“Any problems with him?” Sarah asked. “Complaints from neighbors? Parties?”
“None,” said Ricard. Dapper as dapper can be, he was attired in a crisp poplin suit, his thinning ginger hair pasted neatly across his scalp.
“A lot of guests coming and going at odd times?”
“Not that I know of.”
“No roommate?” asked Chapel.
“No.”
“You’re sure?” In his mind, Chapel guarded a clear picture of Taleel’s apartment. He was sure there had been a television set broadcasting a bicycle race. Who in the world walked out of their house with a TV on?
“Absolutely not,” said Ricard gruffly, rolling his chair back an inch and lifting his jaw, as if his dignity had been impugned. “It is a one-bedroom apartment. We are strict. We must be, or else the students would have five or more people in every flat. Especially the Africans. You have no idea! Mr. Roux, never a problem.”
“If only all your tenants were so good,” offered Sarah Churchill.
“I was just going to say the same-” Ricard caught himself, and his voice went as gray as his face. “I am sorry,” he said. “Really, I had no idea who this man was. A terrorist, the paper said. It scares me. An Arab. Taleel?”
“You’ve never met him?” asked Chapel. Pushing aside an enormous hidebound ledger, he cleared a space to lean against a waist-high cabinet.
“Me? No, never.” Ricard consulted the screen, tapping the eraser of his pencil to the appropriate spot. “Antoine Ribaud was the leasing agent. He showed Roux the apartment.”
“Is Mr. Ribaud available?” Sarah asked, fanning herself with a folded copy of Le Monde.
“On vacation. Paris in August… everyone is away. Except the tourists, of course. And me.”
“Where’s he gone?” Chapel was hoping somewhere nearby-Nice, Sardinia, Rome. A phone call from Leclerc, a forty-five-minute flight, and by morning they’d have Ribaud in the hot seat.
“Guatemala,” answered Ricard. “Chichicastenango. To see the Mayan ruins. Or is that in Honduras?”
“Guatemala,” said Sarah, and when she looked across the room at Chapel, he knew they shared the same thought. Ribaud couldn’t have gone farther away if he’d known they were coming. Ricard seemed to sense their frustration and was quick to offer an apology. “Even so, it would make no difference. The company owns thirty-seven buildings in Paris. Over four hundred flats. We only remember the tenants who pay late, or not at all, or those who cause problems. Mr. Roux, he is perfect.” Again, Ricard looked aghast at his choice of words. But Adam thought his reaction justified. He was certain Taleel wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
“Do you have his banking information?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course. Mr. Crissier telephoned before you came.” Crissier was Leclerc’s work name. A few keystrokes yielded what Adam and Sarah had come for. “His account is with the Banque de Londres et Paris.” Ricard scribbled a nine-digit number on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him. “You are all right, monsieur?” he asked, his face wrinkling with concern. “May I get you a glass of water? You would like to sit, perhaps?”
Chapel caught a glimpse of himself in a gilt-framed mirror. He looked wan and pallid, sickly. One eye drooped lazily. It’s the heat, he told himself. He needed some fresh air. “I’m fine,” he said, rising from the cabinet too quickly, pulling his shoulders back. Too late he remembered his bandaged and blistered skin. The pain was vivid and overwhelming. He sank to his place at the cabinet, his vision bleeding white as if he were staring at a giant sun. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a little…” Letting the words drift off, he stood more carefully and swallowed a breath. “Ready to go?”
Sarah took the paper, thanked Jules Ricard, and asked him to call should he remember anything that might be useful about “Bertrand Roux” or his associates. But as they descended the stairway, Chapel wasn’t thinking about Ricard or Taleel, or the investigation at all, for that matter. He was counting the hours until his appointment with Dr. Bac the next morning. He wasn’t sure if he could make it that long.
The Renault sped over the Pont D’Orsay, over the Seine tumbling and sparkling in the afternoon sun like a sea of warring emeralds. Gold-leaf Apollos atop triumphant columns saluted their passage. His window open, Chapel drank in the cooling breeze as the bite of the river’s freshwater brine tickled his nose. He felt better now that they were moving. The sights, the sounds, the smells, of the city distracted him from his own discomfort. More important, the dash through the Parisian streets proved a psychological tonic. To move was to act, and to act was to succeed. However long the odds, however remote the possibility, as long as he was moving, anything was possible.
Upon leaving Ricard’s office, Chapel had called Leclerc and asked him to contact the Banque de Londres et Paris and use his juice to have Roux’s account records ready for examination. Leclerc agreed, and went on to say he had some news of his own. Mohammed al-Taleel had, in fact, obtained a driver’s license in Roux’s name, and given his address as the ruined apartment in the Cité Universitaire. Jotting down the number on his notepad, Chapel enjoyed the first precarious intimation of progress. In addition to a permanent address, government-issued identifications were a must when opening any type of credit account; with banks, utilities, phone, finance companies. It was his experience that money launderers relied on two or three documented aliases to conduct their business. Taleel’s driver’s license number would give them an extra and invaluable tool in spotting his financial footprints.
Ahead, the traffic lights flashed yellow, then green. Maneuvering into the left lane, Sarah guided them in an arcing turn onto the Quai D’Orsay. Shifting into third, she gave the pedal a little muscle and the Renault took off like a jackrabbit.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” she asked, her concern looking a lot like aggravation. She didn’t want Chapel slowing her down. “For a moment back there, you looked like you might keel over.”
“My shoulder was burned pretty badly. I just have to take care when I move it.”
“Maybe you should have stayed in the hospital.”
Chapel looked at her sharply, but kept quiet. And do what? he wanted to ask her. Let someone else go after Taleel. Cede the promise he’d made to his murdered friends to someone they didn’t know. Someone who couldn’t possibly care about nailing their killer as much as he did. Someone who wasn’t as good at his job.
“No way,” he said finally, and sat up straighter to show her that he was okay, that she didn’t have to worry about him, even if it did cause his shoulder to hurt like a sonuvabitch.
They were approaching the cathedral of Notre Dame. Isolated in its own medieval fief between the left and right banks on the Ile de la Cit3;, its blunt towers resisted the summer’s charm, standing gray, stern, and stoic. Someone had come up with the idea of making the Seine into an urban beach. Parasols and lounge chairs lined the concrete walk bordering the river. A sand volleyball court had been set up and two teams played fiercely in front of a bikini-clad throng. A cheer erupted, and its bubbly frivolity lent the day a sense of unreality.