Private Paris (Private 10)

“Massi is more an acquaintance than a friend,” Farad said. “We attend the same mosque. Beyond that, it’s a coincidence.”

“Perhaps,” Fromme said. “But we would like you to come with us, or I can have Investigateur Hoskins arrest you and bring you in for questioning.”

“Juge,” Louis sputtered. “What you’re insinuating here is…Farad was a decorated officer with the Sûreté, and Private Paris is—”

“Out of this investigation,” the magistrate said strongly. “This has gone to a whole different level, Langlois, and the government’s probe cannot be compromised in any way. I’m sorry, but that is the way it must be. Monsieur Farad must be looked at vigorously, and Private Paris will sit on the sidelines.”

Louis looked at Farad. “Go with them. I will call our attorney.”

“I don’t need one.”

“It’s a federal investigation now,” Louis insisted. “You need a lawyer.”

Farad looked beyond angry, and I couldn’t blame him. He’d done exactly the right things and was now under suspicion for God knows what.

When Fromme, Hoskins, and Farad had exited the air lock and were out of earshot, Louis looked at the forensics expert and said, “Feel like ignoring the magistrate’s order?”

“And break a federal law for a colleague?” Petitjean said. “But of course.”

He went over to the keyboard and gave it a command.

A screen quickly showed a blown-up image of the letter and the envelope.

It was written in French in letters cut from various newspapers and magazines. I got the gist of it, and my stomach yawned open into a deep, cold pit.

Chapter 55

8th Arrondissement

8:10 p.m.

“YOU’LL FIND AN attorney for Farad?” I said, climbing out of an Uber car in front of the Plaza Athénée.

“First thing,” Louis promised. “Get some sleep.”

In a mild daze, I entered the lobby, imagining a hot, hot shower and long, long uninterrupted sleep in my big empty suite. That’s all I wanted.

“Monsieur Morgan?” called a woman’s sweet voice.

I blinked, fought back a yawn, and spotted Elodie rushing out from behind the concierge desk. She danced over and said quietly, “I wanted you to know that we took care of Mademoiselle Kim for you.”

It took a moment to penetrate my exhausted brain. “Kim is here?”

“In your suite. We gave her a key. That’s what you wanted, yes?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, flashing on that image of Kim being thrown into the van outside the Hôtel Lancaster and wondering how she’d escaped.

“When did she arrive?”

Elodie thought about that and said, “Two?”

That was right after I left the hotel and two and a half hours before we saw her taken.

“When did she leave?” I asked.

“She didn’t. At least not through the lobby while I’ve been on duty.”

I smiled. “She got by you or ducked out a side door because I saw Kim later, around four thirty. Could you check and see when the door to the suite was opened after she went in?”