Good As Gone (6 page)

He was already across the street by the time I dodged my first Volkswagen. I spun and just missed being clipped by a Renault. Tried to regain my balance. Nearly fell flat in front of a black Audi A4. A Mercedes screamed to a halt just in front of me. I bounced off the hood and kept moving.

Luckily, a wave of pedestrians slowed Johan Fleischer down on the far sidewalk. I accelerated enough to catch up, then grabbed the back of his jacket just as he tried to hurdle a small gate protecting the tables in front of a busy café. Our momentum took us both over the rail and we crashed into a table with a pair of empty chairs, knocking over a tray of water glasses and beer bottles in the process. People screamed. Most reached for their cell phones. Some to make calls, others to shoot pictures or video.

I lifted Fleischer off the concrete and hurried him out of the area before the police arrived. There was no time for explanations.

“Where are we going?” he shouted as I pushed him in front of me. He struggled every step of the way.

I worried he’d slip out of his jacket and lead me on another chase, so I grabbed hold of his left ear and twisted it until he yelped in pain.

Chapter 9

For such a romantic city, it’s not easy to find any privacy on the streets of Paris. So I ducked into a pub, warning Fleischer that I had a gun and wasn’t afraid to use it.

“Straight back to the toilets,” I said in his ear.

He went for the men’s room but I shoved him into the ladies’.

“Why in here?” he said.

“Because I saw plenty of gentlemen out there but not a single lady. If memory serves me, males are much more likely to be day drinkers.”

I spun him around, lifted him by the lapels of his jacket, and threw him into the last stall. Perfect landing, ass on the toilet. I took a second to catch my breath.

“Who are you?” he said.

“You’re the man on the can,” I said, “so I ask the questions.” I pushed some of the rain water out of my face. “Why didn’t you show up at work today?”

“’Cause I was sick.”

His answer stung like a slap to my face. I pictured him rolling the food-service cart into the Sorkins’ room with a grin, knowing a thief was about to sneak in behind him and hide in a hall closet to snatch a little girl. Something like heat filled my stomach and my shoulders tensed. I gripped him by the jacket again, lifted him off the toilet.

“Wrong answer,” I told him.

He spit in my face and the last twenty-four hours suddenly caught up with me, adrenaline flooding my system as though a dam had been torn down by his single drop of saliva. My vision blurred to the point where I saw two of him and my head became heavy with fog. Gritting my teeth, I spun him around, dropped him to his knees, and forced his head into the bowl. When he tried to scream, I pushed his face into the toilet.

He vomited. I drew a deep breath through my mouth and pulled him up to allow the toilet to flush.

“Okay, okay,” he cried. “No more lies, I swear it.”

“That’s the ticket, blondie. Let me tell you what I know and you’re going to fill in the blanks for me. Unless you want to drown facedown in a women’s toilet.”

“No, no.”

I thought about all the hours he had let slip away this morning, hours that could’ve brought us that much closer to Lindsay. I gave him another quick taste of toilet water so that he’d remember it.

“All right, then,” I said. “A little girl named Lindsay Sorkin was snatched from her parents’ room at Hotel d’Étonner on the night you carried their luggage and delivered their room service. While you wheeled in their tray, you intentionally left the door open behind you. Someone snuck in, opened the coat closet with a key, and hid in there until Vince and Lori Sorkin went to bed. Give me that someone’s name, or we switch stalls to that first one with the log in it.”

“No, no. Okay.” He spoke faster than a cokehead in the middle of a talking jag. “He called himself Hugh, but I don’t think that’s his real name.”

“How do you know him?”

“I don’t really, I just met him once before that night.”

“Where?”

“At a pizza parlor near the Bastille. There were two of them. Look, man, I had no idea they were going to take that girl. They said the lady owned a bunch of expensive jewelry and they wanted to grab it, the price of gold being what it is. I swear. I never would have gotten involved if I knew they were kidnappers, man. You’ve got to believe me.”

“What did they give you for your cooperation?”

“Five hundred euros up-front. They were supposed to give me another five hundred after they moved the jewelry, but I never saw them again, I swear.”

