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“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.
