Private Paris (Private 10)

Elodie appeared miffed but went behind the concierge counter and worked on a computer. She looked up at me, chagrined. “Fifteen minutes later.”

“Perfect, really. Thank you for your graciousness.”

The concierge beamed. “Je vous en prie, monsieur.”

When I entered the suite, the lights came on, and I stood there in the living area, thinking. Why had Kim come here, and for only fifteen minutes? Her time of entry—roughly 2 p.m.—was less than twenty minutes after Louis and I got in an Uber car in front of the Plaza, leaving a heated discussion about hot chocolate in our wake.

Was that a coincidence? Had she come to us for protection, and found me missing? Or had she been watching, waiting to see us leave?

But why would she?

In my befuddled state, I couldn’t come up with an explanation until I thought of what I’d heard her scream as Whitey threw her into the van.

“I don’t have it anymore!”

She had hid something in here.

A good part of me wanted to sack out and look for it in the morning, but as I moved through the living area toward my bedroom, I kept thinking of how brazen and violent the men after Kim had been again and again.

They were willing to kill. Would they be willing to torture?

I had to imagine they would. And I had to imagine that, unless there were dimensions to Kim Kopchinski that I did not understand, she would break. And then they would come for whatever was hidden in my suite. Whitey and his pal had broken in once. They’d no doubt try a second time.

Realizing I would not sleep worth a damn there now, I went to the toilet, turned on the cold water in the basin, and stuck my head under it until the cobwebs cleared. Then I set about searching the place.

I went through my bedroom, my closet, and my bathroom from top to bottom. I checked under the mattress, in the drawers, and under my clothes, and even rifled through my suitcase.

Nothing.

I began to doubt myself. Why would she bring it here in the first place?

For safekeeping, I supposed. It was the simplest answer.

I checked the safe in my closet: still locked. I typed in the six-digit code I’d given it, and found my passport and extra currency untouched. After hurrying into the room Kim had used, however, I entered the closet, took one look at the safe, and knew she’d locked something inside.

Elodie knocked at my door fifteen minutes later with a workman carrying a red toolbox.

“I must have slipped putting in my code,” I said. “I’ve tried twice and I know it will lock up for an hour if I try a third time.”

“No problem,” Elodie said. “It happens.”

But when I led her toward the room Kim had used, she balked.

“This isn’t your room,” she said.

“My suite.”

“Yes, but…”

I pulled her aside and murmured, “Remember the guys who shot up the place a few days ago?”

She nodded sourly.

“They’ve got Mademoiselle Kopchinski, and I have no doubt that eventually they’re coming back to the Plaza because of what is in that safe,” I said. “Now, Kim is my client. I was hired to protect her by her grandfather, who was beaten into a coma, I believe because of what is in that safe. So, to get the Plaza out of the line of fire and help Kim, I need that safe opened. What’s it going to be?”

The concierge hesitated, but then said, “You’ll remove this thing from the premises?”

“Immediately,” I promised.