“More than possible. We believe he faked his own kidnapping to get Group 99 national attention. In our view he was complicit in Bob Daley’s death—maybe he and Althea planned it together? We can’t tie him to the Geneva bombing yet, but we will. We know he was at Neuilly. In all probability one of his 99 buddies killed Hélène Faubourg, a totally innocent student whose only crime was to try to help him. We think another executed Sally Faiers.”
“Why?”
“My guess is that both those women knew too much. Saw through him, maybe, in the end.”
Tracy rubbed her temples. She felt terribly tired all of a sudden.
“What do you need from me?”
“Number one, honesty. Whatever you learn from Stevens about Drexel, or anyone else, you share that intel with me or Agent Buck.”
“Jeff hasn’t contacted me since that night,” Tracy said, unable to keep a note of disappointment out of her voice. Jeff must have known she’d been attacked. The British would have told him. Yet he’d made no attempt to visit her at the hospital, or afterwards. That hurt.
“He will,” Greg said. “In the meantime, go back to Neuilly and any other contacts you have here in Paris who might be able to help us. Once the hysteria about the shootings dies down and the media moves on to the next story, my guess is Drexel will be back. I don’t think he’s done here.”
It was a sobering thought.
Now that Cameron was leaving, Tracy could devote herself full-time to the hunt for Hunter Drexel. It wasn’t only about Nick anymore, and what Hunter might be able to tell her about Althea. It was about Sally Faiers too. And Hélène Faubourg, and all the other people who’d lost their lives because they’d somehow gotten in Hunter Drexel’s way.
Poor Sally. She loved Hunter the same way I loved Jeff.
The difference was, she trusted him.
Tracy wasn’t about to make the same mistake.
“Promise me you’ll get some rest. You won’t push yourself too hard,” Cameron said, closing th
e door of the car and leaning out of the window to say his goodbyes.
“I promise,” said Tracy.
Uncrossing her fingers, she walked back into the house and began making calls.
Who do I know in Paris who might have seen Lex Brightman?
Where would a rich, gay, poker-playing New York theater producer hang out?
A FEW HOURS LATER, Tracy stopped by an old friend’s jewelry boutique on the Left Bank.
Not that she thought Hunter would have been one of Guy de Lafayette’s customers. But because Guy was the epicenter of Paris theater—land gossip, and the comings and goings of the left bank’s rich and famous residents.
Tracy described Hunter to Guy.
“He may be going by the name Lex Brightman. Or Harry Graham, or any number of other pseudonyms. It’s vital that I find him.”
Guy said, “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Jeff said exactly the same thing to me a few days ago.”
“Jeff?”
“Yes. He told me the pair of you are working together again. Something ‘top secret.’ ” The old man gave a conspiratorial wink.
“Did he now?” said Tracy. The sneaky little so-and-so. Back in Paris already and not so much as a call.
“Oh, Tracy, darling, do tell me the two of you are back together again,” Guy gushed. “I could die happy if that were the case, I really could.”