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Grabbing my phone, I punched in Justine’s contact. I listened to her cell ring twice before she answered, “I was just thinking about you, Jack.”
“That right?”
“I don’t know exactly why, but you’ve been on my mind,” she said. “So, anyway, how are you? Any luck with Kim Kopchinski? Del Rio told me there was a charge to a café in Paris.”
I told her about my entire crazy day, from losing Kim, to seeing the opera director’s corpse, to finding the secrets of his pied-à-terre, to Michele Herbert’s collage. I took care not to make much of the artist beyond her smarts. I certainly wasn’t going to babble on about Herbert’s beauty and wit.
Instead, I emphasized her thoughts, her legions of followers, and her belief that someone who’d studied under or emulated a famous dead graffiti artist had painted the AB-16 tag.
Then I described the scene at Open Café, how we’d closed in on Kim Kopchinski, the gunplay that had ensued, and her escape. I didn’t say a thing about dinner or the world’s greatest fries or the fact that the artist liked my eyes.
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,” she said. “And this Michele Herbert sounds like quite a woman.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, she’s nice.”
“Uh-huh,” Justine said.
“You can’t resist analyzing every word, can you?” I said hotly. “It’s like you can take the therapist out of the therapy room but you can’t keep the therapy room out of the therapist.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“How’s Sherman?” I asked.
“They’ve got him in a deep medical coma,” Justine said. “They said it could take a few days for the swelling to subside enough to bring him out of it. I plan on stopping by there in the morning.”
“Sounds like you’re all carrying on well without me.”
“You’ve assembled
a strong team,” she said. “You should be happy.”
“Oh, I’m a happy guy,” I said. “April. Paris. Mysteries up the wazoo.”
“Hobnobbing with famous French artists,” she added.
“That too,” I replied. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
I clicked off, wondering what I’d said or tone I’d used to cause Justine to home in so quickly on Michele Herbert. It was as if she had an emotional radar or something, an innate sensitivity that had made her so effective as a psychologist for the L.A. district attorney and as an investigator with Private.
I took a shower, flashing on Michele and finding it nice that she hadn’t spent the night scrutinizing me, trying to figure out what made me tick, or what old wounds I was trying to work out. Instead, she was interested, fun, and easy to be with, and I vowed I would not leave Paris without seeing her again.
Chapter 32
I WENT DOWNSTAIRS for breakfast.
The second the elevator opened, the big, shaved-headed Saudi royal bodyguard with the Texas accent was looking at me.
He nodded. “Mr. Morgan.”
“You know my name?”
“We know everyone who’s staying here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Randall Peaks.”
