Shell Game (19 page)

“Even on a Saturday, you don't park in anyone else's spot. That's one thing around here—we're all pretty anal about our assigned parking.”

“That's universal,” she said, following him to the elevator. They rode it to the twelfth floor. The halls were dimly lit, only the emergency sconces throwing shards of yellow on the walls. They walked abreast through a maze of cubicles, and Kelly pointed to a bank of darkly tinted glass with one security door. It was impossible to see what was behind the glass. Kelly entered a code, and the door swung open. He waved Taylor through, and she sucked in a breath as she entered.

The room was very large with no walls to delineate the space, which was taken up by banks of networked computers and workstations. The lighting was low, most of the visible wavelengths coming from the computer screens. Against the far wall was a large, blank white screen. A solitary woman was in the room, working on one of the computers. She looked up and smiled when Kelly entered behind Taylor.

Kelly steered Taylor to where the woman sat. She was mid-thirties with straight blond hair just past her shoulders. She had a quick smile and lively, blue eyes. Taylor liked her before she said hello. Kelly made the introductions, and the two women shook hands.

“Thanks for coming in today,” Taylor said as they sat around the work station.

“Not a problem. Don's got the kids. Even with working all week, I still need breaks. This is a nice one.” She waved her hands about the room. “No one in but me. I can actually get some work done.”

Kelly handed her the photograph. “What do you think?”

Renita slipped it under a desk lamp and flipped the switch. She studied it for a minute, then said, “It's pretty blurred. The photographer had the f-stop wide open, probably 2.8. It wiped out a lot of the background, but I might be able to get it back. The architecture looks very European, the stone baton work on the corner of this building and the wrought iron covering this arched window.” She pointed to a jumble of colors and shapes behind Alan.

Taylor stared at the photo. “You can see all that?”

“That and a bit more. Wait until I sharpen it up. Make yourselves comfy, it'll take an hour or so.”

Renita scanned the photo into her computer and alternated between the cordless mouse and the keyboard. She talked as she worked and explained what she was doing. She used a series of filters to break the picture down into its various color components. Each color represented a change in the way the light reflected off the surface of the stone buildings. As she worked, the edges of the batons began to sharpen, and a darker image on the wall mutated into what appeared to be a street sign mounted to the stone. Light lettering was cut into the sign, a rectangle with a small half-round on top. The photo began to take on more dimension as well, and what had appeared to be one building was actually two, the structure on the right side farther away and on a different angle from the nearest building. Lettering appeared just under the wrought iron fronting the domed window.

“Now here's the fun part,” Renita said, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “This is my own program. It recognizes letters from almost every known alphabet and about a million common shapes as well. Then it ignores all the superfluous stuff and sharpens what it considers to be the image. Here goes.” She hit Enter, and the screen went blank for about a second, then flashed back on. Clearly written on the road sign was
Rue Mazarine
. The letters under the window were
FRE
and what appeared to be the first half of an
E
or a B, cut off by the edge of the picture. To everyone's surprise, the program also found six more letters on the upper left corner. KTAILS. Renita clicked on the print icon and the laser printer hummed. A moment later it spit out a high-quality picture of the image on the screen. She laid it on the table, under the light.

“Rue Mazarine,” she said, looking closely at the lettering. “An entire street name. That should be easy to find.” She exited the sharpening program and started another application. It took a few seconds and three entries popped up on the screen. “Israel, and two in France. One in Paris.” She glanced again at the picture, scrutinizing the architecture. She tapped in a couple of commands and leaned back in her chair, a slow smile creasing her lips. “Rue Mazarine,” she said, pointing.

“Where is it?” Taylor asked, in shock at the ease which Renita had pulled the hidden information from the picture, then identified its exact location.

“This is a partial map of Paris. It covers the Latin Quarter and St. Germain-des-Pres, just south of Île de la Cité.”

“That's the Island where Notre Dame is,” Taylor said excitedly. “I know it. I've been there.”

“And this architecture is exactly right for that part of Paris. No guarantees, but I would say that this picture was taken at the corner of Rue Mazarine and Rue Dauphine.” She used her pen tip to identify an intersection on the map. “See the way Dauphine cuts off at a forty-five degree angle. That would explain the difference in light levels coming off the buildings.”

“Paris,” Taylor said, staring at the back-lit map in the darkened room.

“I would say.”

Taylor sat back in her chair and exhaled deeply. “Thank you so much.” She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the photo. Then she said, “Are you curious why I wanted to know where this photo was taken?”

Renita shook her head. “We learn not to ask.”

“Alan, the man in the picture, was my husband. He died recently. This is my favorite picture of him. But it was taken before we were married, and I never knew where. Now I do.”

Renita just nodded.

They packed up and left the room, then the building and the complex. The snow had started again, and the roads were slick. The all-wheel drive component on the Subaru kept the car from skidding or spinning out on the ice. Still, the drive back into the city took more than twice as long as the drive out. When they got back to the condo, Kelly brewed some coffee, and they sat on the floor by the fire, drinking it slowly and warming up. The wind outside was brisk, and both of them were chilled through. Taylor finished hers, and Kelly poured her another.

“I can't believe the technology,” Taylor said. “She had an answer just like that.”

“Renita's the best I know,” Kelly said, adjusting his throw pillow against the side of the couch and leaning into it. “There aren't a lot of people who could have done that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I know you do.” Kelly ran his finger around the top of his mug. “So what now?”

Taylor was quiet. She stared into the fire, her eyes somewhere else. Finally, she said, “I want to stand on that corner. I want to be at that precise spot on the planet. I want to be exactly where he was when he was that happy.”

“You're going to Paris?” he asked.

