The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) (19 page)

“Have a shower?  Are you saying I need one? You really know how to flatter the ladies,” she teased.

“Show me a lady and I’ll start flattering her,” he grinned.  “Seriously, go take care of yourself, I’ll be there in a few hours.”

She kissed him, long and deep and didn’t want to let him go. In that moment, everything faded away and it was just her with her arms around him and his hands on her face.  She opened her eyes and smiled.  Then she walked to the car, feeling hot tears beginning to seep from her eyes.  She looked back at Lara McBride before she got in.

“Find him,” she said.

“I will,” Lara promised. 

As she looked at the pretty young woman from New York who had been stained by what had happened here, she felt a creeping dread deep that this would be the last time she would ever see her.  She didn’t want to give in to that.  She needed some hope right now.  She had to hope.  It was the only thing that kept the world alive for her. 

And then Beth was in the car and the young officer ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in and the car sped off in to the ever flowing traffic, sweeping through the city like an endless river.  Brouchard was about to say something, but saw in Lara’s eyes that there was nothing else to say.  He nodded and went back inside the station.  Lara hailed a cab as Jason stepped up beside her.

“Now show me where I can get a gun,” she said.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Jason had known about this place since he first got to Paris a year ago.  As a new recruit in the company, hired because his French was passable and his skill with numbers was enviable, he had neglected to tell his new employers about his a thirst for the wild side of life and a dash of nihilism thrown in.  He had gone to school with Fulvio back in England and he had always been the instigator, luring, cajoling, tempting and sometimes just right out bullying fellow classmates- and sometimes his Italian friend- in to joining him on nocturnal adventures that might not have just got them expelled from the boarding school for being off the grounds after hours, but might have also got them arrested.  Under age drinking, selling booze and marijuana in school, he had developed a philosophy that he would do all the things he knew he shouldn’t just to see what happened and if he could get away scott free.  He wondered if subconsciously he was merely tempting Fate.  He had an absence of feeling about his own safety that transcended self-destruction in that he was not actively seeking to destroy himself, but was fully prepared for oblivion should it come to him.  He had little to no feelings or concern for his own safety.  On the contrary, he was ready and practically looking for fights, altercations, anything that would test his mettle.  Jason saw it as learning about himself and so he put himself in situations that included going to nefarious parts of any city he found himself in where other, more safety conscious and rational people, would never venture.

And so it was, one night after bar hopping, with around eight beers and six whiskeys fuelling him on and almost an entire pack of cigarettes smoked, he found himself abandoned by Fulvio and the less adventurous crew from work and the rest of the night to indulge all his wanton cravings.  He had the idea that he wanted to score some drugs.  He didn’t care what.  He was open to anything.  He was no narcotic fiend, he merely wanted the night to keep going and become eternal and take him wherever it led.  He got in a cab, the driver speeding through the streets at what felt like four times the limit.  He knew he could die right there in the back seat and he also realized he had no control over it.  He started laughing, felt the booze filter out of him and the adrenalin brought him back to the land of sobriety.  He told the driver to take him somewhere he could get something pharmaceutical and the man dropped him off in the Place Pigalle, down the hill from Monmartre.  The square where the driver dropped him off was dotted with trees, bushes and poster boards advertising American movies and pop concerts.  There were strip clubs and bars and he knew he could be mugged at any moment.  He loved the buzz of danger he felt.  The driver told him to ask for Marco at the bistro on the corner.

That was where he had brought Lara, to the bistro that served watered down beer and very strong spirits.  Marco was a big man somewhere on the downside of his fifties who looked like a dockworker and perhaps had been before he found a more lucrative line of work in trading illegal goods.  Marco was about six three, deeply tanned, smelled of very rich cologne and always wore a long, dark blue trench coat, no matter what time of year.  He looked up as they walked in and vaguely remembered the Englishman.

“How do you know this guy again?”  Lara asked Jason.

“It was late, I was drunk.  Shit happens.  He can get you anything.”

Jason approached the table by the wall in the corner where Marco sat with another man who appeared to be close to his pension days.  The place stank of beer and a smell from the kitchen that Jason could not identify.  It was warm in here, the dark wood paneling and low lighting lending the place a dim feel, despite the front of the bistro being constructed of folding glass doors to let in the light from outside.

“Marco,” Jason greeted the big man as he approached.  Marco sipped his espresso and looked him up and down.

“I don’t know you,” Marco said, decisively.

“Bollocks.  I came to see you a few months ago.  You sorted me out with some top shelf sniff and you said to come see you if I needed anything else.  Anything.”

Marco looked at Lara.  She saw in his eyes that he recognized her as a cop immediately.  It was a look shared by criminals she had encountered across the board, regardless of their background.  Yes, this was definitely the right man who could supply contraband.  She gently moved Jason aside and took a seat at Marco’s table.  He watched her in amusement and was fascinated to see what she had to say.

“I want a gun.  Automatic.  Beretta or Smith and Wesson.  I need shells and two clips.  I have American dollars and I don’t have time to wait.”

Marco looked at the man who was sat with him and waved him away.  The man dutifully got up and walked away to the other end of the bar where he could not hear Marco over the sound of the TV showing a football match. Most of the other bistro patrons were also busy watching the match or talking on their phones.  Marco’s table was invisible to them.  Something told Lara this was always the case, football match or not.

“You’re a cop,” Marco announced as though he were spitting out acid.

“You’re right.  I am.  But not in here and not right now.  Now can you hook me up or do I take my business down the street?”

“You’re American?” Marco said, genuinely surprised.

