Instead, he said, “Noulan? Did he kill her?”
“Doesn’t look that way,” Hoskins said. “AB-16.”
“What?” he whined before pivoting to face the workshop.
His trembling right hand came arthritically to his mouth, which gaped in horror. “Oh, dear God, Millie,” he whispered. “What have they done to you?”
Then his knees buckled, and he fainted dead away.
Chapter 60
DAWN WAS COMING on while Randall Peaks cleaned Princess Mayameen with water and paper towels, and Hoskins revived Alexandre, who came around choking and weeping as he answered questions.
The designer’s assistant said he had left the workshop at around eight the previous evening. Millie had still been working feverishly on the princess’s dresses.
“She said she would sleep here on the daybed,” he said. “She did it all the time when she had clients coming, and wanted me here at six fifteen sharp to wake her. If the princess hadn’t…I would have…”
Peaks got the princess to her feet, but she didn’t like it.
“I want to sleep, Randy,” she groaned.
“Back at the Plaza,” Peaks said.
“No,” Maya grumbled. “I want to sleep here.”
The bodyguard hesitated, and then hauled off and slapped her hard across the rear.
“You’re going to the hotel, Maya,” he said. “Now.”
That got her wide awake, and she shouted, “You’ll lose your job for that! I’ll make sure of it!”
Peaks grabbed her tightly about the wrist and dragged her toward the rear hallway, saying, “I figure I’ve already lost the job because of you, but I will get you to your mother’s room safe and sound whether you like my methods or not. You’re a princess, for Allah’s sake! Start acting like it!”
When they’d gone, Alexandre’s lower lip quivered, and he said to Hoskins, “Can I go downstairs, please? I can’t stand seeing her this way.”
“Of course,” the investigateur said.
Strong lights bathed the window.
Louis went over and looked out. “Television cameras. Four of them.”
The designer’s assistant went to the stairs, wiping his eyes with his suit sleeve. “Am I free to inform her family and friends?”
Fromme said, “Yes, but don’t talk about the crime scene.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
As Alexandre trudged down the stairs, I studied the room again.
“Why is the body positioned differently?” I asked. “Her arms, I mean. They’re not spread to the side like with the others.”
Louis said, “Maybe someone from AB-16 was in here about to do that when the princess opened the door downstairs.”
“We can’t suppose that until we get a time of death,” Hoskins said.
“Where is our forensics team?” the magistrate asked.
“They’re wrapping up another scene.”
“Once again, I offer Private Paris’s aid,” Louis said.
Fromme shook his head. “We will wait for our people, and the both of you should leave. Now.”
He stated this all flatly, without the rancor and innuendo he’d shown after he’d seen the letter sent to Ali Farad.
“Juge?” I said. “Has our associate, Mr. Farad, been released?”
The magistrate stiffened and said, “He has not.”
“What?” Louis said. “Why not?”
“As I indicated last night, Monsieur Langlois, AB-16 is a direct threat to our national security, and-”
“So Farad is a suspect because AB-16 sent him a letter?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you going to arrest people at all the news outlets that received copies of the letter?”
Fromme glanced at Hoskins, who was stone-faced.
At last the magistrate cleared his throat and said, “There is more to it than just the letter, Monsieur Morgan, I assure you. Beyond that, I-”
Phones buzzed, alerting Fromme and Hoskins to incoming texts. They got out their cells and read them. The detective’s breath caught in her throat. Fromme went deathly pale for several beats, and then pointed his cane at us.
“You two: out. Now,” he growled. “Back door. And no talking to the media under promise of arrest. Are we clear?”
Louis’s eyebrows knitted in anger. “You’ll arrest us if we-”
“Without hesitation,” Fromme said. “Now out and silent.”
“You act as if there’s been another AB-16 murder,” Louis said.
“An assassination,” Hoskins said, shock in her tone.
“Investigateur Hoskins,” Fromme said in warning.
“Who’s the victim?” I asked.
“Madame investigateur,” Fromme said.
The detective ignored the magistrate and said, “Guy LaFont. Minister of culture.”
Chapter 61
LOUIS WAS NOT himself as we circled through the streets from Millie Fleurs’s shop to the Plaza. A light drizzle fell and people were already heading to work, heads down and balancing their umbrellas.
“I fear for France, Jack,” he said grimly. “AB-16 assassinated not only a sitting member of the president’s cabinet, but one of the staunchest opponents of letting Muslims from our former colonies continue to immigrate here. There will be repercussions, I’m sure. This could easily spin out of control.”
On that disturbing note, we entered the hotel lobby, which was crowded now. Another member of Peaks’s security team stood watch outside the breakfast room. He nodded to us, giving us a one-finger salute.
Upstairs, we walked in heavy silence to the suite door. I was going to take a shower and Louis was going to order breakfast before we called our attorneys to work on getting Ali Farad released from custody.
“They seem to think they have evidence implicating him,” I said, passing the key before the lock.
“I don’t believe it,” Louis said. “Not for a minute. I vetted Farad myself. Ali is-how do you say?-squeaky-clean.”
I pushed the door open and knew something was wrong. The drawer to a desk in the suite’s hallway had been tugged open. I got out my gun and motioned to Louis to do the same.
We snuck into the living area, seeing that the French doors to the balcony were ajar and that the suite had been tossed in our absence.
Every drawer was open or on the floor. The mattresses had been thrown aside and my personal belongings searched and strewn about. Both safes were unlocked and empty, as I’d left them. When I’d taken the lighter to Petitjean for examination, I’d also brought along my cash and passport and left it all in a safe at Private Paris.
“I’ll call housekeeping,” I said, and headed toward the phone by my bed.
Louis grunted in reply, and then his cell phone rang. He answered, listened, and cried, “Merde! We are coming!”
He stabbed off the phone and shook it at me. “Hoskins and Fromme-they had to have known! And they say nothing to us!”
“Calm down. What’s going on?”
“It’s bad, Jack. Government agents are searching our offices, taking our computers, and seizing all evidence in the lab.”
Chapter 62
15th Arrondissement
10:40 a.m.
WHEN WE CLIMBED from the Uber car, there were black vans parked in front of our building and plainclothesmen wearing body armor and carrying submachine guns standing guard.
“Shit,” Louis said. “They’re carrying MP5Ks. Those guys are anti-terror.”
This was bad-very bad for Private Paris, and for me. The suggestion that Private was tied to terrorism was probably the worst thing that could ever happen. Clients would flee us like rats off a sinking ship.
Louis walked up to the nearest officer, his identification out.
“May I inspect the warrant?” he asked.
The officer played it professional and retrieved the document. While Louis studied it, Marc Petitjean and Claudia Vans were shown out the door by two more anti-terrorists.