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It was a big deal for a Private forensics team to be called in by a local police department, and especially by a renowned investigative operation
like La Crim. The decision spoke to the level of training and adherence to state-of-the-art forensics methods that I’d insisted on after deciding to get my company into the crime analysis business. Our labs were certified in fifteen states in the U.S. We maintain Interpol standards throughout the rest of the world, and police agencies were starting to recognize us for our efforts.
That alone had put a positive spin on my day. But around 2 p.m., I’d gotten a call that put me in an even rosier state of mind. Michele Herbert asked if I would like to have dinner with her. Though I’d felt like doing a back handspring in response, I kept my cool, and we made a date for nine.
I moved through the lobby and through an arch. I glanced to my right and saw a gathering happy hour crowd milling in an interior loggia that abutted the dining room and the courtyard. Along the walls of the high, narrow space, groups of the beautiful, the wealthy, and the famous sat in fine furniture, sipped from thirty dollar cocktails, and nibbled at plates of foie gras and caviar tureens.
About halfway down, I spotted Randall Peaks by that gaggle of Saudi princesses, all of whom appeared to have changed dresses since the morning. Peaks looked at me and nodded. I nodded back, and then got on the elevator. As I did, my phone rang.
“Jack Morgan,” I answered.
“It’s me,” Justine said. “The swelling on Sherman Wilkerson’s brain has started to subside. The doctors think they’ll be able to bring him out of the coma tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”
“Long-term prognosis?” I asked.
“Could take a year of therapy, but good, I think,” she replied.
“That’s excellent,” I said, and breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was Sherman Wilkerson one of my oldest clients, but he was a truly good man, someone who most certainly did not deserve to live out his days in a vegetative state.
“Anything on the granddaughter to report?” Justine asked. “I’m sure she’ll be the first thing on Sherman’s mind.”
“She’s gone to ground. I haven’t seen any new alerts that she’s used her card.”
“How’s Paris otherwise?”
“Still the most beautiful city in the world.”
“The most romantic too, I hear,” she said.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “Things are all business here.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as the elevator dinged open and I got out at the eighth floor. “That’s not what Louis just told me.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, digging for my key card.
“Gorgeous famous artist and graffiti expert?”
I used the key card and pushed the suite door open, saying, “Oh, her.”
“Yes, her,” Justine said. “Louis says you’re smitten.”
“Take that with a grain of salt. The man is smitten himself about six times a day.” I walked the short hallway into the suite’s living area and set the key card on the table.
“Jack, it’s okay to be smitten.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I replied. I entered the bedroom and headed toward the walk-in closet.
Before she could reply, I heard a squeak behind me before something hit me hard right between the shoulder blades, stunned me, blew the wind out of me, and drove me to my knees.
Chapter 38
THE SECOND BLOW between the shoulder blades caused me to drop the phone, and threw me forward on my stomach, grunting, trying to get my breath.
A black tactical boot appeared in my peripheral vision and crushed the phone while someone grabbed my wrists, pulled them behind my back, and locked them together with zip ties. Still gasping for air, I saw a gloved hand come forward, take my chin, and wrench it down. Another gloved hand stuffed fabric so far into my mouth that I gagged and choked.
I was hauled to my feet and tossed on my back on the bed. Two men wearing jeans, black jackets, and panty hose over their heads to smear their features stood there. The dark-haired guy had a big nose. He also had a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol aimed at me.
The other, a blond guy with pale skin, held a ball-peen hammer in his right hand. In a thick accent, he said, “Here’s how it works, Monsieur Morgan. I take the gag out and you tell me where to find Kim. If you try to yell or if you lie, I will break your kneecap. Understand?”
