The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(15)

“I don’t care. I want to say goodbye. I owe him that.”

He shrugged. Cinnamon-Breath was leaning over me again, applying latex prosthetics piece by piece, using a small brush and a foul-smelling adhesive.

“What did you find out about Jourdain Garmot?” I asked Nueve.

“Age: twenty-two. Citizenry: French. Marital status: single. Occupation: president and chief executive officer of Tintagel International, a consulting firm based in England that specializes in the research and development of security-related systems and software.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means its business is war.”

“War?”

“Fighting them, winning them.”

“And it’s big.”

“There is no bigger business than war, Alfred.”

“Hold still,” Cinnamon-Breath scolded me. “Look up at the ceiling and don’t move. I have to do your eyes.”

“The lavender goes better with the outfit,” Nueve said to him.

Cinnamon-Breath rolled his eyes. “Do I tell you how to kill people?”

Nueve shrugged. I said to Cinnamon-Breath, “He shrugs a lot.”

“He’s European,” he said. “They’re world-weary. Close your eyes.”

“Tintagel’s board of directors voted him to the presidency after the untimely demise of our friend Monsieur Mogart,” Nueve said. “Prior to that he was a university student in Prague.”

“Why would a superrich, multinational corporation put a twenty-two-year-old college student in charge?” I asked.

“Watch him,” the makeup man said. “He’s going to shrug.”

Nueve was holding himself very still in his chair.

“He fought it back,” Cinnamon-Breath said. He reached into the valise again and removed a gray wig.

“I don’t know why I have to be so old,” I said.

“Who do you see the most in hospitals? Huh? What’s the demographic?”

He shoved the wig over my head and began tucking my own hair up into it. He gave a soft whistle and said, “Hey, love your hairstyle and I’m really digging the gray—very post-mod radical chic—but we really should shave it off.”

“You’re not cutting my hair,” I told him.

“Maybe I should just wrap some gauze around it. Like you have a head injury. We’re gonna be too lumpy this way.”

“Where is Jourdain Garmot now?” I asked Nueve.

“Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“He flew into Harrisburg two nights ago, where he rented a car and drove to a tiny hamlet called Suedberg.”

Something clicked when he said the name, but I couldn’t pin down why Suedberg sounded familiar to me.

“What’s a Frenchman who runs a company in England doing in a tiny hamlet in Pennsylvania?” I wondered aloud.

“Here it comes,” Cinnamon-Breath said. Then Nueve shrugged. “Maybe it’s more a tic than a gesture.”

“More of a mannerism,” Nueve said.

“You mean affectation.”

Nueve shrugged.

Cinnamon-Breath gave the wig one last violent tug, then fluffed the tight gray curls with his fingertips. He tsk-tsked at the effect.

“Think I should have gone with a darker shade. All this hair underneath is making it bulge. And the color—you look like a human Q-tip. Oh well. All done but the lips.”

“Don’t do the lips,” I said.

“I gotta do the lips. I don’t do the lips, people are going to notice the hair. And we don’t want them noticing the hair.”

“Why would an old lady be wearing lipstick in a hospital?” I asked.

“She’s leaving the hospital, Kropp. A Southern hospital. Jeez! Now make like you’re going to kiss me.”

“Make like I’m going to what?”

“Kiss me! Give me a smooch.”

“Perhaps you should purse your lips, Alfred, as if you’re going to whistle a happy tune,” Nueve suggested.

I pursed my lips and avoided Cinnamon-Breath’s eyes as he applied the lipstick.

“Now that completes the picture!” he said.

“Too red,” Nueve said.

Cinnamon-Breath ignored him. He held a hand mirror in front of my face.

“Soooo? What do you think?”

“I think I look like my grandmother.”

“Grandmother! Perfect! Now out of bed, quick; let’s get you dressed.”

He pulled a flowery purple dress from the valise and laid it on the foot of the bed.

“Can’t we just throw a blanket over me?” I asked.

“We could,” Nueve said. “But the transition to the car could prove difficult.”

I sighed. The makeup guy turned his back, Nueve closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, and I slipped the dress over my wig-covered head. I asked Cinnamon-Breath to zip me up and he laughed for some reason.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Grandma Kropp. Oh wait. I nearly forgot.”

He pulled a pair of white orthopedic sneakers from the bag.

“Oh, no,” Nueve said. “All wrong. It should be heels.”

“She has bunions—that’s the idea,” Cinnamon-Breath said. “And if for any reason he has to run, you wanna see him try it in pumps? Oh, did I say one more thing? I have one more one-more-thing.”