Notorious in Nice (20 page)

“I say we ask him why directly. Right now.”

“It can wait until morning. Sleep on the situation. You won’t keep a rein on your temper if you confront him now.”

“Thomas is right,” Su-Lin mumbled. “Your left eye’s jumping.”

“Wiser heads and all that, Terry. Sleeping dogs, you know, yada, yada.” Harry waved a hand in their general direction.

“I keep going back to Su-Lin’s drugging in Grasse,” Terry muttered. “I confirmed at the hospital this morning that both James and Emma spent the entire night there. The night nurse had to give him a dose of medication around eleven. If they didn’t drug her, then who did?”

“Did you find out anything about the basket, or the chocolates, or the absinthe?” Thomas asked.

“Absinthe?” Jean-Michel. “
Mon dieu
, I knew I’d forgotten something. The Gypsies on our estate brew a private brand we sell at the museum. Can either of you remember the label on the bottle?”

“I do. Jinava. To know.”

“Ours, Terry,” Jean-Michel stated.

“Helluva freaking coincidence,” Harry drawled. “There ain’t no straight line to connect all these dots. These are the Gypsies you want to save, sugar?”

“Yes. I refuse to believe that little girl would harm me.”

Miche pursed his lips and said, “There are only two ways to buy Jinava. From our museum or directly from the Gypsy camp.”

“Jaysus. I’m sick of this.”

“We’re spinning tops in mud,” Thomas declared, cricking his neck left and right. “Let’s give this a rest and see what Geoff comes up with. Maybe he’ll have news after dinner.”

Terry rolled his eyes. “I hope our new chef is creative. What’s she like, Harry?”

“Dunno. She didn’t show. Are you sure she was supposed to be on that flight?”

“Fricking Murphy’s law. What in hell are we supposed to do for food tonight? And yes, I’m fricking positive about the flight.”

“Austen found a caterer in Nice. He arranged for them to take care of tonight’s meal.”

“What time is dinner, Harrison?” Jean-Michel asked. “And has someone told the caterer about Su-Lin’s allergies?”

“Caterer and staff arrive at seven. Meal’s scheduled to begin around eightish. Austen should have told them,” Harry answered.

Thomas checked his watch. “It’s seven forty-five.”

“If Austen’s been on a bender, I doubt he remembered to tell the caterers about the bacon and macadamias. I’ll go speak with them.” Terry shifted Su-Lin onto the sofa. “I don’t want her alone for a minute. Why don’t you freshen up, darlin’? Thomas, go with her. There’s a connecting door to her cabin, keep it open and stay with her till I can get away.”

“Done.”

“Let’s wrap this up, then.” He gave Su-Lin a hasty kiss and shoved off the couch.

“Is Thomas going to shower with me too?”

She sounded disgruntled and had one of those too-sweet smiles pasted on her face.

“I have to go, Su-Lin, but I won’t be long.” Snarling fingers in his hair, he did an about-face and left the library.

Recessed track lighting gave the corridor a soft glow, but Terry never noticed, shifting puzzle pieces in his mind. Nothing clicked, and he stepped into the galley to find a crew of three people bustling about in the small space. Steam billowed from a stainless steel pot bubbling on the black ceramic cooktop, and a spicy scent he couldn’t identify tickled his nose.

A tall, thin youth chopped carrots in the far corner, while a stout woman used a wooden spoon to stir the confection on the stove. Another female, wearing a classic maid’s costume, black dress with a frilly white apron tied around the waist, arranged food on a plate.

Terry cleared his throat, and the thickset woman whipped around, sending a spray of liquid against the metal backdrop.

“Don’t let me interrupt. I’m Terrence O’Connor, the
Glory’s
captain. What’s the arrangement for tonight?”

Austen buzzed through the doorway at that precise moment, eyes bloodshot, dark hair plastered to his scalp. “Hey, boss. Buffet-style meal, served inside. We rearranged the entertainment area. One long table, open seating. Pass muster?”

He groaned. “Fricking great. Why not on the deck?”

“Eighty percent chance of rain tonight.”

“Terrific.” Terry stepped into the hallway and Austen followed.

“Did you inform them about Su-Lin’s allergies?”

Austen nodded but avoided meeting Terry’s gaze.

“Spill it, Austen. What’s wrong now?”

“Here, today’s
Matin
.” The bosun thrust a folded newspaper into Terry’s hands. “This is the only copy on board. The lawyer mentioned in the article? He’s the one who called your father the other day.”

Terry knew before he unfolded the newsprint. He read the blurb anyway, a reprint of the article from four weeks ago with a stellar addition, that of his father’s conviction his son was a murderer.