It took a minute for her to respond, but when she did it was with an almost imperceptible nod of her head. “Yes,” she said so quietly her voice was barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “Yes, I'm going to Paris.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE

Taylor had been to Paris three times in her life. Every trip she made to the city, she fell a little more in love with it. To her, Paris was an eclectic mixture of class and avant garde, of love and youth, of the world's finest architecture and simple cobblestone streets. And there was an energy to the city—it pulsed, like a vein carrying blood from the heart. She felt it even as she deplaned at Charles de Gaulle.

The airport was crowded with business travelers and an occasional family. It was Monday, early December, and most children were in school. The pace throughout the airport was fast, and she purposefully moved slowly, watching the men and women rush to their flight or to grab a taxi, oblivious of their surroundings. No one smiled, no time for that—the business world moved at the speed of life, and that was quick. Taylor wheeled her suitcase to the curb and waited in the queue for a taxi. She slipped into the backseat and gave the driver the name of her hotel, Edouard VII, which she had booked Sunday morning from Kelly's condo in Washington. It was on the Avenue de 1'Opéra, a short distance to the Louvre and also the Left Bank, where the Latin Quarter was located. And tucked away inconspicuously in the Latin Quarter was the intersection of Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine.

The hotel was classic Parisian, with a massive arch and a coat of arms above the main doors. Inside the lobby was a hand-carved wooden centerpiece, modern in its sweeping design but at home under the elegant crystal chandelier. The front desk clerk had her key in seconds, and she was shown to her room, a junior suite with a partial view of the Opera. The décor was tasteful gold with original oils on the walls and plush rugs underfoot. The clock in her room showed just after two in the afternoon as she tipped the bellman and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. What was she doing here? What moment of insanity had resulted in her flying halfway across the world to stand on a street corner? She had no idea.

Taylor drew a hot bath and dipped under the water, trying to warm her bones. Paris was cold in December, and her thin California blood didn't do well in colder climates. She had nearly frozen in Washington, and this wasn't much better. After a half hour she wrestled herself from the tub and dressed. She slipped into a sweater and pulled her coat over top, feeling about the size of an NFL linebacker with all the heavy clothes. She tucked a thick tam in her pocket and headed for the lobby. The bellman whistled for a cab, and she sat in the front seat with the driver so she would have a better view of the city. He spoke passable English, and she asked him to just drive about for a while. He nodded and smiled. A nice American lady, pretty and in no rush. Just his kind of passenger.

Notre Dame, the gothic giant that took 212 years to build, towered above the bare trees and medieval houses as they crossed Pont D'Arcole. He slowed as they passed the church. No matter how many times Taylor had seen the building, it still took her breath away. The three portals dominating the west facade reared up, with the Last Judgment—Christ and the celestial court—prominent in the central one. She craned her neck, watching the building slowly slide from view. They crossed the southern bridge and entered the Latin Quarter.

“Could you drive to where Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine meet?” she asked.

“Of course, mademoiselle.”

The cobblestone and asphalt streets were narrow and congested, and the three-and four-story buildings on each side blocked any view of the city. Small cafés and bistros lined the roads, but the outdoor terraces were gone for the winter, and they looked lonely. A few brave souls, dressed against the weather, walked the streets, but most people were relying on their cars to get about. The snow began as they steered onto Boulevard St-Germain. The driver switched on his wipers, and the rhythmic tapping seemed to suit the mood of the day. He made one turn off St-Germain, drove a full block and pulled over to the east curb. Ahead of them, the road they were on split in two, each going off at about forty-five-degree angles.

“This is it,” he said. “Rue Mazarin is on the left, Rue Dauphine on the right.

Taylor sat in the front seat, unable to move. Her legs were like leaden weights, immobilizing her. She stared ahead at the intersection. The angle they were on was different from the photo, and it was impossible to tell if she was at the right spot. She glanced to the left side of the road. If Rue Mazarin was on that side, then whoever had taken the photo would have had to be over there or the street sign on the building wouldn't be in the picture. She sucked in a deep breath.

“Could you wait for me please?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

Taylor pulled on her tam and tucked her hair under the hat, then opened the door and stood on shaky legs. She walked across to the west side of the street and looked back at the intersection. From this angle, the corner was exactly as the photo had shown. The street sign was firmly anchored to the corner of the building, Rue Mazarin clearly printed on the rectangular plaque. She walked a little farther and stopped. Just to the left of the building corner, with the batons and the road sign, was another bit of signage.

COCKTAILS
. Across Rue Dauphine the first three letters of the business sign were also very visible.
FRE
. Everything fit. She leaned against the rough stone building and cried. This was it. Alan had stood on this exact street corner. He had laughed at some unknown joke, and that moment had been preserved forever on one tiny piece of film. She pulled the photo from her pocket and stared at it, shielding its glossy surface from the snow as a mother would cover a newborn baby.

For ten minutes she stood on the corner, envisioning Alan at that moment. Why was he so happy? Who had snapped the photo? When was it taken? Questions she would never know the answers to. Why did he have to die? Why did they go after Edward Brand? Questions she
did
have the answers to. Answers that now made no sense.

She was shivering almost uncontrollably when she returned to the cab. The driver asked if she was okay, and she told him she was fine. He turned up the heat, and she could feel the warm air on her face as it blew from the windshield vents. They sat for a minute, then she asked him to take her back to the hotel. They drove through the ancient streets in silence, he concentrating on the thick traffic, she on the memories of her husband. She watched a couple walking arm in arm toward them on the sidewalk. Together. Lucky people. The traffic in front of the cab slowed to a stop, and they sat unmoving on the cobblestones. She stared at the man and woman, her mind still a haze.

Then, in a split second she realized she knew the man. It was Alan. She stared through the windshield as they came within twenty feet, walking quickly into the wind. The windshield wiper cleared the drops of melted snow from the glass just as they passed, and she saw the face, the eyes, the mouth.