Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (10 page)
“Hmm,” I said. “Modern Madonna, complete with that British accent?”
“Bingo.”
Big Cyndi could vocally impersonate nearly anyone or any accent. I say “vocally” because when a woman is north of six five and three hundred pounds, it is hard to get away with your killer Goldie Hawn impression in person.
“Esperanza in?”
“Please hold.”
Esperanza Diaz, still best known by her professional wrestling moniker Little Pocahontas, was my business partner. Esperanza picked up the phone and said, “You getting any?”
“No.”
“Then you better have a damn good reason for being there. You had meetings lined up for today.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Look, I need you to dig up all you can on Rick Collins.”
“Who is he?”
“Terese’s ex.”
“Man, you have the weirdest romantic rendezvous.”
I told her what had happened. Esperanza went quiet and I knew why. She worries about me. Win is the rock. Esperanza is the heart. When I finished explaining, she said, “So right now Terese isn’t a suspect?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“But it looks like a murder and a kidnapping or something?”
“I guess.”
“So I’m not sure why you need to be involved. It isn’t connected to her.”
“Of course it’s connected.”
“How?”
“Rick Collins called her. He said it was urgent and it would change everything and now he’s dead?”
“So what exactly do you plan on doing here? Hunt down his killer? Let that French cop do it. Either get some—or get home.”
“Just do a little digging. That’s all. Find out about the new wife and kid, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever. You care if I tell Win?”
“Nope.”
“‘Either get some—or get home,’” she said. “That’s pretty good.”
“It should be a bumper sticker,” I said.
We hung up. So now what? Esperanza was right. This wasn’t my business. If I could somehow help Terese, okay, maybe then this would make sense. But other than to keep her out of trouble on this—other than making sure she didn’t take the fall for a murder she didn’t commit—I couldn’t see how I could help. Berleand was not the type to railroad her.
In my peripheral vision I saw someone sit next to me at the table.
I turned and saw a man with a stubble-covered shaved head. There were scars on the top of his skull. His skin was olive dark, and when he smiled I saw a gold tooth that matched the gold chain dangling from his neck, urban bling-bling style. Handsome probably, in a dangerous, bad-boy way. He wore a wifebeater white T under an unbuttoned gray short-sleeve shirt. His sweatpants were black.
“Look under the table,” he said to me.
“Are you going to show me your wee-wee?”
“Look—or die.”
His accent was not French—something smoother and more refined. Nearly British or maybe Spanish, almost aristocratic. I tilted my chair back and looked. He was holding a gun on me.
I left my hands on the lip of the table and tried to keep my breath steady. My eyes lifted and met his. I checked the surroundings. There was a man with sunglasses standing on the corner for absolutely no reason, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn’t watching us.
“Listen to me or I will shoot you dead.”
“As opposed to alive?”
“What?”
“Shoot someone dead versus shoot someone alive,” I said. Then: “Never mind.”
“Do you see the green vehicle on the corner?”
I did—not far from the sunglassed man who was trying not to look at us. It looked like a minivan or something. Two men sat in the front. I memorized the license plate and began to plan my next move.
“I see it.”
“If you don’t want to be shot, follow my instructions exactly. We are going to get up slowly, and you are going to get in the back of the vehicle. You will not make a fuss—”
And that was when I smashed the table into his face.
The moment he sat next to me I had started to consider the alternatives. Now I knew: This was a kidnapping. If I got into the vehicle, I would be cooked. Have you ever heard that when someone is missing the first forty-eight hours are most crucial? What they don’t tell you—maybe because it’s so obvious—is that every second that passes makes finding the victim that much less likely.
The same works here. If they get me in the car, the chance I will be found plummets. The moment I get up and start following him to the car, my odds diminish. He isn’t expecting an early strike. He figures I’m listening to him right now. I am a nonthreat. He is still working on his quasi-rehearsed speech.
So I work the element of surprise.
He had glanced away too, just for a second, to make sure the vehicle was still in place. That was all I needed. I already had my hands gripping the table. My leg muscles tightened. I exploded up like out of a power squat.
The table landed flush on his face. At the same time I turned to the side, just in case he got a shot off.
No chance.
I kept the torque in my torso and shot up and over. If there had just been Scar Head to worry about, my next step would be clear: disable him. Maim or hurt or just end his ability to fight in some way. But there were at least three other men here. My hope was that they would scatter, but I couldn’t count on that.
Good thing too. Because they didn’t.
My eyes searched for the gun. As I expected, he had dropped it on impact. I landed hard on top of my adversary. The table was still pressed against his face. The back of his head hit the pavement with a thud.
I went for the gun.
People screamed and scattered. I rolled off and toward the gun, picked it up, continued to roll. I made it to one knee and aimed it at the sunglassed guy who’d been waiting on the corner.
He had a gun too.
“Freeze!” I shouted.
He raised the gun in my direction. I did not hesitate. I shot him in the chest.
The moment I pulled the trigger I rolled toward the wall. The green minivan was racing toward me. Shots were fired. Not a handgun this time.
Machine-gun fire raking the wall.
More screams.
Oh man, I hadn’t counted on that. My calculations were all about me. There were pedestrians—and I was dealing with complete lunatics who seemed okay with hurting any and all bystanders.
