It All Began in Monte Carlo (23 page)

“I wish to speak to Monsieur Reilly.” The masculine voice sounded very surprised that a woman had answered.

She walked back to the bed, handed it to him.

He took it, looking at her, puzzled. “Why did you answer?”

She shook her head, she didn't know. She went into the bathroom and put on the hotel's dove-gray terry-cloth robe then went to the window and pulled back the curtains. She stood looking out into the sparkling night, a night just as clean and clear and beautiful as she knew Paris must be overcast and cold, and very possibly still snowing.

She heard Mac say “Hello Inspector.” Trying hard not to listen, Sunny bent to pick up their scattered clothing. A manila envelope fell from Mac's jacket pocket, and she picked that up too. Somehow the photos slid out and she was looking at them. A blown-apart head, a nightmare of what used to be a woman's face. She knew of course who it was. Who it had been.

“Oh God, oh my God . . .”
She covered her eyes.
“Oh no, Mac, please, no.”

She heard Mac quickly tell the Inspector he would get back to him. He came and knelt beside her, took her hands from her eyes and held them tightly. “You were not meant to see those. I'm so sorry, I would give anything for you not to.”

Tears splashed from the tip of her nose onto the gray robe. He wiped them away with the sash.

“Who is she?” Sunny asked.

“Don't ask. Just put it behind you. Tell yourself we are not involved because we are not.”

“We're not?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then why was the Inspector calling you?”

“He asked for my help. I refused. Of course there's nothing I could really do anyway; it's up to the
brigade criminelle,
the French crime police, not a foreigner like me.”

“A well-known detective like you.”

He frowned. “It's none of my business.”

“Is that what you told the Inspector just now?”

“Yes, it was.”

“What was her name?”

“Yvonne.”

“I remember. I saw her picture in the newspaper, pretty, with a husband and a small child.”

Mac said nothing.

“She worked at the jeweler's and the robbers killed her,” Sunny said. “They shot her face away.”

“One of them did, yes.”

“And you are going to do nothing about it?”

“I came here to be with you.”

Sunny saw compassion for the dead woman in Mac's eyes. She knew that, as he always did, Mac had to go where the truth took him. That was simply the way he was.

She said, “It's what you do, and I'm sure you'll be able to help.”

Mac understood what she was telling him. The love between them locked them into their own space. He took her in his arms, held her close, mopped her tears and said, “So how can I work without my Private Eye assistant?”

She managed a grin. “You mean you've fired me?”

“Get your clothes on,” he said, “we're going to the
préfecture
.”

Ten minutes later though, Mac changed his mind. Sunny had seen the photos but he didn't want her to hear the details of how Yvonne died. He didn't want her upset more than she was already.

When he told her, Sunny seemed relieved. “I'll go find Allie,” she said, kissing him lengthily in the elevator. Then, “Do you realize how much of our sex life takes place in elevators?” Laughing, she added, “I'm going to tell Allie and Pru our good news. After all, they came here specially to help me.

“Good luck,” she called after as Mac walked away.

 

 

Ron Perrin was not amused when Mac was not at the airport to meet him. He got on his iPhone immediately. “I'm standing outside fuckin' Nice airport, so where the fuck are you?” was his greeting.

“I may be a detective but unless you tell me your time of arrival I don't know when to expect you.”

“Ah. Right. Well then, I'll get myself into a limo and be with you in half an hour.”

“I'm not at the hotel. I'm at the
préfecture,
alone with the Police Inspector. I thought it was better if Sunny didn't join us.”

“Sunny?” Ron was baffled. “How did I get the impression I was on my way to save your relationship with Sunny?” He could almost see Mac's grin.

“It's saved,” Mac said. “But thanks anyway. Come right over.” Mac gave him the address of the
préfecture.

“Why don't you just send a cop car for me,” Ron joked. Last thing he wanted was to be in another cop car, even if he were not handcuffed this time.

