Private Paris (Private 10)

At last the magistrate cleared his throat and said, “There is more to it than just the letter, Monsieur Morgan, I assure you. Beyond that, I—”

Phones buzzed, alerting Fromme and Hoskins to incoming texts. They got out their cells and read them. The detective’s breath caught in her throat. Fromme went deathly pale for several beats, and then pointed his cane at us.

“You two: out. Now,” he growled. “Back door. And no talking to the media under promise of arrest. Are we clear?”

Louis’s eyebrows knitted in anger. “You’ll arrest us if we—”

“Without hesitation,” Fromme said. “Now out and silent.”

“You act as if there’s been another AB-16 murder,” Louis said.

“An assassination,” Hoskins said, shock in her tone.

“Investigateur Hoskins,” Fromme said

in warning.

“Who’s the victim?” I asked.

“Madame investigateur,” Fromme said.

The detective ignored the magistrate and said, “Guy LaFont. Minister of culture.”

Chapter 61

LOUIS WAS NOT himself as we circled through the streets from Millie Fleurs’s shop to the Plaza. A light drizzle fell and people were already heading to work, heads down and balancing their umbrellas.

“I fear for France, Jack,” he said grimly. “AB-16 assassinated not only a sitting member of the president’s cabinet, but one of the staunchest opponents of letting Muslims from our former colonies continue to immigrate here. There will be repercussions, I’m sure. This could easily spin out of control.”

On that disturbing note, we entered the hotel lobby, which was crowded now. Another member of Peaks’s security team stood watch outside the breakfast room. He nodded to us, giving us a one-finger salute.

Upstairs, we walked in heavy silence to the suite door. I was going to take a shower and Louis was going to order breakfast before we called our attorneys to work on getting Ali Farad released from custody.

“They seem to think they have evidence implicating him,” I said, passing the key before the lock.

“I don’t believe it,” Louis said. “Not for a minute. I vetted Farad myself. Ali is—how do you say?—squeaky-clean.”

I pushed the door open and knew something was wrong. The drawer to a desk in the suite’s hallway had been tugged open. I got out my gun and motioned to Louis to do the same.

We snuck into the living area, seeing that the French doors to the balcony were ajar and that the suite had been tossed in our absence.

Every drawer was open or on the floor. The mattresses had been thrown aside and my personal belongings searched and strewn about. Both safes were unlocked and empty, as I’d left them. When I’d taken the lighter to Petitjean for examination, I’d also brought along my cash and passport and left it all in a safe at Private Paris.

“I’ll call housekeeping,” I said, and headed toward the phone by my bed.

Louis grunted in reply, and then his cell phone rang. He answered, listened, and cried, “Merde! We are coming!”

He stabbed off the phone and shook it at me. “Hoskins and Fromme—they had to have known! And they say nothing to us!”

“Calm down. What’s going on?”

“It’s bad, Jack. Government agents are searching our offices, taking our computers, and seizing all evidence in the lab.”

Chapter 62

15th Arrondissement

10:40 a.m.