Wanted (Leopold Blake Series)

  “Not exactly what I expected,” said Mary. “But I guess everyone’s trash smells the same.”

  Leopold walked toward a rusted metal door at the other end of the courtyard and reached for the handle. “If everything’s gone as planned this should be unlocked.” He pulled the handle and felt the latch click open with a satisfying clunk.

  “Finally,” said Sophie. “It’s about time you figured out how to use doors.”

  “Shh. Keep quiet and follow me. We’re going in through the back.” He stepped into the corridor. The hallway was empty, silent except for the distant sound of a busy Parisian kitchen.

  He pressed on. From ahead came a rising cacophony of metallic noise, steel against steel, and loud voices. A heady aroma filled his nose, a mixture of garlic and herbs. Late service was in full swing. “We’re close,” he said, turning to face the others. “All we have to do is get through the kitchens to the service elevator, and then ride up to the sixth floor. The keys have been hidden outside the apartment, ready for us to collect.”

  “And we’re suppose to sneak through a kitchen full of chefs without being spotted?” asked Mary.

  “These guys will be so busy concentrating on their work, they won’t notice us. If anyone asks, we’re the health inspectors.”

  They reached the end of the hallway and were greeted by a set of double doors, designed to swing open and allow the serving staff easy passage. He felt a blast of warm air hit his face as he pushed through, taking a second to get his bearings in the chaos that greeted him.

  The kitchens were a galley design, relatively narrow but long enough that the dozen chefs each had plenty of space to go about their work. The aromas from the myriad of dishes was overwhelming, and Leopold suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Setting a brisk pace, he headed toward the far end of the kitchen and kept his head down, not making eye contact. He held his arms at his side, trying not to knock anything over.

  A blast of yellow flame erupted a few feet from his face as he skirted one of the gas stoves. He saw one of the chefs pour a slosh of liquor into a smoking-hot saucepan, resulting in more fire. A little further down, another cook was slicing open a roasted pigeon breast, revealing a moist, pink center that made Leopold’s stomach growl. Ahead, a gaggle of young commis chefs were busy preparing raw vegetables and salads, tossing the skins into a trash can near the exit door. None of them noticed Leopold, Mary, and Sophie brush past and made their way for the door.

  “This way.” Leopold held the door open. “The service elevator should be around here somewhere.”

  “Over there.” Sophie pointed to a rusty metal grate as they rounded the corner. “It doesn’t look very safe.”

  Leopold grabbed hold of the iron rails and heaved the gate open. Once they were all inside, he selected the sixth floor. The elevator shuddered to life and began its ascent, jostling and rumbling all the way up, much to Sophie’s intense discomfort.

  “Relax,” said Leopold. “We’re nearly there. I don’t know about you, but some dinner and a few hours’ sleep would do me a world of good.”

  She tensed as the elevator rattled to an abrupt stop.

  “Here we go.” He pulled back the railings and stepped out into the hallway.

  He led the others through the service entrance and into the main corridor, along the plush carpets toward apartment 601. As the email message had promised, a neatly trimmed Ficus near the front door concealed the keycard that would let them in. Sliding the card across a magnetic strip mounted into the wall, Leopold heard the door click open. He stepped over the threshold, activating the automatic lights.

  Although considerably smaller than his own New York City apartment, Leopold still couldn’t help but be impressed by the penthouse’s tasteful décor and clever use of space. The softly lit reception hall was large enough for a small group to stand at arms’ length. It led through to a cavernous drawing room to one side and a kitchen and dining room to the other. On the other side of the apartment, a corridor led away out of sight, presumably to the bedrooms and bathrooms.

  Mary clucked her tongue as she entered. “Nice to see how the other half lives. Makes me appreciate the simple things in life.”

  “I think my whole apartment could fit inside this room,” said Sophie. “And you said that nobody lives here?”

