Private Paris (Private 10)

What the—

His disbelief was replaced by surprise when he picked up movement in the shadows at the rear of his late wife’s studio. His killer stepped into the light with a suppressed pistol, aiming in a way that spoke of honed skill.

An assassin.

Exactly the way Evelyn had always feared it would end for me.

LaFont did not run or cry out for mercy.

He looked at the death messenger, bowed his head in relief, and said, “Please.”

Chapter 57

8th Arrondissement

April 10, 1:45 a.m.

IN HER WORKSHOP on the Rue Clément Marot, the fashion designer Millie Fleurs sipped a glass of Fumé Blanc, studied the dramatic black cocktail dress on the mannequin, and compared it to the drawing on the table beside her.

An off-the-shoulder sheath, the dress was more tailored than flowing, meant to hug the wearer, and it featured a daring geometric cutout at the navel. The edging of the cutout was embossed silver. So were the tips of the black leather strap that hugged the low belly and hung provocatively off the left hip.

Fleurs walked around the dress, analyzing it from every angle. My God, it was stunning, certainly one of the best dresses to come out of her workshop in years.

The designer knew it was exactly what her client wanted: classical enough to be worn at a gala, but hip enough for hitting a nightclub afterward. This dress fit the bill in every respect. No one who saw her in it would ever forget it.

Which was both good and bad. As an haute couture creation, it was supposed to be one of a kind. But Fleurs already knew in her gut that she was going to introduce a replica with only the slightest of modifications at the July shows.

The dress would be the showstopper that she needed to turn things around. The last few seasons had seen a drop-off in her company’s growth rate, and she saw the frock as a return to wider acclaim and bigger profits.

Fleurs figured there were only a few things standing in the way of putting the dress on the runway. The client’s m—

The designer thought she heard something behind her in the hallway off the workshop that led to stairs and the rear exit. She was alone. She’d been alone for hours tinkering with the more subtle aspects of the dress.

It had to be the cat. Where had she gotten to?

Fleurs set her wineglass down and headed toward the rear hallway, calling, “Madeline?” and making kissing noises. “Come here, little puss.”

She flipped on the hallway light and managed a short shriek of surprise and terror before a six-inch leather awl was driven straight into her heart.

“What?” Fleurs coughed. She stared blankly down at the tool handle sticking out of her chest and then up at her killer. “I was going to…”

She coughed again and reached for the handle.

Then she staggered backward into her workshop, careened off the cutting table, and died on the floor, facing the mannequin and her final creation.

Chapter 58

5 a.m.

“JACK?”

I startled awake at the whisper, pistol up reflexively, wondering where I was before realizing that I was back in the suite at the Plaza Athénée, sitting in an overstuffed chair by the bed, and Louis Langlois was standing in the open doors to my bedroom.

Louis murmured, “If Kim’s friends are coming, it will be soon.”

“Okay, I’m up,” I said. “Petitjean?”

“Still working on the lighter,” Louis replied. “But the letter? AB-16 sent it to ten different news services.”