“Where are they from?”

“They didn’t say, but they spoke German to me. From their accent, I would guess the metro area.”

“Where were they staying while they were in Paris?”

“I have no idea, man, I swear it.” He continued to sound panicked.

Behind us, someone opened the door to the ladies’ room.

“Occupied,” I shouted.

The door squeaked closed.

“All right,” I said. “You and I are going to do one last thing together. We’re going to take a taxi to the Bastille to find that pizza parlor you met these two gents at, and we’re going to see if anyone recognizes you and can identify the men you were with.”

“Please, I just want to go home.”

“It’s the Bastille or National Police Headquarters, blondie. What’s your decision?”

“Fine, man, I’ll go with you.”

I lifted his head out of the toilet, feeling sick to my stomach. I derived no pleasure from this whatsoever. On the contrary, I’d have much preferred to turn him over to Davignon and have the lieutenant sweat Fleischer under the hot lights. But there was no time.

As I turned I noticed some graffiti on the stall wall.

It read:
FLUSH HARD. IT’S A LONG WAY TO THE STATES
.

Chapter 10

The waitress at the pizza parlor in the Bastille was a shapely Algerian girl who spoke little English. But she recognized Johan Fleischer straightaway. Said she remembered the two men he was with a few days back, as well. How could she forget? The two Germans had been dining there every afternoon and evening for a week. Ordering pizza and hitting on her. Getting drunk on Kronenbourg and inviting her back to their room—their room at the Hotel Lyon Bastille on Rue Parrot.

I kept Fleischer’s passport but let Fleischer himself scurry down into the Metro. He’d served his purpose and seemed on the verge of passing out. I was confident I’d extracted all the information he had. Bringing him to justice for his role in Lindsay’s disappearance wasn’t my job. The French police could handle that. Without his passport, it was unlikely that Johan Fleischer was going anywhere outside the EU anytime soon.

I held off calling Davignon and headed on foot for the Hotel Lyon.

The hotel lobby was bright and airy, colorful, but I wasn’t there to admire the decor. I went straight to the front desk and spoke to a short young man wearing glasses.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for a couple of friends of mine. German fellows. Hope I’m not too late. They may have checked out a couple of days ago.”

“What are their names, monsieur?”

I shrugged as though it were the most ridiculous question in the world. “That I don’t know. Met them at the pub. We made plans to get together, but then I spent the last couple of nights with a young Norwegian model I met at Le Cab.” I ran my hand down my stubble to show I hadn’t shaved the past couple of days.

The young man seemed impressed. He smiled and said, “I understand, yes. Please, wait just one minute, I will check.”

I reached into my pocket, ready to pull out my wad of euros, if necessary. In my job, I spent more money on information than most people spent on food, clothing, and shelter combined. And it was worth every damn penny.

After checking his computer, the young man picked up the phone and dialed three digits I couldn’t see. I tried to draw his attention but he wasn’t looking my way. Seemed as though he was avoiding my gaze. After sixty seconds he hung up the phone and turned back to me.

“Interesting,” he said. “I do remember your friends, but I have not seen them the past couple of days. I checked the computer and it shows that they are still registered guests. I called their room, but there was no answer.”

“What’s their room number, so I can call again later?”

He hesitated. “That I am not permitted to say.”

I smiled. “Understandably. Well then, what are their names?”

He tilted his head to the side. “I am afraid I am not supposed to divulge that information either.”

“Come on,” I said, still smiling. “I’m staying all the way over on the other side of the city at the Four Seasons. Don’t make me trek all the way back here this evening, only to find that my friends aren’t here again.” I leaned in on the desk, hoping like hell I didn’t still stink of Fleischer’s rubbish. “Besides, I’m going to look like a complete ass if I don’t remember their names. These are the guys that introduced me to Liv, that Norwegian model I told you about. Just, please, do me a quick favor and pull up your copies of their passports. I’d really appreciate it.”

The young man sighed. “Really, monsieur, I cannot.”

My read was that money wouldn’t persuade this guy. Besides, there were too many cameras hanging over our heads.

