Suspects(27)

Mike’s meeting with Guy Thomas went well, better than he’d expected. Guy was younger than he sounded on the phone and they were about the same age. He interrogated Mike at length about the databases they used, and the specialized equipment that he had no access to in France. “You guys have money to burn on technology,” he said enviously. “What we use here is from the dark ages.”

Mike finally got him back on the subject that interested him, the Pasquier case, and Guy confirmed that they had no new information, and were hearing nothing about it from their intelligence sources in Russia.

“She won’t be safe until you catch them, you know,” Mike said seriously, and Guy looked at him mournfully.

“She will never be safe,” he said. “She has too much money, she’s too successful, and she’s too well known. People are jealous, they want to hurt people like her and her late husband. They hurt her in the worst possible way they could when they killed her boy. They had to be heartless bastards to kill a thirteen-year-old child. They want what she has. They can’t earn it, they’ll never have it, so they want to take it however they can. There will always be someone willing to take the chance and go after her. She will have to be careful forever.” Mike didn’t disagree with him, but what he described was a terrible life sentence for Theo, and Mike’s heart ached for her. At least the last set of criminals who had tried needed to be found. Guy Thomas made it seem hopeless, and he obviously felt it was.

“You’ll keep me informed?” Mike asked him before he left, after three hours in Thomas’s small, cluttered, airless office. He had been impressed with Mike, and liked him, which was what Mike had hoped—that they’d form a bond of some kind, and Guy would be inspired to try harder and shake the trees again until something fell out to help solve the case.

“Of course,” he assured him. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. But I don’t have much hope. The trail is very cold.”

“Someone knows something somewhere. All it’ll take is for one of them to talk and it will start to unravel. I assume you have DNA samples from the scene?”

Guy nodded. “We do.” He liked Mike’s enthusiasm and positive attitude, even if he was less optimistic than his American counterpart. But the CIA had such great resources to work with, the DGSE didn’t. France just didn’t have the budget the U.S. had. “By the way, be careful tomorrow. We’re having ‘manifestations,’ protests, and a general strike. There could be violence. Our protests have been getting out of hand. They’re our specialty, all the way back to the French Revolution. Don’t go out if you don’t have to, or at least stay away from the large crowds of protestors.”

“I’m a big guy, I can take care of myself.” Mike smiled at him. “I’m not going to let them spoil Paris for me.” Guy smiled at his new friend. Nothing seemed to deter him on any front, and his enthusiasm was contagious. Guy felt revitalized about the Pasquier case after talking to him for three hours and showing him some of the files. Mike’s heart nearly broke at some of the photographs, and he hoped Theo had never seen them. Guy assured him she hadn’t. It made it all the more real to Mike, and made his sympathy for her even deeper.

He called Theo after he left the DGSE offices on the Boulevard Mortier in the twentieth arrondissement. He was going to suggest a last-minute invitation to dinner, that night or on the weekend. He was going to tell her he was on a brief business trip that had come up suddenly, not that he had come to Paris to see her or Guy Thomas on her behalf. He wondered if she’d be out to lunch, but the receptionist put him through to her immediately and she answered her direct line herself.

“Mike Andrews?” she said when he spoke. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound unhappy about it, and her heart took a leap as soon as she heard his voice, in spite of all her recriminations since they’d had dinner.

“I came to see my client here,” he said, sounding pleased too, more than he wanted to. The chemistry between them seemed to work even over the phone, much to his dismay. He could feel his good resolutions sliding away, like Jell-O down the drain. “I’m here for the weekend,” he told her. “Any chance you’re free for lunch or dinner while I’m here?” He was braced for a refusal and told himself it would be all right if she declined.

“That sounds good to me,” she said, smiling at her end. “What’s good for you?” she asked him.

“Tonight?”

“Perfect.”

“Your choice this time. Your city. Same rules. Simple dinner. I left my tux at home.”

“How disappointing,” she teased him. “Do you like French food? Like bistro food?”

“That sounds terrific. We’ll have to find a substitute for the banana split.”

“Profiteroles.”

“Excellent.”

“Why don’t you come to the apartment for a drink first?” She gave him the address and told him where it was.

“I’ll take a cab or an Uber.”

“Casual. You don’t need to wear a suit.”

“I usually do,” he said. It wasn’t entirely true, but he liked dressing for her. She was always well dressed, or at least on the two occasions he’d seen her, and she had great style.

“Come at seven-thirty. I’ll make an eight-thirty reservation.”