  “It’s on long-term lease,” replied Leopold. “The previous tenant moved back to the States and hasn’t been able to sublet it yet. So don’t worry about anyone walking in on us.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that,” said Sophie, pointing at something behind him. “I was more concerned about the man standing in the living room holding the gun.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

   

  Leopold whipped around. Ahead, a tall silhouette strode confidently toward them, a gun held by his side. The consultant tensed, ready to fight. The figure spoke.

  “Monsieur Blake, I was sent here by your contact, Monsieur Harris. He was concerned for your safety. Were you followed?”

  The tall man’s voice was deep and thickly accented, but the tone seemed sincere. Leopold watched him holster the handgun. “And you are?” he asked, noticing the man’s features as his eyes adjusted to the light. He wore a finely tailored suit, a Gaultier.

  “My name is Gerard. I understand from M. Harris that your usual bodyguard, Jerome, is otherwise engaged. I am here to act as his replacement while you are in need of me.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “M. Harris and I disagree, I’m afraid, sir. I will stay close by while you rest and eat, and then we will have to move on.”

  “Move on?” asked Sophie. “This place looks safe to me.”

  Leopold turned to look at her. “This place is connected to me through my company, which means we’ll be found eventually. The police will be a while, but whoever tried to take us out in the parking lot – he’s got me worried.”

  “I wasn’t briefed on this,” said Gerard. “There is someone else tracking you?”

  “Tell me what you know so far,” said Leopold. “What did Harris say?”

  “Only what you sent in your first email: that you had run into some issues with local law enforcement and required extraction as soon as possible. M. Harris contacted me to arrange your passage here and to stay on hand until you could get out of the country.”

  “I’m afraid leaving Paris isn’t an option until we figure out who’s trying to take me out. Otherwise I’ll never stop running.”

  “What do you propose we do?”

  “Simple. We look at the evidence and figure out why someone would want me locked up. Once we understand the motive, we can figure out who’s most likely to gain from this mess and the rest will fall into place.”

  “When did you last eat?”

  “This morning. Why?”

  “Your brain, as well as your body, will work better when it’s not craving food. You need calories to function. Fortunately, we are in France.” Gerard strode through into the kitchen. “Allez, come on through. I brought enough food to get you all back on your feet.”

  Mary raised an eyebrow. “Jerome never cooks,” she whispered. “I think you’re on to a good thing here, Leopold.”

  They followed the bodyguard through, settled themselves around the dining table, and waited for Gerard to prepare their meal.

  “You’ll need to stitch up that shoulder,” said Gerard, fishing a small box out of a cupboard. “Use this. I assume you know what you’re doing?” He tossed the box to Mary.

  She caught the med kit in one hand. “Shouldn’t be a problem, just so long as he doesn’t start squirming around.” She fished out a long needle, some antiseptic and gauze. As she threaded the needle, her cell phone rang.

  “Who’s calling?” asked Leopold.

   “The cop back in New York just emailed some files over on the Notre Dame murder victims. I also asked him to run a license plate for me. Now, roll up your sleeve and let’s get started.”
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  Leopold turned his shoulder. As Mary leaned in close, he noticed the damage for the first time. The bullet had torn a deep gash in the fleshy part of his shoulder. Wincing, he tried not to move as she applied the antiseptic and began to stitch him up.

  In the kitchen, Gerard busied himself preparing dinner. He pulled down a selection of saucepans and opened the refrigerator. He fired up the burners and doused the pans in a liberal helping of olive oil and butter. Leopold felt his mouth begin to water as the smells drifted over to the dining table.

  “I’ll be done soon,” said Mary. “Just hold still.”

  Within a few minutes, the final stitch had been sewn and Gerard was laying out steaming bowls of delicious-smelling food. The meal was exquisite, a brothy mix of French sausage with glistening butter beans and generous hunks of bacon, leeks, and fresh herbs.

  “Here, drink this.” Gerard handed each of them a bottle of dark beer.

  The warmth of the food immediately improving his mood, Leopold took a swig from the beer and felt the throbbing in his shoulder subdue slightly.

