Private Paris (Private 10)

“It is what I mean,” I said. “Even though Sherman’s old-school when it comes to keeping his financial records, his bank won’t be. You should be able to get an up-to-the-minute electronic record of all withdrawals she’s made.”

“It’s a private account.”

“Use your imagination.”

“That’s never been one of my long suits, but I’ll let you know.”

“Get some sleep. The both of you.”

“Nah, we’ll stick around until he comes out of surgery, and charge you double time while we’re doing it.”

“Nice of you.”

“I’m a saint. Didn’t you know?” Del Rio said, and hung up.

Louis ended his call as well and said, “My friend the graffiti expert will see us once classes are over for the day. Around four.”

I brought him up to date on Sherman’s condition and on Del Rio’s discovery of Kim’s trust account.

“If you can get some kind of alert every time she uses her ATM card, we should be able to track her down,” Louis said.

“Exactly,” I said. “I’d still like to know what they were after—the guys who beat Sherman, I mean.”

“Maybe the same thing,” he grunted. “Some way to track Kim.”

It made sense, and it made me anxious. Even though she’d run on us, I didn’t want to see her end up like her grandfather, with surgeons sawing off part of her skull to relieve the swelling.

The driver pulled over a few minutes later in front of a pharmacy on the Rue Popincourt, a narrow street of trendy boutiques. Louis led the way to the high arched double doors next to the pharmacy and was ringing the bell when I happened to glance at the lower wall. I tapped Louis on the shoulder and gestured at the small red letters.

AB-16

“Looks like we came to the right place,” Louis said.

Chapter 22

I GOT OUT my phone and took a picture of the tag before the door opened and the concierge, an older woman in a smock and apron, looked out at us suspiciously, and barked at us in a French patois that completely lost me.

Louis showed her his identification and spoke to her. She argued for a bit, but then reluctantly allowed us in. We entered a nice courtyard, and Louis spoke again to the old woman, who scolded him in return.

“Okay,” he said. “Richard’s mother’s place is on the top floor.”

As we climbed a steep set of switchback staircases, I said, “I didn’t understand a thing that came out of that old woman’s mouth.”

“Because she’s from Portugal,” he said. “Most concierges are.”

“What were you arguing about? The apartment?”

“No, no,” he said. “About the woman. She says she never saw a redhead come to see Richard here. Plenty of other women, but no redhead.”

“She here all the time?”

“Pretty much.”

“When was the last time she saw him?”

“Four days ago.”

We reached the upper floor. The ceiling of the garret was quite low and we had to stoop beneath a beam to get to Richard’s studio flat. We put on latex gloves. Louis got out a pick set and fiddled with the lock until it clicked.