The Final Cut

He didn’t argue when Mike took the keys from his hand and got behind the wheel. He climbed in beside her, and she turned the engine over. Heat began shooting from the vents of their rented Peugeot, and she rubbed her hands in front of the stream of air. She was cold through, and it wasn’t only because of the winter chill.

“You’re quiet. Still hurting?”

He was hurting, the adrenaline of the chase wearing off. He could make it awhile longer, though.

“I’ll do. I’m going to look up the parents’ murder as we go. Do you need directions?”

“No, I have the GPS. But I do need know where we’re going.”

“A destination would help, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, and having a plan might be good, too.”

“I think our first priority should be finding some food. I’m famished.”

“Do you know, I don’t think I’ve eaten a proper meal since this case began. You, either.”

“Drive west, toward the Eiffel Tower. We’ll find something suitable along the way.”

She put the Peugeot into gear and pulled out. Forty minutes later, they were seated at Café L’Ardoise, steaming cups of café au lait at their elbows and croissants on the plates in front of them. Nicholas’s computer was open, and he was reading out loud between bites.

“Isobel and Henri Couverel. This is interesting, they were murdered. During a robbery gone wrong, it seems. Henri Couverel was a shopkeeper; his wife was an artist. Oils, watercolors, the like. They were mugged, and fought back. Both were shot and left on the street. Their assailant was never caught.”

“So they left two kids, five and nine. No family to take them in. Does the orphanage have good enough records?”

“There should be records of an adoption. And if her name really is Victoire, we can search from that angle, too.”

He typed in the name of the orphanage. “Oh, bugger. The orphanage burned down in the nineties, and there are no online records. We’ll have to go at this the old-fashioned way, through the state system, and it’s going to cost us time.”

He took a big bite of bread, washed it down with his coffee.

Mike played with her spoon, dipping it in and out of the coffee absently as she thought aloud. “The murders will be easier to track. Even though it’s a cold case, the French police will have the records. As for the adoptive parents, let’s assume parts of her story for the Victoria Browning identity were real. She did have a Scottish accent. It could have been faked, but that’s hard to do for months at a time. So let’s look for missionaries near Roslin, Scotland. Her brother said England, but it was a long time ago. Perhaps they brought her home before they set out on their voyages, or came back to Scotland after their mission was accomplished.”

“Good thinking. I’ll tackle the adopted parents. Would you like to use your considerable American charm to get the murder information from the French?”

“If it’s a cold case, I doubt it will help, but I’ll call Zachery. He’s got a friend over here. This same friend is also the reason we were able to get into the prison so easily. In the meantime, you may want to think about where we’re sleeping tonight. Not to mention, I’d like a shower.” She yawned, not bothering to try and hide it. “And a nap. And I’d like to take a look at your back. After our car chase in Geneva, I want to be sure your stitches aren’t ripped.”

He arched a black eyebrow at her. “I have the accommodations covered. We’re going to the Ritz, on the Place Vendôme. We’ll regroup, as you Yanks like to say, and you can strip me down.”

77

Ritz Paris

15 Place Vendôme

Saturday afternoon

When they arrived at the Ritz, the valet took the car, and Mike stared at the white awnings of the swanky hotel, wondering how, exactly, she would write this off. She couldn’t afford to stay here, but she wasn’t about to say so to Nicholas, who was holding out his arm and smiling like they were on a date. She laughed to herself. A very demented date.

She tucked her arm in his and he whispered, “Follow my lead.”

They entered the hotel and walked to the desk. A young blonde with her hair drawn back in a messy, casual bun looked up from her computer to greet them, and her face broke into a wide smile. She spoke in rapid French to the woman next to her, who scurried away, then acknowledged them with a nod.

“Monsieur DuLac, welcome back to the Ritz.”

“Merci, Clothilde. Comment ça va?”

She dimpled at him. “I am well, Monsieur DuLac. It is good to see you again. Will you be staying long?”

“At least one night, perhaps two.”

She glanced at Mike, who suddenly felt very American, very tall, and very underdressed in her motorcycle boots and jeans.

“One room or two?”

“A suite would do nicely, Clothilde. Two bedrooms.”

“Excellent.” She handed him a key. “Shall I send up your usual?”

“That would be lovely. For two, if you will. Merci, Clothilde.”

Mike followed him across the elegant lobby, past the Bar Vendôme. Nicholas paused for a moment to watch the small flat-screen TV. A panel of jewel experts on a local news station were yelling over one another to see who could condemn the Americans more for the Koh-i-Noor theft. He shook his head. It wouldn’t stop until the diamond was back. Once on the elevator, Nicholas smiled at her. “All right?”

She gri

“DuLac is one of my better covers. I used to come to Paris often when I worked for the Foreign Office, and DuLac served me well. I didn’t see any reason to walk in and a

“Even though we have no idea where the Fox might be, she seems to have a sixth sense about us following her. She may have assumed, or hoped, I was dead after the explosion, but she will find out quickly enough there were no fatalities. I certainly don’t need her calling around to hotels to see if anyone by the name of Drummond or Caine has checked in.”

Smart man. “You look like you could use a pain pill. You haven’t had one since we left the hospital this morning, and we’ve had quite a day.”

Actually, he could use a whole handful of pain pills. He said gruffly, “Mike, if I need mothering, I’ll call home.”

They rode to the sixth floor, and Nicholas led her down the blue-and-gold hallway to their suite.

“Did you know the Ritz was supposedly the first hotel in Paris to have en suite bathrooms?”

Mike said, “Good to know. At this point, so long as it has hot water, I don’t care where the bathroom is.”

He opened the door and let her go in first, then pointed to the left. Without examining the room, which looked like the inside of a castle, or the view, which looked expansive—she caught a snatch of the Eiffel Tower; you really could see it from everywhere—she excused herself and went inside.

The bathroom did indeed have hot water, and a gorgeous marble shower with buttery soft peach towels. She stayed under the steaming waterfall for a good fifteen minutes, washing away the travel dust, explosion residue, worry, fear and two days of exhaustive searching for what amounted to a very well-equipped and pissed-off ghost.

She did her best thinking in the shower. She was certain the Fox was in Paris; where else would she be? She thought about the adoptive parents—missionaries—and about the new life the Fox had led with them. Was it good, bad, or maybe it didn’t matter? The Fox had become a criminal regardless.