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“No worries,” I said, and took another sip of wine.
Even if the Parisians weren’t happy, I was. Louis Langlois was a funny guy and Paris was still one of the most beautiful cities on earth, filled with interesting and sometimes shocking people, art, and food. In an hour or two, I’d no doubt be eating an incredible meal, and probably laughing a whole lot more. Life, for the foreseeable future, looked very good.
And then it didn’t.
Louis listened to his phone, nodded, and said, “Of course I remember you, Monsieur Wilkerson. How can Private Paris be of help?”
Wilkerson? The only Wilkerson I knew was a client who lived in Malibu.
I mouthed, “Sherman Wilkerson?”
Louis nodded and said into the phone, “Would you rather talk with Jack Morgan? He’s right here.”
He handed me the phone. Now, the last time I’d heard from Sherman Wilkerson like this, out of the blue, there were four dead bodies on the beach below his house. I admit that there were nerves in my voice when I said, “Sherman?”
“What are you doing in Paris, Jack?” Wilkerson demanded.
“Visiting one of my fastest-growing offices.”
Sherman Wilkerson was a no-nonsense engineer who’d built a wildly successful industrial design company. By nature he dealt with facts and often understated his opinion of things. So I was surprised when he said in a shaky voice, “Maybe there is a God after all.”
“You’ve got a problem in Paris?” I asked.
“My only granddaughter, Kimberly. Kimberly Kopchinski,” Wilkerson replied. “I just got off the phone with her—first call in more than two years. She’s in an apartment outside Paris and says there are drug dealers hunting for her, trying to kill her. She sounded petrified, and begged me to send someone to save her. Then the line went dead and now I can’t reach her. Can you go make sure she’s safe? I’ve got the address.”
“Of course,” I said, signaling to Louis to pay the bill. “How do we find her?”
Wilkerson read me out an address.
I wrote it down and said, “Can you text me a photograph? And tell me about her? College student? Businesswoman?”
Louis laid down cash on the table and gave me the thumbs-up during a long pause.
“Sherman?” I said, standing. “Are you there?”
“I honestly don’t know what Kim’s been doing the past two years, and I know little of her life over the past five,” Wilkerson admitted as we left the café and Louis called for a car. “Her parents—my daughter, Pam, and her husband, Tim—they died in a boating accident six years ago.”
“I remember you telling me that,” I said. “Sad.”
“Very. Kim was in her senior year at USC, and back from a junior year in France, when it happened. She was as devastated as we were. Long story short, she inherited a bit of money along with a trust, and she turned wild child. She barely graduated. When she did, she went straight back to France. For a time I know she was working for the Cannes Film Festival organizers. We tried to stay in touch, but we heard from her less and less. Before today, there was a Christmas card from Monaco, and before that, a condolence card when my wife died.”
The car pulled up. Louis opened the door, and I climbed in, saying, “Don’t worry, Sherman. We’re on our way.”
“Thank you, Jack. You’ll call when you have her?”
“I will.”
“Protect her, Jack. I beg you,” Wilkerson said. “She’s my only grandchild—my only living relative, really.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said, and hung up.
After filling Louis in on the conversation, I pushed the address I’d written on a napkin over to him. “Know it?”
Louis put his reading glasses on and studied it, and his nostrils flared as if he’d scented something foul. Then he looked up at me and with a definite edge in his voice said, “Look up trouble and danger in a French dictionary, and you get a picture of this place.”
Chapter 2
Pantin, northeastern suburbs of Paris