“What’s wrong?”

He spun around to face his twin.

Thomas’s gaze dropped to the unfolded newspaper.

“Bleeding hell, not that again.”

“You knew about it?”

“My maman’s brother officiated at your hearing.” Jean-Michel stood next to Thomas. He angled a chin at the paper. “Thomas wanted an impartial judge.”

The barometric pressure in the hallway dipped, and each of Terry’s senses intensified. The clinking of cutlery behind him, the smell of onions sautéing, all contrived into a wave of nausea so intense he had to swallow the sourness rising up his throat. “Why? If my own father believes me a murderer, why would you want to prove me innocent?”

“I don’t know what happened that night, Terry. I suspect you don’t either. But you’re my other half. I know you’re not capable of murder. The press was screaming for a conviction. They’d already crucified you. I knew you’d get fair treatment if Miche’s uncle conducted the investigation, and I pulled a few strings.” Thomas shrugged. “And for the record, Papa wouldn’t dream of washing dirty linen in public. This story’s a plant.”

“It is curious,
non
, that the newspaper chooses this time to revive old scandals?”

Something in Jean-Michel’s tone made Terry narrow his eyes and examine the youth’s features. “You’re not surprised. About the article?”

“Non, Terrence. My maman’s cousin works for a rival newspaper. He warned us about the article. The reporter who wrote that” -- he pointed to the newspaper -- “is known to steer just short of libel, and if you notice, there is no direct quote from your papa.”

In the soft lighting, Jean-Michel’s features appeared sculpted, angel-like, and radiated purity and innocence. Terry’s stomach cramped; he couldn’t remember ever feeling anything but a soiled specimen of humanity.

“Is there new evidence as this implies?” He waved the folded newsprint.

“Non, not according to my relative.”

“I don’t want Su-Lin to know.”

“Is that wise?”

Every muscle bunched, his fading control shattered, and he snapped, his voice ringing in the hushed corridor. “I don’t give a fricking leprechaun if it’s wise or not, Thomas. The minute I know she’s safe, I’m taking her to Ireland and we’re getting married.”

“No, not that way. Tell her the truth.” The plea in Thomas’s gray eyes begged an answer.

“And watch her leave? No fricking way. I’m tying her to me first.”

“She’s in love with you. Can’t you see? She’s not going to leave you.”

“After I tell her I screwed my own stepmother? After I tell her I betrayed my own father? After she finds out I’m an accused murderer? What sane woman would stick by such a sick, perverted specimen of manhood?”

“I guess you’ll never know.”

His gut slammed up his throat. Terry stared into green eyes welling with moisture.

Hands clenched into tight fists, lower lip caving, Su-Lin stood in the hallway behind Thomas and Jean-Michel, tears streaming down cheeks blanched so white, he feared she would faint.

Giving a little shake of her head, she knuckled the liquid off her right cheek, whispered, “How could you?”

He couldn’t move, couldn’t shake the paralysis that left him immobile, watching her retreating form.

“Go after her, Terry.”

Thomas’s words careened around his brain.

“Why?”

The simple question reverberated and sent him into a mechanical trance.

One where he appeared to function.

One that kept him from drowning in pain.

He left hearing Thomas’s warnings but not registering the words, operating on a remote autopilot, knowing he needed space, time. Terry gave Austen orders to head to Monte Carlo, and he penned a quick note to Thomas explaining he would meet him in New York in two weeks’ time.

Then he motored the Boston Whaler back to Nice and headed into the city’s slums.

The following morning, he woke to a blinding headache and a room littered with empty glasses, half-filled liquor bottles, and a seminude woman lying next to him. Terry squeezed his eyes shut when he recognized the girl from the sex shop.

What had he done?

Stifling a groan, he edged off the soiled mattress and combined waves of nausea and relief hit him when he realized he was still fully clothed. The fog in his brain lifted when he caught the time on his wristwatch.

Three in the afternoon.

Jaysus.

Terry gunned the Range Rover on the way to the
Glory’s
Monte Carlo berth. A swath of uniformed French policemen prevented him accessing the dock’s parking lot.

Alarm slithered up his spine, and his stomach listed.

“I’m the captain of the
Glory
. I need to get to my ship,” he said to a man with an inspector’s insignia on his shoulder.

“Terrence Gore?”

“Terrence O’Connor.”

“Where have you been, monsieur?”

“Why?”

“Two women, both your passengers, are missing.”

Instant replay of a morning four years earlier kicked in, and a series of images filled his mind, superseded in an inhale by Su-Lin’s sad green eyes.

