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“No barbarians at the gate, if that’s what you mean,” Justine replied. “I finished up the Dawson case. And Del Rio is handling the CTI thing.”
Rick Del Rio was my closest friend. We’d crash-landed together in the marines and he’d been with me from the day I launched Private. Del Rio broke his back the previous fall, and had only just returned to work.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“You can see he’s still in some pain, but damned if he’ll tell anyone,” Justine replied.
“Cruz?”
There was a moment of silence before she said, “He’s in Phoenix. His mother has breast cancer.”
“Tell him my prayers are with him and his mother.”
“I’ll do that,” she said. “Thanks.”
I told her about Sherman Wilkerson and his granddaughter.
“Sounds like she’s been through something traumatic,” she said.
“Yeah, I wish you were here, to see if you could get her to open up.”
“You telling me to pack my trousseau and fly to Paris?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I need you there to work the L.A. end of this. I want you to take a team to Sherman’s home and office. Look for signs he could be under surveillance.”
“By who? French drug dealers?”
“Honestly, Justine, I’m still trying to figure that out.”
When I hung up, the shower was still running at Kim’s end of the suite. She’d been in there almost thirty minutes. But then again, I could see her wanting a long hot shower before crashing.
A knock came at the door. Room service. The attendant wheeled in a cart, and made a racket lifting the metal covers over the plates, showing me a prime steak with béarnaise sauce, fresh asparagus, and crisp shoestring fries.
I noticed the shower was off when I settled down to my meal. The meat was tender, and the fries were out of this world: crunchy outside and soft inside, not even the hint of oil. So when I finished every last bit of it, and washed the meal down with a cold Coca-Cola, I was evidently a rare man in Paris: a truly happy camper.
And then I wasn’t.
Over the street sounds echoing through the open balcony doors, I caught poor Kim Kopchinski’s muffled sobs. They were coming from deep in her gut, and made me feel horrible, made me wonder what in God’s name had happened to her and who the pale psycho with the shotgun was.
I went to the door and raised my hand to knock, to comfort her if I could.
But her sobbing ebbed to painful moans that reminded me of my mother’s when she’d locked herself in her bedroom after fights with my drunken father.
I dropped my hand and did what I’d done for my mother back when I was a boy. I stood guard at the door until the moaning died out altogether.
Part Two
AB-16
Chapter 11
9th Arrondissement
April 7, 1:45 a.m.
ÉMILE SAUVAGE LEFT the Chaussée d’Antin Métro station. The major had changed from his army uniform and now wore a dark brown fedora, a thigh-length black leather jacket, and dark pants, gloves, and rubber-soled shoes. He noted to his satisfaction that the lens of the CCTV cameras inside and outside had been sprayed with fresh black paint.
Well done, Epée.