I saw the first man, Scar Head, who got whacked with the table, stirring. Sunglasses was down. Blood rushed in my ears. I could hear my own breath.
Had to move.
“Stay down!” I shouted to the passing crowd, and then because you think of weird things even at times like this, I wondered how you’d say that in French or if they would be able to translate or if, hey, the machine-gun fire would clue them in.
Keeping low, I ran in the direction opposite the van’s movement, toward where it had been parked. I heard a screech of tires. More gunfire. I turned the corner and kept my legs pumping. I was back on Rue Dauphine. The hotel was only about a hundred yards in front of me.
So what?
I risked a glance behind me. The van had backed up and was making the turn. I looked for a road or alley to turn down.
Nothing. Or maybe . . . ?
There was a small road on the other side of the street. I debated dodging across, but then I’d be even more exposed. The van was speeding toward me now. I saw the barrel of a weapon sticking out the window.
I was too out in the open.
My legs pumped. I kept my head low, as if that would really make me a smaller target. There were people on the street. Some figured out what was going on and dispersed. Others I bumped into, sending them sprawling.
“Get down!” I kept yelling because I had to yell something.
Another blast of gunfire. I literally felt a bullet pass over my head, could feel the air tickle my hair.
Then I heard sirens.
It was that awful French siren again, the short shrill blast, and I never thought I would so welcome that horrid sound.
The van stopped. I moved to the side and flattened myself against the wall. The van flew back in reverse, heading back to the corner. I held the gun in my hand and debated taking a shot. The van was probably too far away—and there were too many pedestrians in the way. I had already been reckless enough.
I didn’t like the idea of them getting away, but I didn’t want the streets riddled with more gunfire.
The back of the minivan slid open. I saw a man pop out. Scar Head was up now. There was blood on his face and I wondered if I’d broken his nose. Two days, two broken noses. Nice work if you could get paid for it.
Scar Head needed help. He looked down the street in my direction, but I was probably too far away to see. I resisted the temptation to wave. I heard the sirens again, getting closer. I turned and two police cars came toward me.
The cops jumped out and pointed weapons at me. For a moment I was surprised, ready to explain that I was the good guy here, but then it all came clear. I was holding a gun in my hand. I had shot someone.
The cops yelled something that I assume was a command to freeze and raise my hands and I did just that. I let the weapon drop to the pavement and got on one knee. The cops ran toward me.
I looked back toward the minivan. I wanted to point it out to the cops, tell them to go after it, but I knew how any sudden move would appear. The police were shouting instructions at me, and I didn’t understand any of them so I stayed perfectly still.
And then I saw something that made me want to go for the gun again.
The minivan door was open. Scar Head was rolling in. The other man jumped in behind him and began to close the doors as the van started to move. The angle changed and for just a second—less time really, maybe half a second—I was able to see into the back of the van.
I was also a good distance away, probably seventy to eighty yards, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t seeing what I thought I was seeing.
Panic took over. I couldn’t help it—I started to stand back up. I was that desperate. I was ready to jump for the gun and start firing at the tires. But the cops were on me now. I don’t know how many. Four or five. They leapt on me, pounding me back to the pavement.
I struggled and felt something sharp, probably the butt end of a club, dig into my kidney. I didn’t stop.
“The green van!” I shouted.
There were too many of them. I felt my arms being twisted behind my back.
“Please”—I could hear the near-crazed fear in my voice, tried to quell it—“you have to stop them!”
But my words were having no effect. The minivan was gone.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure back the memory of that half a second. Because what I did see in the back—or what I thought I saw—right before the van doors closed and swallowed her whole, was a girl with long blond hair.
10
TWO hours later, I was back in my stinky holding cell at 36 quai des Orfèvres.
The police questioned me for a very long time.
I kept my narrative simple and begged them to find Berleand for me. I tried to keep my voice steady as I told them to find Terese Collins at the hotel—I was worried that whoever had gone after me might be interested in her too—and mostly I repeated the van’s license plate number and said that there might be a kidnap victim in the back.
First they kept me out on the street, which was odd but also made sense. I was cuffed and had two officers, one holding each elbow, with me at all times. They wanted me to point out what had happened. They walked me back to Café Le Buci on the corner. The table was still overturned. There was a smear of blood on it. I explained what I had done. No witness had seen Scar Head holding the gun, of course, just my counterattack. The man I had shot had been rushed off in an ambulance, which I hoped meant he was alive.
“Please,” I said for the hundredth time, “Captain Berleand can explain everything.”
If you were trying to read their body language, you’d conclude that the cops were both skeptical of everything I said and rather bored. But you can’t judge by the body language. I had learned that over the years. Cops are always skeptical—plus they get more information that way. They always act like they don’t believe you so you keep talking, trying to defend and explain and blurting out things that maybe you shouldn’t.
“You need to find the van,” I said again, repeating the license plate number mantralike.
“My friend is staying at the d’Aubusson.” I pointed down the Rue Dauphine, gave Terese’s name and room number.
To all of this, the cops nodded and responded with questions that had nothing to do with what I had just said. I answered the questions and they continued to stare at me as though every word out of my mouth were a complete fabrication.
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