My cell phone buzzed. A text from Sampson. Someone leaked Hingham’s confession. The story’s up on the Washington Post website.
“Dennison,” I said, groaning. “You are one stupid, self-serving SOB!”
My cell phone buzzed again. A new message, this one from FBI Supervising Special Agent Ned Mahoney, my old partner at the Bureau and the best law enforcement mind I knew.
Need to meet ASAP. Story about Hingham’s confession blowing up. We’re taking over and need to be at speed pronto.
Chapter 14
Paris
Bree exited a taxi in the Batignolles neighborhood, which was more subdued than the area around her hotel, with blocks of matching and beautifully maintained nineteenth-century apartment buildings that had boutiques and shops on the ground floors.
She spotted the hand-painted sign for the Canard de Flaque bistro at the end of the block and walked toward it, aware of the appreciative looks she was getting from men passing her. And why not? Bree had always looked ten years younger than her actual age, and she was wearing one of two evening outfits she’d packed for the trip: a pearl-colored silk blouse with a plunging neckline, tight charcoal slacks, and black leather high heels that clicked on the sidewalk. The clutch purse was the perfect size to hold the small Beretta and the euro-coin beacon, which she’d activated and slid into an inner pocket of the bag before leaving her hotel.
Seeing herself in the window reflection of the bistro door, Bree decided that the Tahitian pearl earrings and necklace Alex had given her on their anniversary were the perfect accessories for this outfit, which was much more feminine and provocative than the sort of thing she usually wore. Exactly what she wanted. She pushed open the door, stepped inside, and took in the bistro and its patrons in a sweeping glance.
Canard de Flaque was laid out in an L shape, with an eight-stool bar to her right. There were long, narrow mirrors on the walls between the windows, six low-backed, tufted-leather booths along the interior wall, and ten tables in the remaining space. It was elegant without being overly formal, and almost every seat was occupied.
“Do you have a reservation, madame?” asked the maître d’ in English. He wore a nameplate on his lapel that said HENRI and apparently had a sharp nose for strangers.
“I don’t, Henri,” Bree said in French.
He replied in French, with a pained expression, “I’m afraid to disappoint you, madame. As beautiful as you are, Puddle Duck is booked solid.”
Back home, Bree might have been irritated at the “as beautiful as you are” comment. But here in Paris, in Philippe Abelmar’s favorite eatery, she smiled and put her left hand gently on Henri’s forearm so he could see she wore no wedding ring.
“I don’t mind sitting at the bar if there’s space,” she purred. “I’ve heard so many good things about the food here. It would be a shame to go somewhere else.”
The maître d’ broke into a happy grin. He picked up a menu and said, “The bar I can do for you, madame. And where did you learn to speak French so well and with such an interesting accent?”
“In Saint Martin, in the Caribbean, where my mom taught French.”
“Fantastic,” he said, turning toward the bar. “You are visiting?”
“And exploring my options,” Bree said.
“Well, then, I wish you luck,” he said and gestured to the stool on the near end of the dark mahogany bar. “Please sit, madame.”
Bree slid onto the stool next to a young woman with shoulder-length raven-black hair who was hunched over with her finger in her ear, talking on a cell phone in harsh whispers.
Smiling at the maître d’, Bree said, “Thank you, Henri. You’re very kind.”
“My pleasure,” he said, bobbing his head and handing her the menu before moving quickly back to his station near the door.
“Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menu, madame?” said the bartender, a tall, gaunt woman in her late thirties. She had a long narrow nose and moved in an awkward manner that reminded Bree of a crane.
“Champagne, Carole,” Bree said, reading her nameplate.
The bartender smiled, made a half bow. “Oui, madame.”
Bree looked in the mirror behind the bar and noted that the seat next to the young woman on the phone was empty. The other five bar stools were occupied by two women and three men who all seemed to know one another. Bree realized that if she pivoted to her right, she would be able to see the rest of the bistro and its patrons, even those in the booths along the inner wall, which were reflected in narrow mirrors.
Bree acted curious and relaxed as she turned on the stool to see the mirrors better. In less than ten seconds, she determined that unless he’d undergone radical plastic surgery, Philippe Abelmar was not in Canard de Flaque this evening.
As she was turning back to her champagne and the menu, she heard a man say, “Enough with the phone, Valentina. I need your undivided attention, please.”
Bree glanced in the mirror behind the bar and saw that the seat next to the young woman was now occupied — by the same calm, assured, and well-dressed embezzler and sexual predator she’d come to Puddle Duck to hunt.
Chapter 15
Philippe Abelmar had a salt-and-pepper beard that complemented his slicked-back silver hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. His blue linen blazer and starched white shirt set off his deep tan.
Valentina, the raven-haired young woman next to Bree, raised her head, put her phone to her chest, and said in an Aussie accent: “It’s my mum, Philippe.”
“It always is,” he shot back. “And she does not pay you, chérie. I do.”
Bree acted interested in the entrées as she felt the tension rising next to her.
Valentina cleared her throat, then raised the phone and said, “Mum. I have to go.”
Bree glanced up and saw Valentina set her phone on the bar top. “Your wish is my command. Again,” Valentina said.
“Better,” Abelmar said softly, tilting his head. “You are beautiful when angry.”
“I’m not angry, Philippe. I’m tired. I’ve not had a day off in months.”
“A week shy of six months. And yet, when have you learned more about the world? About finance?”
“I’m grateful. I tell you so every day. But you can’t expect me to cut myself off from my mum while I work for you.”
“Why not? You are my personal assistant for one year. Twelve months of your life. After that, you can talk to Mummy day and night for all I care.”
The bartender came over to Bree. “Have you decided?”
“What’s your favorite?” Bree asked.
“The veal.”
“And the chef’s specialty?”
Carole glanced to her right.
Philippe Abelmar said, “At Canard? The duck, of course.”
Bree looked around to find the billionaire gazing at her from behind Valentina’s shoulder.
“It’s fantastic,” he said. “But I warn you, it can become an addiction.”
She smiled, said, “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
“The duck,” Bree said to the bartender, who nodded to her and to the billionaire.
Valentina said, “Philippe, may I please be excused for the evening? I won’t make it through dinner without falling asleep.”
Seeming to know he had an audience now, Abelmar said, “Of course, my dear. I am not that hungry tonight anyway. Come, I’ll get you a cab. And you can have the whole day off tomorrow to sleep and recharge.”