“Listen,” I said. “Liv’s got a younger sister named Elle. Maybe the four of us could go out for a drink tonight.”

His cheeks glowed red. “You are very persistent,” he said. “One more moment, please.”

He turned and opened a drawer, plucked out a file. He opened it just enough that I could see two color copies of German passports. I couldn’t read the names but tried like hell to burn their passport photos into my brain. He closed the folder and stuffed it back into the drawer.

“Their first names are Dietrich and Karl,” he said.

“And the last?”

“Sorry, monsieur.”

“But if I call later—”

“If you give me your name, I will leave a note for the evening staff to connect you.”

“Simon,” I said. “And thank you.” I turned to leave, but spun back around. “Would you mind ringing their room one last time before I leave? Maybe someone was in the shower when you called the first time.”

The young man appeared irritated, but swallowed hard and said, “Of course.”

I watched him dial. It looked as though his fingers punched the numbers 506. He held the phone to his ear and waited. After sixty seconds he hung up and shook his head.

I walked away, a little angry.

Oh, how I hated people who always played it straight.

Chapter 11

Instead of heading for the doors, I waited until the desk clerk turned away, then made straight for the elevator. I punched the button for the fifth floor. When I stepped off, I checked both ends of the hall. A maid’s cart was standing a few doors down to my left. I headed for it. From a few feet away I saw a set of keys on a ring, with an electronic card dangling from the end.

Hell,
I thought,
at least some things have to be easy.

I heard the maid whistling from the far end of the room she was in. I snatched the key ring, held it tight so that the keys wouldn’t jingle, and moved quickly up the hall to 506. There was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the door handle. Too bad. I intended to disturb them. I slid the key in, waited for the red light to blink off and the green to blink on, then I turned the handle.

I shoved the keys into my pocket and let the door shut behind me.

The room was a mess, hadn’t been cleaned since they had fled. Crushed cans of 1664 were everywhere and the room stank of beer. Cigarette butts peppered the floor, and they’d ashed on every single piece of furniture, including the two double beds. I doubted they’d brought Lindsay here, but I was hoping to find something that would give me an idea about where they’d taken her.

I emptied the wastebaskets first, sorted through the aluminum cans and paper scraps. Nothing of use. I searched the desk. Room-service menus, entertainment brochures, television guides, but nothing that Dietrich and Karl had left behind. Same with the nightstands. I opened the drawers, all of them. Nothing but a Bible and more cigarette butts.

I got onto my knees and checked under the bed. More beer cans. The closets were empty except for the hotel hangers. They’d probably stolen the bathrobes. I flipped the light on in the bathroom. Shaving cream on the mirror, tiny hairs stuck to the sink. Toothpaste on the faucet, more cigarette butts in the toilet. Where had I gotten it into my head that all Germans were neat?

Piss on the floor. But also something I needed. A Rail Europe train schedule. I unraveled a bit of toilet paper and wadded it up. Bent over and lifted the schedule. It was from the week before. Two trips were circled. The first was 4:04
A.M.
, Berlin to Mannheim. The second was 9:41
A.M.
, Mannheim to Paris.

I let fly a little sigh of relief. If Berlin was where Dietrich and Karl had come from, chances were, that was the city to which they’d returned.

And that was where we’d find Lindsay Sorkin.

*

“Let me try to understand this,” Davignon said. “You are going to Berlin to find two blond-haired blue-eyed German men named Dietrich and Karl.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“You may as well search for two specific rats in the Paris sewer system. You have nothing to go on.”

“I have an idea what they look like,” I said. “I saw their passport photos.”

“From more than
three meters away
.”

“Have you got a better idea, Lieutenant?”

We were standing over espressos at a tall table in a tiny café near the Eiffel Tower. The café was owned by Davignon’s brother. His brother had closed up for the next few hours so that we could use the café as a base. The Sorkins were waiting in the backroom. Ever since the media arrived, Davignon had been shuffling them around in disguise or under cover of darkness.

“And this Johan Fleischer, you let him get away?”

I reached into my suit pocket and pulled out Fleischer’s passport. Slid it across the table.