Before Terry could formulate the question he didn’t want to ask, three uniformed men rushed onto the dock and surrounded the inspector. Rapid-fire French bounced back and forth between the four men, the words ebbing and flowing as cars sped by. A custom Harley raced past them and came to an abrupt stop about five feet away.

“Yo, Terry. This way.” Harry unstrapped his helmet and slapped it onto the motorcycle’s black leather seat. “Hurry, man.”

Adrenaline surged, and it took only three strides to reach Harry’s side.

“Who’s missing?”

“Su-Lin. Carol-Ann.”

“Jaysus. Both of them?”

“When?”

“Sometime last night. After your little show-and-tell performance, Su-Lin locked herself in her room. This morning, the aunt and uncle raised Cain when they couldn’t find her. You should have told me where you were going.”

“The relatives called in the police?”

“The wannabe uncle did. Had to admire the bastard’s nerve. Cool as a cucumber. Never batted an eyelid.” Harry jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Do you have an alibi for last night?”

“Forget my fricking alibi. Where the hell is Su-Lin?” He dragged both hands through his hair and glanced at the flame-emblazoned Harley. “Where were you?”

“Hotel de Paris. Trying to find your freaking ass. You’re all over CNN, Terry. That old case is being resurrected. Don’t look now, but the gendarmes are heading our way.”

“Let’s ride,” Terry said. He snapped off the spare helmet and strapped it on.

“Where to?” Harry asked, buckling his chin strap and settling long legs over the powerful machine.

“Nice, my house.”

“I called in the troops. Should I let them know to meet us there?”

“You drive, I’ll call them.”

By the time they made it to the farmhouse, Terry had managed to subdue his panic. He surveyed the three cars parked outside and knew who he’d see inside.

Terry dropped the black helmet onto a tiled kitchen counter and surveyed the room. One of the reasons he’d bought the house was this old-fashioned, airy room, its thick stone walls roughened through centuries of living, the large fireplace with an alcove for baking bread.

His mother had always made bread, even though they employed a small army of servants. She’d always timed it so the bread popped out of the oven as they raced into the kitchen after a long day at school.

Terry scanned the room, noted the full carafe of coffee on the kitchen counter, and the two men seated at the kitchen table. Suresh poured tea from a rustic pot into a matching mug, his eyes dipped briefly to the liquid before he nodded at Terry. Rolan shot him a glance and a grin as he closed the blinds over the windows above the sink.

“Thanks for coming, everyone. Sorry to involve you and Sarita in this mess, Rolan. Same goes, Suresh.”

“As if I didn’t know from experience you’d do the same for me. Sarita’s staying with Miche’s family in Grasse. Tony’s with her.”

“I hope your wife keeps that young son of yours away from CNN.”

Rolan snorted. “As if that were possible. Tony’s researching your old case on the Net. Last I heard, he’d decided to be both a quarterback and a PI. God knows how much that’s going to cost me in spy gadgets.”

A smile teased at Terry’s mouth. “Glad the hellion’s in my corner. I’ll fund the gadgets.”

“Gentlemen, we’re wasting time,” Suresh announced.

“Let’s start with the basics.” Terry walked over to the fridge, opened it, then grabbed a bottle of water. “From the top.

“All present and accounted for at around eight p.m.” Harry drawled, tipping his chair back. “You took off in the Whaler around thirty minutes later after giving orders to head to Monte Carlo. Su-Lin didn’t appear for dinner, which was served around nine. Everyone else was present. Austen played barman. Your father showed up a half an hour into the meal. He could barely stand. He and Carol-Ann got into it shortly after. She threw her plate at him and stormed out.”

Terry finished his water, threw the empty bottle into the sink, and reached over to flip a light switch. The shadows at the corners of the room lifted. “Continue. What happened next?”

“Austen dropped the caterers back to Nice near midnight. We pulled anchor and headed to Monte Carlo. Around one, the engineer noticed the cooling light flashing and called me. We docked in Antibes.” Harrison cleared his throat. “This morning, after we repaired the engine, we headed to Monte Carlo. En route, we discovered the women were missing.”

The kitchen door banged open, and Geoff’s large frame appeared in the doorway. He kicked the door shut and entered without saying a word. Wearing a scowl and carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand, his long legs consumed the distance to the kitchen table. He deposited five pages on the table and shifted them until satisfied with their placement.

“Show-and-tell, gentlemen. Let’s play connect the dots.”

Terry studied the sheets.

“Okay, I give up. I recognize Emma, James, Carol-Ann, and from the color of her eyes, I’m guessing this is, or was, Su-Lin’s mother. Is this her father? He
is
oriental, but I can’t see much of a resemblance, except maybe about the eyes.”

