Kill Me Friday (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) Page 8
“That’s a polite way to say the place is a dump.”
Nicole smiled.
“What’s back here?” she said, opening the door to the adjoining room.
The room had no windows.
She stepped inside and said, “Look what I found.”
Wilde headed over.
“What?”
When he got inside, Nicole kicked the door closed and brought the space into darkness. She put Wilde’s hands on her breasts and said, “Me.”
Wilde dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his wingtip.
Then he took her.
Hard.
Like an animal.
Afterwards, getting dressed, Nicole said, “You were pretty rough.”
“Sorry,” he said.
She gave him a kiss.
“That wasn’t a complaint.”
He wrapped his arms around her.
“I wish you didn’t have to go back to Paris.”
Silence.
Then, “Maybe I won’t.”
Wilde’s world shifted.
He could picture her in his life, not just short term but five or ten years from now. He was thirty-one. It wouldn’t kill him to settle down, maybe even have a rug rat or two.
“If I ever have a son, I want to call him Bryson,” he said.
Nicole laughed.
“Bryson?”
“Yeah, Bryson.”
“That’s too feminine,” she said. “The kids would make fun of him.”
“Either Bryson or Chase.”
“Chase is better,” she said. “It’s more like a hunter.”
They opened Jessica Dent’s suitcase. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of two women with their arms around each other. Me and Constance was handwritten on the back. Both women were pretty. There was no date.
“Which one is Jessica?”
Wilde studied the photo.
“The one who’s not Constance,” he said. “Did you mean it when you said you might not go back to Paris?”
Nicole walked to the window and looked down.
Then she turned and said, “To be honest, I think Denver’s too small for me. I could be happy in New York though, if the right person was with me. Or Paris, of course. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“You’d be amazed,” she said.
“So what are you saying, that you want me to come to Paris?”
She nodded.
“I guess I am,” she said. “You’d do fine there. You could even stay in the PI business.”
Wilde tilted his head.
“Most of the reason I can make this work is because I know the lay of the land and have a network of people who will talk to me,” he said. “I wouldn't have that in Paris.”
“I’m not saying it wouldn't take time.”
“I can’t even speak French.”
“You’d pick it up.”
“You think?”
She nodded.
“Think about it,” she said. “I will too, for that matter. Right now the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t want to have to say goodbye to you.”
Wilde lit a cigarette.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know enough.”
Lots of clothes were inside the suitcase. Wilde picked up the photo and pointed to the woman on the right. “That’s Jessica Dent,” he sad.
“How do you know?”
Wilde held up a blouse from the suitcase.
“Look familiar?”
It did.
The woman on the right was wearing it.
“Let’s find Constance and talk to her,” he said.
38
Day Two
July 16
Wednesday Morning
Late morning Zongying called and said, “I’m at the Albany Hotel on 17th Street. A French woman checked in here yesterday under the name Monique Sanbeau.”
Lightning shot through Durivage’s veins.
“Do you have a description of her?”
“No, just the name,” Zongying said. “There’s a problem. I think Kent Dawson’s on my tail.”
“Why?”
“I’m not positive,” she said. “I turned around about five minutes ago and a man who was facing me spun the other way and walked off. I didn’t see his face but he was the size of Dawson and had his posture.”
Durivage paced.
“What’s Dawson look like?”
She described him.
Big.
Strong.
Mean.
A scar on his forehead.
“The guy you saw, what’s he wearing?”
“A suit.”
“What color?”
“Dark blue.”
“Is he wearing a hat?”
“Yes, brown.”
A pause.
“Okay, do this,” Durivage said. “Stay where you are until exactly 10:30, then come out the front of the hotel and head down the sidewalk to the right. I’m going to be positioned across the street and see if someone follows you. Don’t look around. I’ll do all the looking. Do you understand?”
Yes.
She did.
Durivage called a cab, got a twelve-minute ride, and took a window seat in a coffee shop a half block down 17th Street from the hotel.
At 10:32 Zongying walked past on the opposite side of the street, looking straight ahead.
“Come on,” Durivage muttered. “Follow her.”
Fifty steps later a man came into sight.
Dark blue suit.
Brown hat.
Durivage waited until he passed, then crossed the street and followed twenty steps behind.
Zongying turned right at the corner.
So did the blue suit.
So did Durivage.
He closed the gap until he was right behind the man and said, “Hey, Dawson.”
The man turned.
Durivage wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
The man was strong.
Intense.
No-nonsense.
Durivage wasn’t sure he could take him in a fair fight. If he could it would come with a lot of pain and damage. He put on his meanest face and said, “Get out of Zongying’s life, right now, this second, forever. If you even look at her again I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”
The man took a stance.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Do it.”
