Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(18)

The head of Bluestone Paris was so engrossed, it wasn’t until Bree pulled back her chair that Le Tour startled and looked up. “Bree!”

“Marianne,” Bree said, sliding into the seat. Le Tour was studying her like she was an interesting art object.

“I just saw the data from the GPS chip. Where you went last night.”

“That’s why I turned it on,” Bree said and smiled as the waiter arrived.

They ordered cafés au lait and croissants this time. When the waiter left, Le Tour leaned across the table. In a voice that sounded both upset and admiring, she said, “You went straight to Canard? It’s like his dining room.”

“Exactly. I wanted to observe him in an environment where he feels comfortable.”

Her eyebrows raised. “And did you see him? Abelmar?”

“He was sitting two stools down from me at the bar,” Bree said. She described the scene in detail, including his interaction with his latest personal assistant, Valentina. “I believe she’s being set up to be his next victim.”

Le Tour frowned and crossed her arms. “You do not know that.”

“I’m sorry. Did you read those sealed files?”

The head of Bluestone Paris shrank back a little and shook her head.

“Most of his victims mentioned the restaurant,” Bree said. “Several said they believed they were drugged at Canard before—”

Le Tour held up her hands. “No details. Those files are still sealed here and I do not wish to lose my investigative license.”

“I understand.”

Le Tour sighed. “But I do not understand men like this. I have never met Abelmar, but I have seen his pictures. He is quite handsome.”

“Ruggedly handsome and insanely rich,” Bree agreed. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense, until you realize that it’s not really about sex. It’s about domination and power, the fact that he can use these women, discard them, pay them off if need be. But most of all, I think he likes it because he gets away with it.”

The head of Bluestone Paris thought about that, then asked, “What will the board of Pegasus need in order to make its decision?”

“My report,” Bree said. “When I’m done investigating.”

The waiter returned with their breakfast. After he left, Bree said, “We also have someone in the London office working on Abelmar’s financials.”

“Really?” Le Tour said, perking up. “Desmond Slattery?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“We met just last year,” Le Tour said and Bree thought her cheeks flushed a little. “He’s quite the character. Scotland Yard. Man’s man.”

“If your idea of a man’s man is someone who wears Savile Row bespoke suits.”

“And wears them well,” Le Tour said and laughed a little girlishly.

Bree grinned at her. “Shall I tell Des you say hello the next time I talk to him?”

“Don’t you dare.” Le Tour smiled, then went to her purse. “Here, you e-mailed me about these last night.” She pushed a thumb drive across the table. “Profiles of the judges.”

Bree took the thumb drive and put it in her pocket, impressed. “That was fast.”

“We have several freelance researchers and hackers on speed-dial.”

“Helpful.”

“Extremely,” she said and checked her watch. “I have one still trying to find copies of the blueprints for Abelmar’s remodel. Can you tell me why you want to see them without giving me any details?”

Bree hesitated. “I’m trying to confirm the existence of secret rooms.”

Le Tour winced, drank her coffee. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Put someone other than me in Canard tonight and tell me what he does.”

The head of Bluestone Paris shook her head. “That I cannot do. If I put one of my own in there, it will soon be common knowledge in the office that we are looking at Abelmar. And I do not think you want Abelmar knowing that. Correct?”

Bree thought about that. “For now,” she said. “But at a certain point, I’ve found it can help a great deal to let a target know you’re watching him.”





Chapter





20


Los Angeles



I dreamed of Bree in Paris.

She was in some dimly lit jazz club, sipping from a champagne glass and looking like a bombshell in stiletto heels and a sleek, formfitting black dress with a slit high up the right thigh. She was alone at a table near the stage but kept glancing over her shoulder toward the shadowy back of the club, as if she were expecting someone. A quartet and a single singer came onto the stage.

The drummer sat at his kit and stomped several times on his bass drum. Then he stomped on it some more, then again and again.

That’s when I startled awake and realized someone was pounding on my hotel-room door. I lurched out of bed, peered through the keyhole, and saw Ned Mahoney standing there in workout gear.

I opened the door. “I’m bagging the gym, Ned, I didn’t sleep well last—”

“I just got a call from Pat Loughlin,” Mahoney said. “They’ve lost communication with the two agents guarding the widow White and her family out in Pasadena. He’s coming to get us in ten minutes.”