  “Wow, this is good,” said Mary. “We’ll have to keep you around, Gerard. Aren’t you having any?”

  “There’s meat and eggs for me, but I’m not due a meal for forty-five minutes,” he said, stacking the dirty pans into the dishwasher. “Once you’ve eaten, we’ll discuss the plan. I would recommend finding a safe house in the morning, based on what you’ve told me.”

  “Tell me about these files,” said Leopold, finishing a mouthful. “Who were the victims?”

  Mary consulted her cell phone. “We know about Director Dubois already,” she took a gulp of beer. “According to the email, the other four victims appear to have been chosen at random. The second target was Virginie Bernard, a forty-three-year-old homemaker from Paris. She was meeting a friend for lunch and never showed. Second up,” she squinted at the screen, “is Jun Akanishi, a telecoms worker from Japan here on vacation with his family. Next is Gunther Bauer, a German contractor here on business. The final victim is Amélie Ledoyen, a senior associate at Phillippe Jacques, one of the big law firms.”

  “And they were killed by the person trying to set up Leopold?” asked Sophie, polishing off the last of her meal. “Why would the killer go to all that trouble to kill four random people afterwards?”

  “Why are we assuming the others were picked at random?” said Leopold.

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  “We can safely assume that killing the director was an easy way to link me to the murder, but what if the sniper had more than one target? The first, Dubois, was meant to ensure my capture and incarceration, and the second… well, that’s the question. What else do we have on these people?”

  “I’ve got full bios attached to the email.” Mary turned to Gerard. “You got a printer around here somewhere?”

  The bodyguard handed her a slip of paper. “Here’s the wi-fi codes. I checked the network for bugs already. Once you’re in, you can send the files to the printer wirelessly.”

  She tapped a few keys on her phone. “Done. Where can I pick them up?”  

  “The study is down the corridor at the far side of the apartment. Follow me,” He led them through the living room and down the hallway. “Help yourselves.” He opened one of the doors and waved them through.

  The study was impressive, featuring an array of razor-thin computer monitors, wall-to-wall bookcases, and a plush seating area opposite the desk. The room smelled like furniture polish and leather.

  Leopold spotted the printer and pulled out the stack of paper from the tray. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”  

  “I’ll be watching the front door,” said Gerard. “There’s an intercom on the wall if you need me.” He slipped out.

  “Wow, this place is incroyable,” said Sophie. “Look at all these books.” She ran her finger along their spines. “Homer, Virgil, Dostoyevsky, Francis Bacon. Quite a collection.”

  “Any James Patterson?” asked Mary.

  “It doesn’t look like it. Although, who knows – maybe he has an ebook collection hidden away on a Kindle somewhere.”

  “Can we get back on topic?” said Leopold. “We need to find a connection between these victims. Here,” he spread the paper out on the coffee table. “You two read through these, and I’ll get onto the computer. I should be able to get us some outside help.”

  He waited for them to take a seat and went over to the desk, settling himself into the chair. He tapped the space bar and the trio of LED monitors jumped into life. Accessing the operating system, Leopold fired up the internet browser. “Anything yet?” he asked.

  “There’s quite a lot here,” Mary replied. “It’ll take some time. What are you looking for?”

  Leopold punched in a postal code. “You and I both know a little something about police procedure. Rousseau isn’t going to stop hunting me down until I’ve found enough evidence to clear my name. Or until I’m dead. I’d rather avoid the latter option.”

  “We need to figure out why Dubois was targeted. I mean, he must have been killed for a reason, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you find anything while you were at the Louvre?”

  Leopold nodded. “One of the Da Vinci paintings, ‘The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne’, had been replaced with a fake. Jerome and I were in the middle of tracking down some leads when all this mess started.”

  Mary looked over at Sophie. “And I’m guessing this young lady was first on your list.”

  “I had nothing to do with any paintings being stolen,” said Sophie. “I had taken a few days off, that’s all. Sick leave.”

  “You don’t look all that sick to me.”

