Hey, Cowboy. Go fuck yourself and the horse that kicked you.
Standing on wobbly legs, I popped open the small bottle of hotel mouthwash and gargled — not entirely sure it wasn’t shampoo. Where am I? What the hell happened to me?
Leaning against the open door frame, I peered out at a hotel suite designed to accommodate a paycheck way beyond my means. High ceilings… giant flat-screen television, plush carpet. Through sheer curtains I stared out the private balcony at… the Eiffel Tower?
Paris? What the fuck am I doing in Paris?
As I staggered past the king-size trundle bed in my birthday suit, I saw the woman. She was lying on her belly beneath a cream-colored duvet — a mocha-skinned beauty with wavy, raven-colored hair.
I was about to wake her when the thought of being naked in a hotel suite with an exotic woman weighed in. Searching the room, I located a pair of men’s boxers, jeans, and a sweater, slightly surprised that everything fit.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Excuse me?”
I shook her and knew, but felt for a pulse anyway. “Shit.”
I pulled back the quilt.
She was model-thin, ravishing, and stark naked, save for the silk ties that bound her wrists and ankles to the four bedposts. Her legs were spread-eagle… a stream of blood running from the bullet hole in her left scapula where it pooled in the small of her back before seeping down the crack of her perfect derriere.
Before I could render a thought the door opened, revealing the chambermaid. “Excusez-moi, monsieur—”
Her hazel eyes darted from me to the dead woman.
The first scream caught in her throat. She managed the second as she fled down the hall, leaving the housekeeping cart wedged in the doorframe.
I dragged it inside and bolted the door.
You’ve got three minutes before she reaches the lobby, three more before security questions her, six to ten before the gendarmes arrive.
I searched the room and found the dead woman’s clothing… a skirt and blouse, silk purple thong and matching bra, along with spiked heels. If she was a hooker, she was an expensive one. Designer purse… a valet ticket… a wallet!
French driver’s license… Giselle Rousseau. A wad of euros—
Where was my wallet and passport?
I searched my pockets, locating the stub from an airline ticket dated two days earlier — Dulles into Heathrow. I looked around the room, then under the bed — my head pounding as I found a pair of tennis shoes… and a gun. It was a 9mm, a silencer still attached to the barrel.
What to do?
If you offed her, or even if you didn’t, you can bet that sweet ass of hers the gun will have your prints on it.
I grabbed the shoes and the weapon. Quickly laced up the sneakers and then checked the gun. No bullets in the chamber… one missing from the magazine.
The sound of police sirens rent the late morning air.
Move, douche bag!
I grabbed the woman’s ID, cash, and valet ticket and shoved everything in my pants pocket. Using a damp washcloth, I wiped the 9mm free of prints and buried it in the container of soiled towels on the housekeeping cart. Then I opened the door and pushed the device down the hall to the next room… Suite 1107, and left it.
Moving on adrenaline and instinct, I headed for the stairwell and descended six flights before exiting on the fifth floor. Smiling, I joined a young couple waiting for the elevator.
“Bonjour.”
“Bonjour.”
Together we watched the numbers descend from eight to five, my right hand nonchalantly wiping sweat from my brow.
The doors opened, revealing the prototypical American family straight out of a Hollywood script — white-collar dad, homemaker mom, two boys, maybe thirteen and ten, and toddler Jane tucked in a pink stroller.
White-collar dad was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap.
“Mom, you said we were going to Disney!”
“Disney’s tomorrow. Today we’re going to tour Paris.”
“I don’t wanna tour Paris!”
“Paris sucks.”
“Easy, guys.” Dad shrugged at the French couple.
“My nephews are the same way,” I said, squeezing in beside the stroller. “Dan Miller, Brooklyn.”
“Herschel Evans, Chesapeake Beach, Maryland. My wife, Suzie.”
“Hi.”
“Big Yankees fan?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. This is awkward, but would you consider selling me your hat? My one nephew, Gaston, is a huge fan. It’s his birthday today and dumb ol’ Uncle Dan forgot to buy him a present.”
Forty seconds later the elevator released us into the lobby of the prestigious St. James Hotel, the Yankees hat snug on my head, the cap kept low as I made my way across the marble floor with my new best friend.
“… we were able to get down on the field. I got a selfie with Derek Jeter, want to see it?”
“Absolutely.” The peripheral vision in my pounding left eye caught the distraught chambermaid speaking rapidly to hotel security.
We headed outside, the Evans family heading for a colorful lime-green-and-canary-yellow double-decker bus while I waved for the valet, handing him the dead woman’s ticket.
“Merci. Une minute, monsieur.”
The wail of sirens grew louder, the distraction making it impossible to think. I searched through the wad of euros. Pulled out two tens…
Three police cars raced around the private cul-de-sac and screeched to a halt in front of the hotel entrance. The gendarmes dashed inside as the valet pulled up in a candy-apple-red Lamborghini Murciélago.
Great. Why not the Goodyear Blimp.…
Every eye turned in my direction as the driver’s-side door flipped up. I tipped the valet and slid inside the bucket seat, wondering if I could handle the Italian sports car without looking as if I just got my license. Pulling the winglike door closed, I scanned the cockpit, then put her into gear and flew around the circular exit, hitting the av. Victor-Hugo doing eighty.
The Arc de Triomphe loomed ahead, the monument encircled by a perpetual onslaught of merging traffic. I did three laps on the roundabout before I managed to cut off a bus and exit down the av. de la Grande Armée.
Where was I going? Who could I trust? I was tempted to locate a phone and call Church. But there were questions I needed answered before I was ready to engage the Department of Military Sciences.
Why was I in Paris?
Who was the girl?
Had we been together? If yes… was it consensual?
My right hand trembled. I was certainly a man capable of violence, and God knew I had a temper, but rape? No… never, not in a million years or a million lifetimes. My high school sweetheart, Helen, had been raped; her suicide was the gasoline that fueled my anger.
No, I couldn’t have raped her, but I did wake up in a crime scene.
How did I get there?
Did I shoot the girl?
Would they find my semen in her?
I needed to think!
Grinding the gears, I turned down another major artery, pulled onto a side street, and squeezed the Lamborghini into an alley.
Identify the pieces of the puzzle. You have an airline ticket stub indicating you flew from D.C. into London two days ago. Did the girl pick you up?
My eyes danced across the Lamborghini’s cockpit to the GPS. Check the history.
After snatching the device off its base, I tracked backward through the programmed stops.
Paris… before that London. Shards of memory pierced the brain fog. I remembered landing in Heathrow, exiting baggage claim to find the gorgeous French swimsuit model leaning against her red sports car — a classic honey pot. And now I was covered in it.