Fifteen minutes later he was drinking coffee—not bad coffee for what he would have called in the United States a precinct house, listening to an Inspector who looked like one of the bloodhounds from a Sherlock Holmes movie, telling about the murder a couple of
nights ago; exactly what had been stolen, the destruction of the Babe Bailey diamond; the shards of which had ended up embedded in the dead woman's face.

Ron knew what it felt like to be shot at, though his attacker had fortunately missed the target—namely his heart, which was a good thing because now that heart belonged permanently to Allie. In fact it had always belonged to her, though neither of them had realized it then—“due to circumstances,” as Ron liked to say when they reminisced about the bad old days. But because Mac had saved Allie's life Ron was prepared to do anything to help him, including lending him Allie for Sunny-support, or flying to Nice in his small Cessna in turbulent weather with cumulus attacking him at every thousand feet.

“So, what're we gonna do about it?” he asked, one leg crossed over the other knee, Styrofoam cup of now-cold coffee still clutched in his hand.

“You mean what am
I
gonna do about it,” Mac said.

“
Actuellement,
the position is that it is
I
who must do something about this case,” the Inspector said, jowls drooping even more sadly. “The staff at the Paris store, as well as the staff here, have already been interviewed, except the woman who was injured in the Paris heist. She has only today been released from hospital. She claims she remembers nothing. I am hoping, Mac, that you might be able to get through to her, trigger her memory.”

“Mac doesn't speak French,” Ron said. “But that's okay, I'll translate for him.”

Mac threw him a skeptical glance. “And when did you learn to speak such good French?”

“Remember me? The French landowner? I have to get along with my neighbors, don't I?”

The Inspector said, “The story is the same in all the other targeted jewelers'. The three women in Marilyn Monroe masks, two tall, one shorter, all with long blond hair, in very good fur coats, mink
but top of the line, though not identifiable by designer even to the connoisseur-eye of the store manager, who knows about such things. The coats were long, to the ankle, and of a dark color. They wore surgical gloves. A single strand of blond hair was found on one of the glass counters. It was human hair but probably from a wig.”

“They never took off the masks, even on the street after they left?”

“Not that any of the staff saw.”

“And they didn't see the getaway car?”

“No one saw it perfectly, though the manager believes it was some kind of van, the type with the sliding doors. You must understand the staff were all in shock; their friend was lying on the floor with her face shot away, blood was sprayed everywhere, even onto their own clothing. They were hardly in a state of mind to be noticing details, they were afraid for their lives.”

“I'll bet they were,” Mac said. “Did anyone describe the gun?”

“Shiny. Very small. A pistol, was how they described it.”

“A pistol with a powerful punch,” Mac said, remembering the results of that bullet.

“Ballistics are working on it, but the word is it's probably a 9mm.”

Ron was on his iPhone again. “What are you doing?” Mac asked.

“Getting the Cessna refueled. I guess we're off to Paris.”

Mac thought about Sunny and how they had left things between them. Could he simply leave now? “Good luck,” she had said. He knew that of course she would understand. And he would need that luck.

 

 

Eddie had returned early from Hamburg. He showered off the grime of travel, put on casual chinos and a navy cashmere V-neck. Without looking in the mirror he combed back his still-wet hair that was long enough to lie smoothly on the nape of his neck. There was no doubt Eddie was a good-looking man. Not that he thought about it much, and since his marriage had disintegrated and Jutta distanced herself, there had been pleasant diversions but no one involving his emotions the way Sunny had.

Sunny had not called him back. He guessed that meant that what had never really been, was over. It still didn't stop him from hoping to see her in the bar and talk to her, but when he got there the place had already emptied out, just a few couples and business groups. It was still early and the bar was quiet. He saw the redhead whose name he couldn't remember, sitting up at the bar, waving him over. He saw her turn to the bartender, order something, then she waved at him again, tilting her head appealingly.

