The Hotel Riviera(66)

Chapter 62




Patrick

Patrick Laforêt was broke. He had exactly enough in his pocket to buy a cup of coffee for his breakfast, a sandwich for his lunch, and a drink and a bite in the evening. Evgenia had cut off the funds, angry at his gambling. He’d lost most of the money she had ferried to him, via the FedEx in Menton, including the pearl and diamond earrings, the sum total of which Patrick didn’t even like to think about. It was far more than he’d thought, that was certain.

Now Evgenia was keeping him on a tight rein. He lived alone in the sordid little villa in the hills that had been their love nest, though Evgenia would no longer visit him there. She hadn’t let him near her in weeks and he was going crazy. His metallic-blue Mercedes was gone; his grand hotel life in San Remo was gone; only the Ducati remained. He was not a happy man.

And neither was Evgenia Solis a happy woman. She was angry, bitter, driven, and dangerous. They had spent the afternoon together, lunching at a small place in the village of La Turbie, high in the mountains above Monte Carlo.

She’d sat opposite him, calm and cool in a yellow sweater, because it was chilly up there, and a string of diamonds threaded along a platinum chain that dangled on her breast, picking at a plate of ravioli and barely looking at him.

He reached for her hand and she pushed him away. “Don’t bother me, Patrick. I’m thinking,” she said.

He took another gulp of red wine and said, “So what are you thinking about this time?” Wondering if she were going to tell him goodbye, and if she were he didn’t know what he would do. He couldn’t live without this woman. She was like a virus you couldn’t shake, bad for you but you didn’t want to take the medicine because you loved the way the illness made you feel.

“We can’t go on like this,” Evgenia said, and he nodded humbly, for he knew they could not. “It’s time for action,” she said briskly. “Our plan is ready, now all we have to do is carry it out.”

He poured more wine, looked at her across the table: so beautiful, so malignant…he no longer knew whether he loved her or hated her.

“Falcon will make the calls,” she said. “The man, Farrar, will be out of the way. Lola will come alone.”

“You really think she’ll come?”

Evgenia smiled. “I know she will, Patrick,” she said, “after all, she’s coming to see you.”

Patrick stared sadly into his glass. It had all gone too far, there was no way out. Except he couldn’t do it. “I will not drive the car,” he said, staring stubbornly into his glass.

Evgenia sighed. Patrick was weak, she had always known it. “Don’t worry, it will be taken care of,” she said. “This time tomorrow, you will be a free man.”





Chapter 63




Jack

Jack was shoveling sand for the concrete mixer, outside what used to be the kitchen. Helping out and supplying the workmen with a cold beer every now and then, sending out for big wheels of pizza piled with sausage and peppers, and generally coddling them got them working faster.

His phone rang, and he downed tools and answered it. “Jack Farrar,” he said.

“Mr. Farrar,” a man’s voice answered, speaking in a low whisper, “if you wish to know where Patrick Laforêt is, then meet me in Nice, in the Place Garibaldi, tomorrow at five A.M.”

The line went dead. Jack clicked the caller ID, got a number, and dialed it. It was a public phone. He might have guessed it.

He thought about the voice, trying to identify it, but it was no one he knew. He thought of telling Lola about the call, then decided it would frighten her.

He called the car rental company and hired a car to be ready and waiting for him in Saint-Tropez, early the following morning.





Chapter 64




Lola

I was alone with Miss Nightingale. Jack had gone for a sail on Bad Dog, and the security guard had retreated to the comfortable undamaged front hall of the hotel, where he was warming his toes and eating his supper while watching a portable TV.

The phone rang. I picked up and said hello wearily, thinking it was going to be the contractor again calling to say the tiles had failed to arrive and there would be a three-week delay.

“Listen to what I have to say,” a man said. “If you wish to see your husband alive, be in the village of La Turbie at six tomorrow morning. Let me make it clear, madame, if you wish Patrick to remain alive, you will be there. Do not go to the police, do not speak to anyone. If you do…” There was a long silence. “If you do, you know the consequences.”

I dropped the phone and stared, saucer-eyed, at Miss Nightingale. I repeated the message.

“He said I wasn’t to tell anyone,” I added, shocked.

“Well, of course that doesn’t include me,” Miss Nightingale said. “Of course you’d tell me.”

“What about Jack?”

“We should tell him too.” Miss N sounded very firm.

“But I can’t tell him, they’ll kill Patrick.”

“What if you don’t show up?”

“I can’t take that chance.”

Miss Nightingale heaved a sigh. “I still think we should tell Jack,” she said, “but if you insist on going, then of course I’m going with you.”