  “I’ve had other things to worry about.”

  Mary turned back to Leopold. “Well, whatever happened to that painting, if Dubois was involved that at least gives us something to go on. But without proof we’re a little stuck.”

  The consultant smiled. “So let’s go find some proof.”

  “Where?”

  “If Dubois had anything to do with the theft, he’ll have the original painting stored somewhere. Somewhere he’d be able to keep a very close eye on at all times.”

  Mary leaned forward in her chair. “Like a storage locker? Or a safety deposit box? There must be thousands of those in the city.”

  “This is far too valuable a prize, especially to an art lover like Dubois. No, he’d want to keep the painting close by, somewhere only he had access.” He tilted one of the monitors toward the others and tapped the screen. “If I were him, I’d keep it at home, somewhere out of sight.”

  “That’s Dubois’ place? It’s huge. Where would we even start looking?”

  “Sophie, you knew the director well.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you ever visit him at home?”

  “Oui, of course. His wife used to teach me to cook when I was a girl.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, it’s… it’s just difficult thinking that I’ll never see him again.”

  “I know it’s hard, but try to think back. Did you ever see anything in his house that might look like a place to hide something? Something he couldn’t afford to lose.”

  She thought for a moment. “The house is quite large, but if I know Jean, he would want the painting to be kept somewhere special. Somewhere that would feel right to him.”

  “And do you know where that might be?”

  “Jean kept a lot of artwork. It was quite a collection. He even had his own private gallery on the top floor. I guess if he had something to do with this missing painting, he would keep it there. But I still find it hard to believe he would do something… so terrible. He was a good man, Monsieur Blake. He had his faults, but he was still a good man.”

  “Even the best of us can make bad decisions,” said Mary. “At least, from the sound of it he had nothing to do with the murders. And if we can track down this painting, maybe we’ll get some answers.”

  “He
would never hurt anyone,” said Sophie, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “But it looks like he got mixed up with a bunch of people who would,” said Leopold. “Killing Dubois was just the start. Whoever’s behind this wanted me and Jerome out of the picture, too. Along with anyone else who gets in the way.”

  “In the way of what?” asked Mary. “That’s what we’re missing here. All I do know is that prison isn’t exactly the safest place to be, even when you’re not being hunted down. It would be all too easy to arrange for one of the inmates to take you out and it would look like just a random act of violence.”

  “Except that I never made it to the prison,” said Leopold. “And now whoever’s behind all this is going to be working on a contingency plan.”

  “That would explain why that man attacked us in the parking lot,” said Sophie. “He might have been following us the whole time.”

  “I did notice something earlier,” said Mary, taking her seat once again. “On the drive from the airport, a car was following us. It might have been nothing, but I asked the precinct to run the plates. The results should be in here somewhere.” She flipped through the stack of paper. “Look at this.”

  Sophie took the printout and read it aloud. “Black Volkswagen Passat, registered to Marius Schwartz of Berlin, Germany. No outstanding tickets or warrants.” She looked up. “So what’s the big deal?”

  “Read the next part.”

  “Marius Schwartz, born in Frankfurt, Germany, in 1974…” she paused. “Died of a heart attack nearly a year ago. Merde.”

  “So either Herr Schwartz is driving from beyond the grave, or someone didn’t want to take any risks with his real identity,” said Mary.

  “I guess we’re not going to get that vacation after all,” said Leopold.

  “We’d better get this information to Gerard.”

  “Get him in here, we don’t have much time. We need to figure this out before Jerome winds up in the middle of a prison riot. Thanks to me, he’s walking right into a trap.”

  TWENTY-SIX

   

  Marty Jackson lay on the thin prison mattress and felt the steel springs dig into his spine. The guards had called lights out hours earlier, but something in the air was keeping him awake, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Elsewhere in the block water was leaking onto the floor. In the silence, the drip, drip, drip of water on the hard tile was impossible to ignore, meaning another night of staring at the ceiling was in the cards. Again.