“It was there at the front desk, waiting,” said Farad. “Juliette, the receptionist, went to the toilette, returned, and it was there.”
“Did we pick up the drop-off on security tapes?” I asked.
Farad hesitated. “I hadn’t looked.”
“We need to,” Louis said, nodding to Petitjean.
The scientist picked up an iPad and asked Farad, “About what time?”
He shrugged. “An hour ago?”
Petitjean gave the iPad some instructions, and a flat-screen hanging above the examination table blinked on, showing the lobby with a running time stamp. Farad had the envelope in hand and was talking to Juliette. The scientist sped the tape in reverse, and we saw images of Farad walking backward through the bulletproof glass door, and then the receptionist returning to find the letter.
“There he is,” Louis said when the squiggly image of a man went by. “Take us to when he comes in.”
Petitjean rewound further and hit play. A man with swarthy skin, a scruffy black beard, and sunglasses entered the lobby carrying a motorcycle helmet with the FEZ Couriers logo clearly visible. He dug in a messenger bag with gloved hands, came up with a manila envelope, and left it, turned, and exited the lobby.
“You don’t get a very good look at him, do you?” Hoskins asked.
It was true. Other than the suggestion of Arab features and the color of his neck and cheek, he gave us no clear view of his face.
“There’ll be a record at FEZ of who the messenger was and where the letter came from,” Louis said.
“I can call Firmus Massi,” Farad said. “We attend the same mosque.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Fromme said, eyeing him before turning to Petitjean. “You indicated there was more here than the letter.”
“Physical evidence,” Petitjean confirmed. “Under fluorescent light you can see several stains on the page. And there were hair fragments in the envelope and in the glue. Three of them. And what looked like fabric lint.”
“They’re here?” Fromme said, shaking the evidence sleeve.
“Here,” Petitjean said, holding out four small sealed sleeves that carried stickers and numbers indicating that they’d already been logged into our system.
Fromme took these as well, and had Hoskins take note of the time of day and the names of the witnesses to the evidence exchange.
“Monsieur Farad?” the magistrate said.
“Yes?”
“You will need to come with us.”
“Why?”
“We want to know why you received the letter.”
“I can tell you right here. I have no idea.”
“And the fact that it came from a messenger from a friend’s service?”
“Massi is more an acquaintance than a friend,” Farad said. “We attend the same mosque. Beyond that, it’s a coincidence.”
“Perhaps,” Fromme said. “But we would like you to come with us, or I can have Investigateur Hoskins arrest you and bring you in for questioning.”
“Juge,” Louis sputtered. “What you’re insinuating here is…Farad was a decorated officer with the Sûreté, and Private Paris is-”
“Out of this investigation,” the magistrate said strongly. “This has gone to a whole different level, Langlois, and the government’s probe cannot be compromised in any way. I’m sorry, but that is the way it must be. Monsieur Farad must be looked at vigorously, and Private Paris will sit on the sidelines.”
Louis looked at Farad. “Go with them. I will call our attorney.”
“I don’t need one.”
“It’s a federal investigation now,” Louis insisted. “You need a lawyer.”
Farad looked beyond angry, and I couldn’t blame him. He’d done exactly the right things and was now under suspicion for God knows what.
When Fromme, Hoskins, and Farad had exited the air lock and were out of earshot, Louis looked at the forensics expert and said, “Feel like ignoring the magistrate’s order?”
“And break a federal law for a colleague?” Petitjean said. “But of course.”
He went over to the keyboard and gave it a command.
A screen quickly showed a blown-up image of the letter and the envelope.
It was written in French in letters cut from various newspapers and magazines. I got the gist of it, and my stomach yawned open into a deep, cold pit.
Chapter 55
8th Arrondissement
8:10 p.m.
“YOU’LL FIND AN attorney for Farad?” I said, climbing out of an Uber car in front of the Plaza Athénée.
“First thing,” Louis promised. “Get some sleep.”
In a mild daze, I entered the lobby, imagining a hot, hot shower and long, long uninterrupted sleep in my big empty suite. That’s all I wanted.
“Monsieur Morgan?” called a woman’s sweet voice.
I blinked, fought back a yawn, and spotted Elodie rushing out from behind the concierge desk. She danced over and said quietly, “I wanted you to know that we took care of Mademoiselle Kim for you.”
It took a moment to penetrate my exhausted brain. “Kim is here?”
“In your suite. We gave her a key. That’s what you wanted, yes?”
“Uh, yes,” I said, flashing on that image of Kim being thrown into the van outside the Hôtel Lancaster and wondering how she’d escaped.
“When did she arrive?”
Elodie thought about that and said, “Two?”
That was right after I left the hotel and two and a half hours before we saw her taken.
“When did she leave?” I asked.
“She didn’t. At least not through the lobby while I’ve been on duty.”
I smiled. “She got by you or ducked out a side door because I saw Kim later, around four thirty. Could you check and see when the door to the suite was opened after she went in?”
Elodie appeared miffed but went behind the concierge counter and worked on a computer. She looked up at me, chagrined. “Fifteen minutes later.”
“Perfect, really. Thank you for your graciousness.”
The concierge beamed. “Je vous en prie, monsieur.”
When I entered the suite, the lights came on, and I stood there in the living area, thinking. Why had Kim come here, and for only fifteen minutes? Her time of entry-roughly 2 p.m.-was less than twenty minutes after Louis and I got in an Uber car in front of the Plaza, leaving a heated discussion about hot chocolate in our wake.
Was that a coincidence? Had she come to us for protection, and found me missing? Or had she been watching, waiting to see us leave?
But why would she?
In my befuddled state, I couldn’t come up with an explanation until I thought of what I’d heard her scream as Whitey threw her into the van.
“I don’t have it anymore!”
She had hid something in here.
A good part of me wanted to sack out and look for it in the morning, but as I moved through the living area toward my bedroom, I kept thinking of how brazen and violent the men after Kim had been again and again.
They were willing to kill. Would they be willing to torture?
I had to imagine they would. And I had to imagine that, unless there were dimensions to Kim Kopchinski that I did not understand, she would break. And then they would come for whatever was hidden in my suite. Whitey and his pal had broken in once. They’d no doubt try a second time.
Realizing I would not sleep worth a damn there now, I went to the toilet, turned on the cold water in the basin, and stuck my head under it until the cobwebs cleared. Then I set about searching the place.
I went through my bedroom, my closet, and my bathroom from top to bottom. I checked under the mattress, in the drawers, and under my clothes, and even rifled through my suitcase. Nothing.
I began to doubt myself. Why would she bring it here in the first place?
For safekeeping, I supposed. It was the simplest answer.