“Look again.”

“I hate it when you get like that,” Rolan muttered. “Geoff, get to the point.”

“I get it,” Suresh said, onyx eyes flicking from one photo to another. “Watch.” He slid two photographs side by side and used his hands to bracket two pairs of eyes. “Add fifty pounds, a little snip here, and voilà.”

“Uncle James.” Terry’s lungs stopped functioning.

“Meet Chang Ling, most productive pimp in Thailand. He owns a series of sex shops throughout the Far East.” Geoff slid another photo into the melee. “This is Deshi Ling, Su-Lin’s father.”

“The eyes have it,” murmured Suresh. “Su-Lin has the same almond-shaped eyes as her father and uncle, but the slant is her father’s.”

“Chang and Deshi were half brothers; each had a different mother. Both were raised in Vietnam. One fought for the communists, the other fought alongside US troops. Their father was a truly nasty piece of work, and he remained in Vietnam after the war. Since Deshi fought for the US, he was relocated to San Francisco and given a job in the State department. Five years after his relocation, he met and married Annika Aldersparre, a Swedish foreign-exchange student. Before they married, Deshi legally changed his name to John Wayne Taylor.”

“Why the name change?” Thomas asked.

“Who knows? But the timing disturbs me,” Geoff replied. “Most immigrants, if they’re going to anglicize their name, do it either on entry into the new mother country or within weeks of immigrating. Not five years later.”

Terry stared at the photographs, his sixth sense kicking and screaming something was missing. “What about the bonds?”

“Purchased the day the treasury announced they would no longer be printing those denominations. Three weeks after the Taylors moved to Mayo, Ohio.”

“We’re still missing something,” Terry muttered.

“The lawyer, Finklestein, had a heart attack in his sleep, two weeks ago. No investigation. Body cremated,” Geoff said.

All eyes turned to him.

“That’s ominous,” Thomas remarked into the stunned silence.

“Fricking hell. They’re tying up loose ends.” Terry took a deep breath. Adrenaline scoured his veins. “But why the hell is Carol-Ann missing too?”

“There’s something you’re forgetting, Terry.”

His head jerked in the direction of his twin’s voice.

Outlined by the watery afternoon sunlight pouring through the open doorway, he couldn’t discern his brother’s expression until he stepped into the room and stood to one side. Terry stared into Thomas’s eyes, and he knew.

“Papa’s association with Lockheed. Do you have a study in this cottage?”

“I assume we’re heading there?” Terry’s senses had gone on alert at the tone of his twin’s voice, the grim set of his mouth. “This way.”

Thomas nodded and followed him down a shadowed hallway lit by a lone standing lamp with a tiffany shade.

“What is it?” he asked as soon as they reached the privacy of his spare, aka junk, room.

“Papa admitted to going to sex clubs in Thailand after Mama died.”

“Jaysus.” He slid down into a chair, his movement toward the floor only stopped because his feet ran into a baseboard scarred white by time. “Jaysus.”

“A few years ago, he met someone. Someone close to half his age.”

All of a sudden the collage of events began to make sense.

“A man?” Terry’s tongue slurred on the words.

“In his midforties, an ex-mercenary who’d lost his leg in a landmine explosion. Drinking himself to an early grave. Since Papa had been trying to accomplish that for a couple of decades, they started doing the town when he was in the Far East. One thing led to another.”

“I can’t wrap my mind around this right now,” he said, not sure he’d ever be able to. “Tell me how it relates to Su-Lin’s disappearance.”

“Papa met Chang at one of these clubs. Somehow the story about that woman falling overboard four years ago came up. Chang couched the invitation to the cocktail party as a threat.”

“Blackmail,” Terry growled.

“Basically, Papa thought he was being used to introduce Chang to wealthy marks, and he went along with it. When he found out about Chang chartering the
Glory
, he decided to do a little investigating.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Thomas shook his head. “Emma was Finkelstein’s secretary.”

“Jaysus.” The blood drained out of his extremities. “How did Su-Lin not know her? Are they married?”

“That’s all we know at this point.”

“Chang’s killed her and thrown her overboard. Jaysus. Thomas, what am I going to do?”

“Stop panicking, we have no proof of that. Remember, Chang needs her to cash the bonds.”

A shudder racked his body. “You’re right on all counts. It’s time to focus. Where do we stand with the authorities?”

“You know the French justice system, guilty until proven innocent. They’ve detained Papa for Carol-Ann’s disappearance. They’re looking at you for Su-Lin’s, and perhaps Carol-Ann as well, if Papa doesn’t pan out.”