Durivage leaned in until they were nose to nose.
“You’ve been warned,” he said.
Then he walked away.
Five steps later he heard over his shoulder, “Hey, asshole.”
He turned.
“Spencer sends his regards.”
Durivage almost said, Heed the warning, it’s your only one.
He didn’t though.
He’d already made his point.
He tipped his hat, then walked away.
Heartbeats later a python-strong arm grabbed him around the neck from behind and the point of a knife pinched into the small of his back.
“Do you like this? Huh, bitch?”
Durivage struggled.
The knife went deeper.
“Be out of town by nightfall. Do you understand?”
The man kept him locked in position for a second.
Then another.
And another.
Suddenly the stranglehold on Durivage’s neck disappeared and an elbow crashed into his back.
He fell to the sidewalk.
“Nightfall,” the man said.
39
Day Two
July 16
Wednesday Noon
Jina’s office had two windows, currently wide open, but they were both on the same wall and offered no cross-ventilation. She got down on her knees in front of the floor fan, unbuttoned her blouse and let the wind blow against her stomach.
It was ten minutes before noon.
The so-called “client” wou
ld be here shortly to claim the scroll. Jina had the door locked, not yet sure if she’d answer when the knock came.
At two minutes before the hour, she buttoned her blouse and sat behind her desk.
A minute passed, then another.
No knock came.
The doorknob didn’t jiggle.
The office was trashed. She hadn’t moved a thing. It was proof to the client that someone has stolen the scroll.
She could think of nothing else, only the impending knock.
Another minute passed.
Her heart raced.
He was coming, any second now.
She braced herself.
Five minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Then thirty.
She wiped sweat off her forehead.
Five more minutes passed.
She left the office, took the back stairwell down to the alley and walked aimlessly down Blake Street, having no destination, doing nothing more than feeding the need to be in motion while she tried to make sense of what was happening.
Maybe the client didn’t show because he saw her bury the scroll this morning and had already dug it up and disappeared forever. While theoretically possible, it was equally improbable. Jina would have heard or seen someone if they’d been around. No one could have kept up with her on the service road unless they were in a car. Clearly no car had been on the road. She would have felt the vibration, not to mention smell the dust.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Then a thought came to her, a thought that made her heart pound. Taylor Lee appeared to have fallen for the charade this morning that someone stole the scroll last night. If that was the case, Taylor would know that sending the client at noon would be fruitless and, if anything, might even lead to Jina asking the right questions and figuring out that Taylor was pulling the strings.
That was it.
The client didn’t show because Taylor Lee called him off, meaning she was the woman in the back of the cab last night. So what was she thinking at this point, that the man she hired to pose as a client double-crossed her and stole the scroll for his own?
Jina turned and headed for the Daniels & Fisher Tower.
She needed to shadow Taylor.
40
Day Two
July 16
Wednesday Noon
Detective Warner Raven popped in shortly before noon while Nicole was out getting sandwiches. He handed Wilde a stack of manila folders and said, “This is the official file on Jessica Dent. As to all my other cases before that, they’re going to be almost impossible to get out.”
“I’ll start here,” Wilde said.
“How’s it going so far?”
Wilde showed him the suitcase. “I’m beginning to think she was targeted rather than a random pick, based on the fact there was no good random spots to snatch her between where she worked as a waitress and her house. By the way, how’d she afford the rent on that place?”
Raven shook his head.
“We never figured that out,” Raven said. “Personally I think she had a sugar daddy.”
“Maybe Mr. Sugar killed her.”
“I doubt it,” Raven said. “The chance of her having a sugar daddy who also hated me for some reason is infinitesimal.”
“Infinitesimal?”
“Right.”
“Raven, this is me, Wilde. Don’t use big words. All you’re going to do is make me spend all my time flipping through a Webster’s.”
Raven smiled.
“Has anyone disappeared yet?” Wilde asked.
“Not that I know of,” Raven said. “Today’s going to be the day though. I can feel it.” He looked at his watch and stuck his hat back on. “I better run. Is there a back way out of here?”
Wilde opened the door and pointed down the hall.
“That’ll dump you into the alley.”
Nicole walked in fifteen minutes later with a ham sandwich and an RC Cola for Wilde, who was suddenly starved, and a salad for herself. Wilde took a giant bite and said, “This is the official police file on Jessica Dent. There’s no mention of a Constance in here anywhere.”
“You think they would have talked to her.”
Wilde shrugged.
“Only if they knew about her,” he said.
He pointed his face back into the file and flipped through it for the second time. Just as he washed the last bit of sandwich down with the last swallow of RC Cola, he noticed something.
