Private Paris (Private 10)

“At the factory. Working on the beast.”

“Have you figured out how to make it burn?”

She smiled. “Yes, I think so.”

“See?” the major said, taking her in his arms. “I said you were a genius.”

Chapter 16

9th Arrondissement

9:30 a.m.

THE STREET IN front of the Galeries Lafayette remained cordoned off. The air still stank of smoke, and there were firemen still working up on the roof. Then I saw the yellow sawhorse and tape across the rear gate of the opera house, which made me wonder how we were going to get inside the crime scene.

“Make nothing of it, Jack,” Louis said when I asked. “There is only one investigator with La Crim who might try to keep me out. The others I’ve known and worked with for years. They trust Private and they trust me.”

At the barrier, a police officer stopped us, but then Louis and I showed him identification. He got on his radio. A few minutes later, the officer shook his head.

“What?” Louis said, acting offended. “Who is the investigateur in charge?”

“Hoskins,” the officer replied.

“Merde,” Louis said.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “The one detective?”

“The one,” Louis said, his face twisting in annoyance.

“What’s he got against you?”

“She,” Louis corrected. “And hell has no fury like the woman scorned.”

“You scorned her?”

“No, of course not,” he replied testily. “But we had an affair shortly after she came to Paris, an affair that didn’t turn out as she wished, and she does not let me forget it.”

“So what do we do?”

“What any man in my position would do,” Louis said. “I will—how do you say?—gravel.”

“Grovel,” I said.

“That one,” Louis said, digging out his phone again.

He turned and walked away from me, going to stand against the Société Générale building, hunched over as if preparing for blows to his upper back. He listened and then put his palm to his forehead just before my cell rang.

“This is Jack,” I said.

The line crackled before Justine said, “I’m at Sherman Wilkerson’s place in Malibu. Someone broke in and trashed the place. Sherman must have walked in on them. It’s bad, Jack. They beat him. He’s unconscious, bleeding from his ears and nose. Del Rio called in Life Flight. They’ll be here in five minutes. He’ll be with the neurologists at UCLA Medical in twelve.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groaned.

“What do you want us to do?”

I paused, trying to coll

ect my thoughts.