“And where the hell are the Lockheeds in this?”

“Offering a hundred-thousand-euro reward for the safe return of their darling niece. They’ve hired a slew of PR experts and lawyers and are holed up in an undisclosed private residence.”

“We need to get Geoff’s proof that they’re imposters to the authorities, pronto.”

“Miche slipped on board the
Glory
while I was in with the authorities and Papa. He found this in the kitchen.” Thomas held up the emerald bracelet he’d given Su-Lin in Grasse.

“The caterers.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he prayed.
Please, please let them have her
. His fingers closed over the cool metal.

“Exactly.”

“We need to get started on them ASAP.” He slipped the bracelet into his pants pocket and flipped open his cell. “Austen will have all the info.”

Shooting to his feet, Terry stalked back to the kitchen with Thomas in tow. As he walked, he barked questions into the receiver.

“Thom, do me a favor. Bring the others up to date and get Geoff to contact the authorities. I have the address of the caterers. I’m headed there.”

“Done. Take a backup. Let Harry ride with you.”

Thirty-nine minutes later they arrived at a building on the fringe of the Arabic part of Nice, a slum area frequented by whores and addicts. The address Austen had given him led to the shop where he’d purchased the oils and sex toys days earlier. Dread roiled his empty stomach, and the acidity coating it heated and cramped. A cold sweat bathed his temples.

“Something’s very wrong, Harry.”

“Yeah, they don’t sell food, not unless it’s edible panties.”

“I bought stuff here not days ago, and the tart I ended up with last night is the cashier for this place.”

“No freaking way. Every hair on my body’s saluting. We’re being played.”

“In a major way. Time’s slipping by.” He couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice and choked back a lump on the last few words.

Terry raced the bike back to the farmhouse, his mind tracing the white zipper dividing the narrow mountain road into two lanes. He switched off the ignition and strapped the helmet to its safety catch on the handlebars. Harry and Terry found the others sitting around the dinner table, drinking red wine. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to find food. About eleven crackers and a saucer of fat green olives lay on a couple of place mats.

“Geoff’s gone to deal with the authorities. He’s heading to London from Nice. He’s started a file on Chang and will keep us updated,” Rolan said. “Thomas and Miche brought us up-to-date.”

“I have an idea.” Terry pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat facing everyone. “In another remarkable coincidence, the address for the caterer turned out to be the same as a sex shop I visited a few days ago. In addition, the tart I woke up next to this morning is the cashier at said sex shop. She spoke Romany last night.”

Jean-Michel whistled.

“And the Gypsy camp on Miche’s estate is the only source for the absinthe that poisoned Su-Lin in Grasse,” Thomas said, ticking off an aerial check mark. “On more than one occasion, she was convinced the Gypsies were following her, particularly Adria.” Another check mark. “And seeing this cashier twice, being with her the night the women go missing? It’s a setup.”

Suresh coughed. “Sounds like reaching at straws.”

Rolan shifted in his seat. “We haven’t any other leads.”

An uncomfortable silence reigned for several minutes. Sunlight faded; the room darkened to peering point. Terry rose to his feet, shut the door, and flicked a light switch on the wall.

“I can’t sit around and wait for Geoff or the gendarmes’ findings,” Terry stated. “I’m heading back to Jean-Michel’s estate, and I’m going to have a few choice words with the leader of these Gypsies.”

“Plus we need a break and some real food.” Suresh flicked an offending cracker.

“Agreed,” Rolan interjected. “Grasse is less than an hour away. Sarita texted me thirty minutes ago. She’s barbecuing.”

“Let’s take one vehicle,” Terry said.

“Everyone can fit in my Hummer,” Suresh offered.

“I’ll call ahead and let them know we’re coming.”

The lone naked lightbulb on the left side of the farmhouse’s roof overhang didn’t provide much relief from a rural darkness, which limited visibility to no more than three or four feet. An owl hooted and leaves rustled when they passed a graceful oak casting a deeper shadow on the gravel drive. Ahead of him, Harry muttered a curse when his boot failed to gain purchase over a slippery boulder, and his shin bumped the SUV’s exhaust.

They piled into the vehicle, Suresh turned on the ignition, and the automobile rolled down the winding road. Silence prevailed until they hit the A8.

Terry worked through the facts as they climbed into a low range of hills.

“Crack the window a notch, Harry. I need some fresh air.”

Two windows squeaked down and the scent of fresh pine rolled through the car’s interior. Inhaling, Terry let the aroma soothe and calm nerves so sizzling raw a tic had started under one eye.