Zachary snapped his fingers. "Rats. Sheriff, you've got me, pure and simple. You let me climb out on a limb, and you sawed it off. We have no jurisdiction. But we do have plenty of clout with law enforcement groups who'd be interested in the fact that Miss Crystal — if that's her real name — is only fifteen."
"Sixteen," Milner said. "And the record should also show that Mr. Arriosto got everything he paid for and that we have all his personal belongings."
Yeah, no question about it. Emboldened by the revelation that Zachary had no jurisdiction, Milner was trying to come on feisty, no preppy wimp he, by God. If it ever came down to it, Milner would fall over when he discovered that Zachary didn't even work for the Justice Department. People in the continental U.S. always seemed outraged when they had direct dealings with someone from the Agency.
Well, the hell with it, Zachary thought. He'd had enough of this. He snapped his notebook shut, content with his reading of the facts in the case.
Guillermo Arriosto was supposed to be a car salesman from Phoenix. Supposed to be is right. It didn't matter if he actually sold a car or not.
In reality, he was a military man from Argentina who'd been given a laundered identity by the CIA, whisked out of his country (just in time to avoid some serious legal stuff), and plugged into the good life in the American Southwest.
Sure, Arriosto had a good dealership, and he worked it with some energy. He put that little drawing of an Argentine cowboy on his business card and called himself the Grinning Gaucho.
But the Agency had paid plenty to set it up and structure the business so that Arriosto would net at least fifty, sixty thou a year — Arriosto had insisted on that no matter how the dealership did. And there had been a few unsecured loans for a series of TV ads he'd wanted to run, to get people to start talking about his dealership, Arriosto had said.
Okay, this guy came here to Covington, held a number of private meetings in this suite with a number of unidentified associates, and then, when the meetings were finished and his visitors were gone, he'd sent out for a long-legged sixteen-year-old hooker. After a day with Miss Crystal, Arriosto's heart had given out, or so it seemed if one bought the Covington version.
Sheriff Shelton and Milner had really gone to some lengths to cover their tails on this one, and had sent the body to a small private hospital. Zachary could put the squeeze on them by asking how it was that they had so suddenly become so concerned about a corpse.
What they'd done, Shelton and Milner, was to summon a high-powered forensic man from the medical school in Cincinnati, probably some guy who had his own reasons for coming over the bridge to Covington from time to time, to do the postmortem.
But before the doctor arrived, Arriosto's mortal remains had been snatched by person or persons unknown.
No witnesses. No clues. Just gone with no forwarding address.
Sure, Zachary could make a thing out of questioning the cleaning women, even try to find out which of the bellboys had brought over some of the snacks and drinks. Since Covington was so free-swinging, there might even be a friendly neighborhood pimp who saw something.
But they were all probably wired into the routine in Covington, and had long since learned that it was worth their job not to notice or remember anything except what the customers wanted.
There was no reason to think Shelton and Milner weren't telling the truth. They could have tried a complete cover-up or at least planted a few things to take some of the heat off of them.
Zachary decided to punch it to the manager. 'What you're saying, bottom line, Mr. Milner, is that people with ethnic names can come to Covington, register in a place like this, provided they have enough money, and not have to worry about being rolled."
Milner moved his glasses up on the bridge of his nose by scowling. "You don't have to be so crude," he said.
Zachary still wasn't going to let him off the hook. "As a matter of fact, in my line of work," he said, "I sometimes have to be very crude."
You had to hand it to Milner. Zachary mused. He stood right there and took it, just as though you got nowhere in life if you were too thin-skinned.
"I wonder…" he began.
Zachary lifted a bushy brow, silently telling the guy to go ahead.
"I wonder if you'd tell me where you bought your blazer."
Zachary gave Milner the big Rotary Club pat on the back. "I get all my duds at K-Mart, sport. Thanks for asking."
Two
Even in the off-season months, Paris is an exciting city, with a special luminous look and pulse about it. Nick Carter had his quarry well enough in sight to allow a small portion of his mind to revel in being back in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He also knew from direct experience that Paris could be one of the deadliest cities in the world when he was working.
Perhaps after he'd finished with this man, Nico Sichi, he could manage a few days here for R & R. Then he could keep his mind on the Paris of the songwriters instead of the Paris of the undertaker.
But first the work. This hadn't been an easy assignment.
Not only was Carter following Sichi, but two other professionals were working him, and both were good.
Carter made one of the pros as possible PLO. A man with a hatchet-sharp face, thick brows, and dark, ebony hair that was beginning to recede at the crown, giving the look of an unwanted monk's tonsure. In his forties, he was slightly over medium height, wiry thin with the exception of a gut that had begun to work its way over his waistline.
The professional had a number of outstanding physical features, perhaps too many for the needed anonymity to be a good intelligence agent. His chin was dimpled, his eyes bright blue-white disks, reminding Carter of a dog with cast eyes.
The other professional was definitely Mossad, Lev Abrams, a short, pouter pigeon of a man with curly reddish hair. Neither of the professionals was aware of the other, and Carter was sure they hadn't noticed him. At the moment, all eyes were on Sichi and his activities.
Mustached and dapper in a tan linen suit with paisley tie, Nico Sichi moved purposely to the newly restored Cafe de la Paix, with sidewalk service and a splendid view of the Place de l'Opéra.
At least he had good taste, Carter thought, picking a café Carter himself would have taken for an unhurried view of the city. Place de l'Opéra was more than a large intersection, it was the business, shopping, and theater heart of Paris, complex and ever fascinating as busy men and attractive women from the three different worlds bustled and interacted.
Carter saw a number of banks, noting that the number of Japanese ventures had increased since his last visit. There were tables filled with elegant-looking women who, to judge by the parcels set close at their feet, had been shopping at Aux Trois Quartiers or some of the other big department stores behind the opera house on Boulevard Haussmann.
Sichi sat at a back table near a large planter, gave his order to a waiter, shot the cuffs of his striped shirt, and crossed his legs with particular attention to the crease of his trousers. He was doing his best to look like one of the brokers who'd come from some of the nearby banks or the huge Paris stock exchange.
Carter was not fooled by the little terrorist's enjoyment of elegant clothing or his seemingly casual manner. A member of the infamous Red Brigade, Sichi had used a bomb-fitted attaché case similar to the one now set before him on the table to blow apart a meeting of Common Market diplomats in Marseille just two days earlier. That had made major newspaper and TV network coverage.
Watching Sichi sip his café espresso and smoke a pungent Balkan Sobrane cigarette, Carter yearned for one of his own specially blended cigarettes, but instead watched patiently, listening to the sounds of high-pitched horns and the explosive Gallic tempers of drivers who attempted to negotiate the various intersections that emptied into the Place de l'Opéra.