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“He arrested my father for burglary when I was a kid,” the tagger said. “I think he runs Private’s Paris office now.”
“I’ll check,” Amé said, grabbing a laptop. A moment later, she said, “It’s Langlois. And the American is Jack Morgan, the owner of Private and the guy who found the Harlows last year.”
Haja knew exactly what she was talking about. Who didn’t? Thom and Jennifer Harlow, Hollywood’s most famous couple, had been kidnapped along with their three children. Morgan and Private L.A. had found and rescued the family in Mexico.
She felt minor panic ripple through her. Why had Morgan and Langlois been at the mosque that day?
Mfune and Epée were upset as well.
“Those Private guys,” the tagger complained. “I read about them in Paris Match last year. They cut corners, break laws. They’re not like normal cops. They never give up once they get on something, especially Morgan.”
Though his arms were crossed, Sauvage smiled. “No, they’re not like normal cops,” he said. “And Morgan and Langlois would appear to be formidable foes. But with a little creativity, I think Private Paris can be neutralized without much change in our original plans.”
“How?” Mfune demanded.
“We’ll put a pincer move on them, and squash them like bugs.”
Chapter 50
8th Arrondissement
10 a.m.
THE DESIGN STUDIO and haute couture showroom of Jacques Noulan was on the Rue Clément Marot, only a couple of blocks from the Plaza Athénée—a plus given the fact that I hadn’t slept in thirty hours. I planned on talking to the designer and then getting some much needed sack time.
But when Louis and I reached the reception desk, we were told that Noulan had come down with the flu several days before and was convalescing at his country home in Nance. When we asked for a phone number and address, we were politely told that it was impossible to disturb him. Louis left his card and asked that Noulan call as soon as he returned to work.
“Convenient that he’s out of touch,” I said outside.
“I grant you that, Jack.”
I was about to tell Louis that I was going to the hotel to get some sleep when he gestured down the street and said, “That must feel like a thorn in Noulan’s ass. Maybe this is about jealousy and revenge after all.”
Yawning, I said, “I’m not following you.”
“Millie Fleurs,” he replied. “That’s her shop not a block away, Jack.”
Flashing on my bed at the Plaza, I sighed and said, “Maybe she can shed light on the situation.”
We crossed the street and went down the block to the shop. The shop lights were on, but the door was locked. It was one of those places where you had to buzz to get in. A tall, thin man in an impeccably tailored mouse-gray suit was working behind the counter. We must not have struck him as impressive because he glanced at us on a computer screen, grimaced, and went back to ignoring us.
Louis buzzed a second time and held up his Private badge to the camera. The man studied it, curled his upper lip against a pencil-thin mustache, and then buzzed us in. Surprisingly, the shop had very few actual clothes, but it had many life-size black-and-white photos of models wearing Millie Fleurs’s gowns and evening wear. Samples of the designer’s famous purses occupied translucent pedestals around the room, but otherwise the place was empty and white save for the fitting mirrors and counter workstation.
“Yes? Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked in a voice that suggested he had zero interest whatsoever in helping us. “This is the haute couture shop. Perhaps you’d be more interested in the ready-to-wear line? It’s a few blocks from—”
“We’re not here to buy,” Louis grumbled. “We’re here to talk to Madame Fleurs.”
“Yes, well, wouldn’t we all like to?” he sniffed. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You’ll have to call for an appointment, and the soonest time she has is three months out.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He hesitated, twitched his mustache, and said, “Laurent Alexandre.”
“Mr. Alexandre, is Millie Fleurs here?”
“No,” he said, and turned away. “I am the only one—”
Then a woman called out, “Laurent, are you down there?”
