Kim hesitated and then nodded to me. I opened the door and we moved quickly toward the hotel’s rear entrance. I’d stripped off the plumber’s coverall and retrieved my blue blazer so I fit in somewhat at the ritzy address in the heart of Paris’s fashion center. But Kim looked as though she’d been sleeping in her old clothes for days.
Elodie didn’t seem to care. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Morgan,” she said brightly, and then bowed to Kim. “Madame.”
The chef, a lean, handsome guy in his thirties, stubbed out his cigarette, smiled, and gestured toward the open door and the sounds of pans and dishes rattling. “Please,” he said.
Elodie led the way inside, and within seconds we were weaving through a state-of-the-art kitchen and a feverish pack of young men and women in white toques cleaning up after the evening service. Several of the kitchen staff glanced our way, but then saw the chef coming behind us and returned to their jobs with renewed vigor.
Elodie took us to a service elevator and punched the button for the eighth floor.
“At Monsieur Langlois’s request, Monsieur Morgan, we have moved your things to a new suite with two bedrooms and a generous sitting area,” she said. “You’re lucky we had it available. Several Saudi princesses are arriving with their entourage tomorrow and will take over the entire seventh floor.”
“That work?” I asked Kim.
Hugging her chest as if suddenly cold, she nodded, but it was with little enthusiasm. We got out on eight and trailed Elodie to a door.
“A beautiful suite,” Elodie said, sliding an electronic key card.
She pushed open the door and we entered a spacious living area with black-and-white art deco furniture and French doors that opened onto a small balcony.
“You have a view of the Eiffel Tower from the balcony and your bedroom,” Elodie told Kim.
“Storybook,” I said.
Kim said, “This looks like the room Carrie stayed in during the last few episodes of Sex and the City.”
The concierge laughed. “No, that’s down on seven, and almost always reserved, I’m afraid. The Saudi women love staying there.”
Elodie quickly showed us the suite’s features, and left us with assurances that we could call her anytime during the night, and that room service was available twenty-four hours a day. After she left, I went through the place again, checking the windows and doors, including a locked one that Elodie said led to a third bedroom, should we need it.
Kim, meanwhile, had gone to the minibar and opened two splits of Stolichnaya vodka. She poured them both in a glass, took a long draw, shuddered, and carried it and her knapsack out onto the balcony.
I used the toilet, picked up a menu, and heard a knock at the door. Louis lumbered in, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard, looking as though he’d just been roused from sleep instead of jacked up after a high-speed car chase.
“She say anything yet?” he asked quietly.
“Just giving her a little space,” I replied.
We went to the open doors to the balcony, finding Kim looking at the Eiffel Tower and putting an unlit cigarette to her lips. She unsnapped that silver rectangular jewelry piece from the chain around her neck and pressed at it with her thumb. A lid shot back, revealing the workings of a lighter.
She thumbed it to a flame and took two deep drags off the cigarette before Louis said, “You want to tell us about it?”
Kim turned and looked at us with that glassy, faraway stare I’d seen on marines I was airlifting out of combat.
“I’d rather not tonight,” she said. “I just need to sleep.”
I said, “If you don’t tell us what’s going on, we can’t protect you.”
She drained the vodka and said, “In the end, no one can protect me, and if I tell you, no one will be able to protect you either.”
“But no one knows where you are now,” Louis said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kim said, pushing by us. She got both splits of Glenlivet scotch this time.
“You made it sound as if police are involved in your problem.”
“If you get them involved, I’ll have another problem.”
I sighed in exasperation. “You’re not looking out for yourself.”