wrong. The look of fright on the young attendant’s face was promising, Hart thought as he stood back, trying to look like one of Renard’s hired security. His clothes, borrowed from Justine’s boyfriend—dark jeans, a white dress shirt, and a surprisingly well-fitting navy blazer— didn’t exactly make him
feel like a menacing bodyguard. Clara had commanded she be allowed to see Renard and leaned over the counter to find out his room number.

  The young attendant was uninterested in attempting to calm a scorned lover and did not want to create a scene in the tranquil spa. Hart didn’t even need to intervene. He simply followed Clara through the smoked-glass doors and into the inner spa area and towards suite number two. They walked down the narrow hallway and hadn’t thought of a plan to deal with the two armed bodyguards, who came into clear view, straddling the door to Renard’s suite.

  “What are we going to do? We can’t just wait out here,” Hart whispered in Clara’s ear as she marched down the long hallway, making no attempt to quiet the noise of her boots.

  “Just follow me,” Clara said out of the side of her mouth. She swung her purse, which was draped diagonally across her body, off her hip and slid her hand into it.

  The guards recognized Clara and then shifted their eyes towards Hart, immediately becoming rigid and tense. Clara was within three paces of them when she sprung. She lifted off the floor and pulled a Taser from her purse, which she stuck in the neck of the first guard. The Taser clicked loudly, sending over a thousand volts of electricity through his body. The man’s teeth clenched, his body constricted, and he fell. The second guard, a shorter man with a bald head, moved towards Clara as she administered the final Taser jolt to his unconscious partner.

  Hart watched Clara with awe until he realized she wasn’t going to be able to use the Taser on the second guard, who was nearly on top of her. Hart pushed off the ground and sprinted at him, aiming to put himself between him and Clara to buy her time. The man was quicker than Hart thought he would be, and they arrived at the spot with Hart crashing into the man, propelling both of them, thudding, into the wall. The guard gave a quick rabbit punch to Hart’s kidney, causing pain to shoot down his back and into his legs.