“Hey, look at this,” he said. “It’s Jessica’s day calendar. It says Lunch with CB. C might be Constance.” He picked up last year’s phonebook, handed it to Nicole and said, “Do me a favor and go through the Bs and see if you find a Constance B.”
She looked at him in wonder.
“You expect me to go through every B?”
“No, go straight to the right one if you want,” he said. “I don’t care.”
She punched him on the arm.
“You’re impossible to be around sometimes,” she said. “You know that I hope.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What are you going to be doing while I do the work?”
He stood up, walked to the window and looked out. Then he turned and said, “Looking out the window.”
“Looking out the window?”
“Right, looking out the window, and thinking.”
He set a book of matches on fire.
Then another.
He was reaching for a third when Nicole said, “Bingo. Constance Black.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
No.
She wasn’t.
“This is so weird because I had a feeling her name was Black.”
“Next time tell me that before I start looking.”
“I didn’t say I actually knew what it was, just that I had a feeling.”
“Yeah, well, next time just tell, either way.”
“Will do,” he said.
He dialed the woman’s number. It didn’t ring.
“Out of service,” he said. “Let’s drive over to her address and see if she’s home.”
Nicole balked.
“When are we going to get to my case? It’s just as important.”
Wilde lit a cigarette and blew smoke.
“Let me work on this one until the end of the day,” he said. “Then you own me until morning.”
She fell into step. “Fair enough.”
41
Day Two
July 16
Wednesday Afternoon
Durivage was going to let Kent Dawson live so long as the man got out of Zongying’s life. That was before Dawson got all stupid and mean with the chokehold and knife. Now it was clear that Durivage had no choice but to do what he had to do.
He’d do it tonight.
He’d do it with his bare fists or a blade.
Right now he wasn’t interested in wasting too many brain cells on it.
He was a lot more interested in determining if the French woman who checked into the Albany Hotel under the name Monique Sanbeau was in fact Emmanuelle Martin.
He walked into the lobby and told the man at the registration desk, “Can you call up to Monique Sanbeau’s room and tell her Jacques is here to see her.”
The man dialed.
Durivage watched the numbers, 301.
After eight rings the man hung up and said, “She’s not answering.”
Durivage nodded.
“Thanks, I’ll try back later.”
He walked out the front into bright Colorado sunshine, then swung around to the rear and climbed up the exterior fire escape to the third floor. He knocked on 301—the first room inside—got no answer, tried the knob and found it locked.
Back on the fire escape, he noticed that the room’s window was open—two meters away. He got to the outside of the fire escape, positioned himself and took a deep breath.
He didn’t look down.
He looke
d only at the window.
Then he jumped.
His left hand hit the sill and fell off.
His right hand hit the sill and gripped it.
He hung with one arm, making sure his hold was solid, then twisted his body up and made his way in.
No one was in the room.
A suitcase was on the floor in the corner.
He swung it onto the bed and opened it.
What he saw he liked.
The clothes belonged to Emmanuelle.
Under the clothes was a bottle of perfume. He opened it and took a whiff. It smelled like Emmanuelle. He dabbed a drop on his neck, put everything back as he found it and left.
Outside, he took a position across the street.
Then he waited.
He’d stay right there no matter how long it took.
42
Day Two
July 16
Wednesday Afternoon
Jina didn’t have to wait long before something happened. Taylor busted out the bottom of the Daniels and Fisher Tower visibly upset and walked north at a frantic pace. Jina followed as far back as she could without losing sight. After four blocks it became clear where the woman was headed—Jina’s office.
What the hell?
Jina watched the woman disappear into her building, waited an appropriate time, then intercepted her in the stairway as she was coming down.
She put a surprised look on her face.
“Taylor.”
The woman’s face was tense.
Serious.
On the verge of tears.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Come on up.”
Inside, the office was still trashed. Taylor looked around, confused.
“He obviously came here before hitting my apartment,” Jina said.
“I’m in trouble,” Taylor said. “Serious trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“The client showed up at my office a half hour ago.”
“The client who came to see me, the big man?”
Taylor shook her head.
“No,” she said. “He’s big, over six feet, but he has long hair. He speaks English but he’s Greek, he has a strong Greek accent. He showed up out of the blue to meet with me. The reason he wanted to hire me was to process the custom and export papers to get the scroll out of the United States and into Greece. When I told him about what happened to the scroll—how another lawyer was at the table when it got delivered and how she took it and then it got stolen—he got very quiet. Then he said, Get it back. Get it back now. He gave me the coldest look I’ve ever seen.” A pause, then, “He’s going to kill me if I don’t get it back.”