Paris Match (10 page)

“Don’t you want to know what the guy was doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked. “Before the Paris police find out?”

“My bailiwick doesn’t extend to Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“Then what were you doing there last night?” Holly asked.

Rick pointed at Stone. “He called me.”

“You’re pointing again, Rick,” Stone said. “When I called you, you came. Why?”

“I’m supposed to take reasonable steps to keep you alive,” Rick said.

“
Reasonable steps?
That’s all my life is worth to the Agency? What about extraordinary steps?”

“Getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night is an extraordinary step. I answered the call, and look where it got me. The Paris police think John, NMI, Simpson is my guy, and now they know
you
’
re
my guy.”

“They didn’t know that before?”

“Not to my knowledge. Well, there was that incident last year when we thought somebody was trying to kill Lance, but they were really trying to kill you. They can remember that far back, I guess.”

“So you lost nothing by coming to Mirabelle’s kitchen?”

“I didn’t gain anything, either.” Rick’s cell phone made the e-mail noise again, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit,” he said.

“Now what?” Holly asked.

“Bad news: Lance wants me on a secure video conference at the station in an hour.”

“Oh, goody!” Holly laughed.

“The good news is, he wants you there, too.”

“Not me?” Stone asked. “I feel left out.”

“Oh, all right, you can come, too. Where’s my sandwich?”

  
  
21

A
n hour later, lunched, hunched over a conference table, and nicely groomed, they sat and stared at a large blank screen in a double-soundproofed, double-doored room.

“He’s six minutes late,” Stone said, consulting his watch. “How does this go?”

“It goes when Lance gets around to it,” Rick said.

The screen suddenly came to life, and Lance Cabot sat, glowering at them. “I heard that, Rick,” he said.

“Only joking, boss,” Rick replied quickly.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Lance demanded.

“Where would you like me to start?” Rick asked.

“Start with the John, no middle initial, Simpson part.”

“Well,” Rick said, “late last night—or perhaps more accurately, in the middle of the night—Mr. Simpson took a shotgun
round to the chest from a weapon held by Mirabelle Chance. It happened in her kitchen, and Stone was a proximate witness.”

“And what was Stone doing in the kitchen of the daughter of the prefect of police in the middle of the night?”

“Stone?” Rick said. “You want to take that one?”

“Lance,” Stone said, “you have a fevered imagination—use it.” Stone, as a non-Agency employee, felt no need to kowtow to Lance Cabot.

“Jesus God,” Lance said. “Is there no woman you won’t take to bed?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Stone said.

“There seem to be times, Stone, when you don’t think at all.”

Stone let that one go. “As long as we’ve got you on the… line, Lance, who the hell is John, no middle initial, Simpson?”

“I find,” Lance replied, “somewhat to my consternation, that Mr. Simpson is an employee of this service, attached to the Berlin station as a handyman.”

“Plumbing and electrical?” Stone asked. “Does he do windows?”

“All of the above,” Lance replied. “The question is, what the hell was he doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?”

“He was costumed as a B-movie burglar,” Stone said, “in black, mask and all, and he left a stolen car parked outside. Oh, and he had a loaded Beretta in his hand and an extra magazine in a holster.”

“Did he make any vocal noises?” Lance asked.

“He was unable to sing,” Stone said. “Or breathe. He also could not work up a pulse.”

“And where is Mr. Simpson now?”

“In a storage locker at the Paris morgue, I presume, or wherever the French deposit unwelcome corpses.”

“Has a medical report been issued?” Lance asked.

“It has, Lance,” Rick said. “Cause of death, shotgun wound to the chest. No scars, tattoos, or other identifying marks.”

“They haven’t ID’d him?”

“Not unless they have access to sequestered records,” Rick said.

“Speaking of that,” Lance said, “will one of you kindly tell me how you got to his record?”

Holly spoke up. “Lance, I ran our recognition software for Stone to have a look at, and Simpson popped up.”

