Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(23)

“That’s what I’m here to find out, Lauren. There wasn’t an autopsy because she’d been sick with Lyme’s and the heart condition it caused for so long. Remember?”

The ME took a deep breath and said softly, “You want Billie’s body exhumed, John? Is that what you’re here for? Is that what you want?”

Sampson felt gutted. “It’s the last thing I want, Lauren. But not knowing will keep gnawing at me until I bring Billie up from her grave and make sure. I might as well do it now and get it over with.”

He choked out the last few words and hung his head. “I know M is making use of my pain. I believe in my heart that Billie died of Lyme’s. But I feel like I have no choice but to live through more suffering to make absolutely sure it wasn’t murder.” He raised his head. “And I’d like to have her body cremated after that. It’s what I think she originally wanted.”

Pickett got up, came around her desk, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“You are a good man, John. No one should have to go through this kind of mental torture, especially you. But I agree with you. I will find out what it’s going to take to make an exhumation happen in as dignified a way as possible. I will handle the case myself. Your Billie will be well taken care of, I promise you that.”





Chapter





25


Paris



Across the Atlantic, it was almost nine p.m. when Bree climbed out of her taxi wearing her only other outfit suitable for an evening at a swank bistro like Canard de Flaque. Her pencil skirt was black, above the knee, and tight-fitting. The silk top featured a colorful pattern and was equally flattering. Gray hose and lipstick-red pumps completed the look.

She glanced sidelong at her reflection in a storefront window, smiled, and thought, Bree St. Lucie. Strolling along. Dressed to kill. Ready to see what havoc she’s caused.

At the front door to Puddle Duck, she hesitated, concerned about spending too much time in one place. But what choice did she have?

Bree opened the door and went inside; she saw Henri look up and smile.

“Madame,” he said. “You honor us two days in a row with your presence.”

Bree grinned. “It’s the duck.”

“It always is,” Henri replied. “The bar? I have the same spot available.”

“That would be perfect, thank you, Henri.”

“My great pleasure, madame.” He grabbed a menu and led her to the stool at the far end of the bar, closest to the dining area and booths.

Crossing the room and sliding into her seat, Bree avoided the temptation to scan the crowd. She took the menu, thanked Henri, and smiled at Carole, the bartender, who appeared in front of her.

“Champagne?” Carole asked.

“The same as last time, please. Thank you, Carole.”

Bree pretended to consider the menu while taking occasional slow glances in the mirror as if checking her makeup. By the time the flute of champagne arrived, Bree knew that five of the other bar stools were taken.

To her left, on the stools Abelmar and his assistant had occupied the previous evening, a cute couple in their fifties were flirting. The next two stools were empty. Another couple and an older woman occupied the far three.

Only after Bree had taken a sip of the champagne and smacked her lips approvingly did Carole move off, at which point Bree dared to glance in the bar mirror at the tables in the dining room. Most of them were filled with happy, chic patrons.

Philippe Abelmar was not among them. She waited, sipping her champagne, before casually twisting her stool toward the long narrow mirrors between the big windows. As she did, the front door to Canard opened. A big, muscular man with a shaved head entered; he was wearing a black V-neck T-shirt, black slacks, and black loafers. He gestured at the bar. Henri nodded. He walked over by himself, took the fourth stool, and got out his phone.

Abelmar was not in any of the booths that she could see. But there was one still empty. As she noted it, the billionaire entered, alone, glancing at his phone and appearing highly distracted.

Henri led Abelmar to the empty booth, and he sat, disappearing from Bree’s view. Bree took a few more sips of champagne, told the bartender she’d like to start with escargots, and then twisted to look at the narrow mirrors.

Abelmar was on his phone in the booth, gesturing wildly, obviously having an animated conversation. Although she was dying to know to whom he was talking and whether it was about the note she’d sent to the three judges, Bree reminded herself that the man was a business tycoon with enterprises all over the world. He could easily be upset about something completely different.

She’d no sooner had that thought when Judge Adele Marchant entered the bistro, dressed more casually than she’d been earlier. She worried a ring on her right hand.

Judge Claude Alsace waddled in a moment later in his suit, sans tie, his hands clenched in fists and his pudgy jaw set tight. Judge Domenic Les Freres, who followed him, had abandoned both his tie and jacket. His white shirt was open two buttons and he was sweating so much, he could have opened a few more.

Eeny, meeny, miny, Bree thought as Henri led the three judges toward Abelmar, who stood to greet them. And now moe. This couldn’t get better. Could it?

The foursome disappeared into the booth. Bree ordered the duck and another glass of champagne before casually looking over at the mirror and the reflection of the booth where the billionaire and the judges were all huddled, speaking intensely.