Wanting to avoid her, Eddie hesitated. Which gave Kitty enough time to slip the small pill into the vodka on the rocks she had already ordered for him. The pill was known for good reasons as the “date-rape” drug, because after only several minutes the victim would become dazed. She knew Eddie would be like putty in her hands. He
would feel weak and as though he was drunk. He would have difficulty thinking coherently, or even moving and talking. Of course the drug was also dangerous; the drop in blood pressure could cause sudden death. Kitty put this out of her mind though. For her purpose, it was ideal. The pill in the drink always did the trick, it fizzed for half a second then disappeared, untasteable and undetectable.

Kitty had almost given up hope when Eddie walked in, exactly as she'd wanted because her trap was set, and tonight she was ready for action. Kitty was a professional; she knew exactly what to do.

She slid from the stool and walked over to Eddie. Her silky dress clung to her broad hips and flurried around her knees. She put her hand on his arm. “You look like a man in need of a woman like me,” she said softly. “Come, Eddie, sit with me. Let's talk.”

Tired, sad, world-weary and vulnerable, Eddie went with her.

“You were away on business?” she asked, ordering a third beer for herself and a third Red Bull. Kitty knew she drank a lot but swore it never affected her, except to make her tongue looser, which made Jimmy mad because he said she ran off at the mouth and that was dangerous. But tonight, that didn't matter. She knew exactly what she was doing, and the endless Red Bulls gave her a caffeine high that sent adrenaline pumping through her veins and along with her usual beers, which she loved and drank from the bottle, had her on a terrific high. Watching Eddie sip his doctored vodka, Kitty smiled.

“I was in Hamburg,” Eddie said. The redhead had her hand on his arm again. He stared disapprovingly at it but then he shrugged. The woman was only being nice to him. He caught her glance then she looked demurely away.

“Hamburg,” she said, speaking so quietly he had to lean closer to catch what she was saying. “That's a very sexy city, I know it well. There are swinger clubs there that take care of all your needs.” She lifted her eyes and met his again. “All your desires,” she added softly.

Her face was suddenly all Eddie saw, all he could focus on. After
a long moment he pulled his eyes away. He seemed to have drunk the vodka very quickly and he saw that Kitty had gone through the beer like it was Coca-Cola.

He said, “I don't go to sex clubs.”

“But Eddie, you don't know what you're missing. I love going to those clubs, I love it when men I don't know, total strangers come on to me, I love it when they touch me sexually . . . of course I never wear panties. I'm so sexy, Eddie. Doesn't it excite you when I talk like this? Don't you want to hear about it? I know you're really a voyeur, a man who would like to watch me do that.”

Eddie could not believe what she was saying; he couldn't even remember how he had gotten into this conversation or what he was doing here. He knew he needed to leave, yet he had no will. He let her order another drink.

“That's half the fun,” Kitty said, fluffing her flame-colored hair and taking another gulp from the beer bottle. “But why are you and I talking sex, Eddie Johanssen, when I'll bet what you really need is food.” She watched Eddie pick up his glass and drain the second vodka. His hand shook.

“I'll tell you what,” she said in that urgent whisper, pressing his arm close to her breast. “We'll go back to my place. I'll fix you a real home-cooked meal. I'll bet you didn't think I would be a good cook, did you? But I make the most delicious meatballs you've ever eaten, even in Sweden. We'll put on some music, drink some wine and I guarantee soon you'll feel good again.”

Right now all Eddie felt was tired. He wanted to get up and leave but his legs did not want to move.

Kitty flung some euros on the counter. She had to act quickly to get him into the car. She put an arm around Eddie and hauled his around her waist. Together they walked from the bar.

The bartender's eyes followed them. He wondered what was going on, but anyhow figured he knew.

 

 

Kitty drove to her apartment. She put on all the lights and lit every lamp. The overhead tracks delivered a glare that hurt Eddie's eyes. She had left the curtains open and the garden was also lit up.

“It's like a film set in here,” he protested, but Kitty only laughed and said she liked to see what she was doing.

She put her arms round him and pressed her lips on his. And this time it was not just “a hint” of tongue; it was definitely tongue. She rubbed her body against him. “You are so wonderful,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “I'm so attracted to you.” She took his hand and put it up her skirt. “Feel how hot I am for you, Eddie?”