“Two in a row, Marco, you’re on fire today,” Lara said, never taking her eyes off him.  He was a big man, older to be sure, but he looked like he knew how to handle himself and he had at least a hundred pounds on her.  Taking him down would not be impossible but it might get sloppy and she didn’t have time for this to get ugly.

“If I were the kind of man who could supply such things, I would not supply them to a cop,”  Marco said.  “But, I am confused as to why an American cop would be in my place asking for a weapon.  Who are you?”  He looked at her closely, then it clicked. “Ah, yes.  You’re the woman from the news.  Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“You’re right.  I got a lot of press from being in the hospital.  This is off the books.  I’d like to just do a fast piece of business with you and be on my way.  Or I could call the media for that interview they’ve been drolling for.  Set up the camera right in here.  Maybe get you in the background and your buddies.  What do you say?  Want your face in the papers or are you gonna hook me up?”

Marco considered.  He looked at Jason, remembering the night the drunken British man had come rolling in, almost got himself beaten up by some of the regulars who were drunker than he was.  Marco remembered giving him some cocaine just to get him out the door and avoid the unwanted attention of cops coming by investigating an assault on a foreigner.   Jason’s blood was up and he had been ready for a fight, so Marco had thrown in a joint just to try and calm the man down.

“You’re a strange man, English,”  Marco said.

“I’m sure you’ve met stranger,”  Jason replied.  Marco considered.

“You have cash?” he asked Lara.

“Yes,” she responded, knowing she had him now.  There was nothing for him to fear.  He knew he wasn’t dealing with tourists or someone who had walked in to the wrong bar. And business had been slow.

“Wait here,” he said, then got up and went down in to the cold stone basement where he kept his weapons stashed in the freezer with hanging slabs of beef.  Lara surveyed the room, the big man by the door who kept looking over being the only possible threat.  She dismissed him and faced Jason.

“Well, now, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Chapter Thirty Nine

Beth walked through the lobby of the George Cinq hotel and heard classical music drifting across from the restaurant, where a small orchestral group played to customers who politely ignored them.  The opulence of the place was lost on her now, in fact it all seemed so obscene in its irrelevance.  As she walked to the elevators, she didn’t see Guillotine sitting in a chair across the lobby watching her.  He was whittling on a pad, drawing what he saw around him.  He had a direct view of the entrance from his deep, plush upholstered seat and he had been keeping an eye out for Beth since he got here a couple of hours ago.  The waitress had brought him three pots of tea and he had supped them all down thirstily.  He watched Beth walk to the elevators, on her own, waiting for the doors to open so she could disappear back up to her room.  He could not follow her since she knew what he looked like.  He had to play the best hand he had, which was the element of surprise.  He decided to wait a few minutes, let the girl get settled in her room, let her think she was safe up there.  She would not be.

Beth entered her room and saw that the maids had been by to remake everything.  It was immaculate.  The bed was neatly put together, the room was clean and looked exactly the way it had when she had walked in just a few nights earlier, tired from the long flight yet buzzed because she was in Paris.  She wished they could do the same do-over for her life.  She wished she could go back in time and return to that first night when she and Melinda had arrived, filled with excitement and anticipation.  Before the nightmare of events had happened.

She checked her phone and saw five missed calls from the office.  She dreaded making calling back but knew she would have to.  She turned the shower on, opened the mini bar and took out a bottle of white wine.  She poured herself a glass and gulped it down as she heard the shower flowing, a soothing sound.  She disrobed, tossed her clothes on the bed and walked in to the bathroom, stood in the shower under the hot water and felt the grime that the city had spattered over her and caked to her skin sloughing away.

In the lobby, Guillotine approached the front desk with a blank piece of sketch paper he had rolled up using his gloves to ensure there were no prints left behind.  He spoke to the impeccably styled young man who greeted him from behind the registration desk with a welcoming smile.

“Could you have this sent up to M’msle Hollaway’s room, please?” Guillotine said, holding up the paper between himself and the young man’s face on purpose, setting it down on the desk so that the young man’s eyes were drawn by the movement and away from Guillotine’s face.  When the young man looked up, Guillotine was gone.  He had checked in the American women and had hoped to run in to them again but he had barely seen them at all during their stay.  Happily, he placed the paper in the pigeon hole on the wall above Beth’s room number.  Guillotine returned to the other end of the front desk, where he had a closer view of the pigeon holes, noted the room number, then calmly walked to the elevators, whistling happily.

Chapter Forty

They stood in the square outside the Pompidou, watching the people moving around them.  Brouchard wanted to go see his daughter, hug her and remind himself there was good still left in the world.  Jason was edgy, adrenalin making him tap his foot and he lit a cigarette as he watched Lara.  She was like a camera on legs, her eyes the lens, allowing everything in, absorbing it and processing it somewhere deep inside her.  He had no idea what was going on in there, how disturbed this woman must be and he suddenly felt a huge sorrow for her.  They had already walked by the sketch artists, sat in their usual perches above the square, working on drawings of willing tourists.  None of the faces matched the one they were looking for.  Jason had followed the two detectives to the other end of the square in case their man pitched up his easel and sat down nearby.  They didn’t want to scare him off, just let him take his position so they could observe.

In her mind, Lara saw the ribbons float down out of the dark evening sky and tease her as they fluttered above the square, beyond her reach.  She wanted to jump and grab one, tug on it and pull the whole sky down just to see what would come raining down around her. 

“What are the chances that he’ll show up?”  Jason asked, almost breaking her out of her reverie.