“Employing what criteria?”

“Stone’s description of the man, plus indications of ambidexterity.”

“What indications?”

“He was wearing his wristwatch on his right hand, yet he pulled his gun with the same hand. There’s a contradiction there—the right-handed commonly wear their watches on their left wrists.”

“How peculiar of you to think of that, Holly. I’ll bet that little anomaly is what blew you through a back door of the software. Incidentally, the loud noise you just heard was the sound of that back door slamming.
That
won’t happen again.”

“Lance,” Holly said, “I expect you’ve already spoken to the Berlin station chief. Was he enlightening?”

“Enlightening? The man was aware of Mr. Simpson only
in name on a list of employees. He’s never spoken to the man, or even seen him. Incidentally, that gentleman is on the way home on a slow cargo aircraft, for consultations.”

Stone spoke up again. “Underworked handymen sometimes seek additional employment,” he pointed out. “Did the gentleman from Berlin, perhaps, shed any light on whom Mr. Simpson might be doing windows for?”

“He did not,” Lance said, “being hardly aware of the existence of his minion. His deputy has now, however, been stirred to action, and I expect a report before the day is out.”

“Shall we await further news from Berlin, then?” Rick asked.

“Certainly not. Consider yourself stirred to action, as well. I want to know how and why an Agency employee met his end on the kitchen floor of the daughter of the prefect of Paris police, and I expect the prefect does, too. I anticipate a hot call from him momentarily, demanding satisfaction.”

“Lance,” Rick said, “I don’t think the prefect has any reason to believe that Simpson might be ours, or even Simpson.”

“The absence of evidence will not affect his assumptions,” Lance said. “Call me when you know more, and you had better know more soon.” The screen went black.

“Well,” Holly said, “that was as mad as I’ve ever seen Lance, and I’ve seen him mad more often than I like to remember.”

“He’ll get over it,” Stone said.

This observation was met with derisive laughter from his companions.

  
  
22

S
tone’s cell phone was ringing as he let himself into his suite at l’Arrington. “Allo,” he said in his best French accent.

“Allo, yourself,” Mirabelle said.

“Good morning.”

“
Bonjour.
Is Madame Flournoy still there?”

Stone summoned up some outrage. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Didn’t she follow you home last night? I’ve had reports.”

“Your intelligence is unreliable. Madame Flournoy slept in her own bed last night, to the best of my knowledge.”

“So you fucked her in the residence, then left? How caddish.”

“You are—how do we say in
Anglais
? Leaping to delusions? 

“I have leapt to all sorts of
conclusions
,” Mirabelle said. “My reports also include mention of a lady from New York.”

“She is a civil servant, in town on official business.”

“So you are now ‘official business’?”

“Sometimes,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“A weak response. You are losing your touch, M’sieur Barrington.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this call, apart from undue criticism of my motives and actions?”

“You and I cannot see each other anymore,” she said.

A wave of relief swept over Stone. He had been unable to think of a way out, but she had saved him the trouble. “I am desolated,” he said.

“Funny,” she said, “you sound relieved.”

“Far from it,” he lied.

“I suppose you would like a reason? You Americans are always looking for reasons, even when there aren’t reasons.”

“That’s because we know there are always reasons.”

“I had an unpleasant conversation with my father this morning,” she said.

“I hope I was not the cause of any unpleasantness between the two of you.”

“My father has, as you neatly put it, leapt to conclusions, and he has concluded that your presence in my home, along with that of Rick LaRose and an unidentified corpse, are
somehow related. He is probably on the phone to Washington as we speak.”

“Ummm,” Stone replied.

“I expect you will be hearing from whoever answers the phone.”

“Does the corpse remain unidentified?” Stone asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Mystifyingly so, which adds to my father’s suspicions about Americans. He tends to regard any mystifying circumstance as evidence of American meddling in French affairs.”

“That is ungenerous of him.”

