Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“What?”

“A few hours ago. It was a high-powered rifle, fired at her hotel window.”

“And she’s still in Paris?” Jordan turned to his sister. “That’s it. You’re going home, Beryl. And you’re leaving at once.”

“I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing,” said Richard. “She won’t listen.”

“Of course she won’t. My darling little sister never does!” Jordan scowled at Beryl. “This time, though, you don’t have a choice.”

“You’re right, Jordie,” said Beryl. “I don’t have a choice. That’s why I’m staying.”

“You could get yourself killed.”

“So could you.”

They stood facing each other, neither one willing to give ground. Deadlock, thought Beryl. He’s worried about me, and I’m worried about him. And we’re both Tavistocks, which means neither of us will ever concede defeat.

But I have the upper hand on this one. He’s in jail. I’m not.

In disgust, Jordan turned and flopped into a chair. “For Pete’s sake, work on her, Wolf!” he muttered.

“I’m trying to,” said Richard. “Meanwhile, we still haven’t answered a basic question-who wants you both dead?”

They fell silent for a moment. Through a cloud of fatigue, Beryl looked at her brother, thinking that he was supposed to be the clever one in the family. If he couldn’t figure it out, who could?

“The key to all this,” said Jordan, “is François, the dead man.” He looked at Daumier. “What else do you know about him? Friends, family?”

“Only a sister,” said Daumier. “Living in Paris.”

“Have your people spoken to her yet?”

“There is no point to it.”

“Why not?”

“She is, how do you say…?” Daumier tapped his forehead. “ Retardataire. She lives at the Sacred Heart Nursing Home. The nuns say she cannot speak, and she is in very poor health.”

“What about his job?” said Richard. “You said he worked as a janitor.”

“At Galerie Annika. An art gallery, in Auteuil. It is a reputable establishment. Known for its collection of works by contemporary artists.”

“What does the gallery say about him?”

“I spoke only briefly to Annika. She says he was a quiet man, very reliable. She will be in later this morning to answer questions.” He glanced at his watch. “In the meantime, I suggest we all try to catch some sleep. For a few hours, at least.”

“What about Jordan?” asked Beryl. “How do I know he’ll be safe here?”

“As I said, he will be kept in a private cell. Strict isolation-”

“That might be a mistake,” said Richard. “There’d be no witnesses.”

If anything happens to him… Beryl shivered.

Jordan nodded. “Wolf’s right. I’d feel a whole lot safer sharing a cell with someone.”

“But they could lock you up with another hired killer,” said Beryl.

“I know just the fellows to share my cell,” said Jordan. “A pair of harmless enough chaps. I hope.”

Daumier nodded. “I will arrange it.”

It was wrenching to see Jordan marched away. In the doorway, he paused and gave her a farewell wave. That’s when Beryl realized she was taking this far harder than he was. But that’s old Jordie for you, she mused. Never one to lose his good humor.

Outside, the first streaks of daylight had appeared in the sky, and the sound of traffic had already begun its morning crescendo. Beryl, Richard and Daumier stood on the sidewalk, all of them tottering on the edge of collapse.

“ Jordan will be safe,” said Daumier. “I will see to it.”

“I want him to be more than safe,” said Beryl. “I want him out of there.”

“For that, we must prove him innocent.”

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do,” she said.

Daumier looked at her with bloodshot eyes. He seemed far older tonight, this kindly Frenchman in whose face the years had etched deep furrows. He said, “What you must do, chérie, is stay alert. And out of sight.” He turned toward his car. “Tonight, we talk again.”

By the time Beryl and Richard had returned to the flat in Passy, Beryl could feel herself nodding off. The latest jolt of tension had worn off, and her energy was on a fast downhill slide. Thank God Richard still seemed to be operating on all cylinders, she thought as they climbed out of the car. If she collapsed, he could drag her up those steps.

He practically did. He put his arm around her and walked her through the door, up the hall and into the bedroom. There, he sat her down on the bed.

“Sleep,” he said, “as long as you need to.”

“A week should about do it,” she murmured.

He smiled. And though sleep was blurring her vision, she saw his face clearly enough to register, once again, that flicker of attraction between them. It was always there, ready to leap into full flame. Even now, exhausted as she was, images of desire were weaving into shape in her mind. She remembered how he’d stood, shirtless, in the bedroom doorway, the lamplight gleaming on his shoulders. She thought how easy it would be to invite him into her bed, to ask for a hug, a kiss. And then, much, much more. Too much bloody chemistry between us, she pondered. It addles my brain, keeps me from concentrating on the important issues. I take one look at him, I inhale one whiff of his scent, and all I can think about is pulling him down on top of me.

Gently he kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right next door,” he said, and left the room.

Too tired to undress, she lay down fully clothed on the bed. Daylight brightened outside the window, and the sounds of traffic drifted up from the street. If this nightmare was ever over, she thought, she’d have to stay away from him for a while. Just to get her bearings again. Yes, that’s what she’d do. She’d hide out at Chetwynd. Wait for that crazy attraction between them to fade.

But as she closed her eyes, the images returned, more vivid and tempting than ever. They pursued her, right into her dreams.

Richard slept five hours and rose just before noon. A shower, a quick meal of eggs and toast, and he felt the old engines fire up again. There were too few hours in the day, too many matters to attend to; sleep would have to assume a lower priority.

He peeked in on Beryl and saw that she was still asleep. Good. By the time she woke up, he should be back from making his rounds. Just in case he wasn’t, though, he left a note on the nightstand. “Gone out. Back around three. R.” Then, as an afterthought, he laid the gun beside the note. If she needed it, he figured, it’d be there for her.

After confirming that the two guards were still on duty, he left the flat, locking the door behind him.

His first stop was 66 Rue Myrha, the building where Madeline and Bernard died.

He had gone over the Paris police report again, had read and reread the landlord’s statement. M. Rideau claimed he’d discovered the bodies on the afternoon of July 15, 1973, and had at once notified the police. Upon being questioned, he’d told them that the attic was rented to a Mlle Scarlatti, who used the place only infrequently and paid her rent in cash. On occasion, he had heard moans, whimpers, and a man’s voice emanating from the flat. But the only person he ever saw face-to-face was Mlle Scarlatti, whose head scarves and sunglasses made it difficult for him to be specific about her appearance. Nevertheless, M. Rideau was certain that the dead woman in the flat was indeed the lusty Scarlatti woman. And the dead man? The landlord had never seen him before.

Three months after this testimony, M. Rideau had sold the building, packed up his family, and left the country.

That last detail had garnered only a footnote in the police report: “Landlord no longer available for statements. Has left France.”