She said, “Couverel said the ghost was Victoire’s friend. I assume you made the connection, too, between Henri’s fantôme and our master thief, the Ghost.”
“Yes, I did. He’s a busy man, this fantôme.”
Mike nodded.” This is the last bit of evidence we need—they have to be partners. And maybe the number she was calling on the plane belongs to him. We can track him through the number.”
“It fits, Mike. Menard told us the Ghost was a retired assassin. No wonder Couverel was so terrified to tell us about him. The fantôme has already murdered five people we know of in the past couple of days. At least he told us enough about her adoptive parents to track them down.”
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 f
aked, 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.