“In any case, he has decided that my continuing to canoodle—this is the correct word, yes?”

“As far as it goes.”

“. . . with an American spy is not in the interests of France.”

“I never knew that France was interested.”

“By ‘in the interests of France,’ I mean in my father’s opinion.”

“Ah.”

“Where his opinion is involved, he tends to broaden his scope to include the nation.”

“That is magnanimous of him.”

“I should say that I do not always strictly follow my father’s wishes.”

“Oh?”

“Sometimes my daughterly desires outweigh his fatherly advice. On those occasions you and I may happen to meet.”

“How will I know when such an occasion arises?”

“I will communicate this to you.”

“I will be all ears.”

“I may not employ your ears in my communication.”

“I will give deep thought to whatever that means.”

“Until then,
au revoir
.” She hung up.

He had hardly hung up when Holly let herself into the suite. She pecked him on the lips and sank into a chair. “What a morning!” she exhaled.

“Have you and Rick found a way to meet Lance’s, ah, request for further information on Mr. Simpson?”

“On reflection,” she said, “Rick and I have decided that the matter of Mr. Simpson is between Lance and the Berlin station chief. Lance was just using us as whipping boys, until he could get his hands on the poor son of a bitch.”

“Did you and Rick express these thoughts to Lance?”

“Certainly not. Do you think we’re crazy?”

“Possibly.”

“I simply lent Rick the wisdom of my long experience with Lance and his temper, and he seemed to appreciate my advice.”

“I’m sure Rick is smart enough to appear that he is hanging on Lance’s every word.”

“We’ll see,” Holly said.

“I expect we shall.”

“Tell me,” she said, “I’ve been told that this city is a place where a girl can find a frock to wear to a party.”

“I’ve heard that myself. I hope the party you’re referring to is the grand opening of l’Arrington and that you are accompanying me.”

“I was hoping you were hoping that. Where should I start the hunt?”

“Google ‘party frock, Paris,’ and a world will open up to you.”

“No personal recommendations?”

“Chanel? Armani? Ralph Lauren? I believe they all do business here, along with several dozen other designers. Shall I arrange a hotel Bentley for you?”

“That would be gallant of you.”

“How about a personal shopper?”

“What a good idea! Would you like to act in that capacity?”

“I fear that I am a poor judge, until I actually see the frock worn at a party. I can’t stay awake in fancy shops.” He picked up the phone and spoke to the concierge. “There,” he said, hanging up. “Your car and your shopper will be ready in an hour. How may I entertain you until then?”

Holly stood up, unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the floor, exhibiting a garter belt and stockings, but no knickers, then she sank into her chair and parted her legs, revealing a fresh Brazilian. “Improvise,” she said.

And he did.

  
  
23

H
olly sat back in the comfortable rear seat of the Bentley Mulsanne and sighed deeply. During the past months she had achieved a new high in unrequited randiness, something she had always relied on Stone to relieve, and he had never disappointed. She was alone in the rear seat; the driver and her personal shopper, Monique, occupied the front.

“Where would you like to go first?” Monique asked.

“You choose,” Holly replied. “And please excuse me, but I must make a phone call.” She found the switch that raised the glass panel between them and dialed a number on her cell.

“Research, this is Brian.”

“Brian, this is Holly Barker. Why aren’t you working?”

“Oh, I ah, I mean, I
am
working, Ms. Barker.”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh, all right. How may I help you, Ms. Barker?”

“You can begin by calling me Holly, like everybody else but you.”

“All right. Holly.”

“Write down this name: John, no middle initial, Simpson.”

“Got it.”

“This man is an ex–Army NCO, currently assigned as a handyman in our Berlin station, at least, currently until last night, when he died. I managed to get a look at his army service record, which should have been and by now is sequestered, so you can’t call it up. However sequestered it may be, it does not contain every fact of the man’s life, and that is what I want to know.”

“
Every
fact of the man’s life?”