It All Began in Monte Carlo (35 page)

He had one more landing to go for the third floor when his cell phone vibrated. He stopped, took it out of his pocket, flicked it open.
Let it be Sunny,
he was praying,
just let it be her, I'll take a plane out tonight, be with her in bed tonight, just let it be her.

He had not heard from Sunny since she'd called him in Paris and said she was going on a quick trip, three days at the most. Her destination was a secret and she would tell him everything when she got back. Her voice had been full of excitement and pleasure and Mac had not had the heart to tell her he needed to know exactly where she was. Instead, he said
get back soon, think of me, don't forget us, I love you . . .
and she said the same. And, “Can't wait to tell you all about it, Mac Reilly.” She'd given him his full Malibu TV show “PI” title, the way she always did when she was teasing him. “Have fun, baby,” he'd told her. Since then, not a word.

It was not Sunny on the phone. Surprised, he saw the name Prudence Hilson, a woman he'd met briefly in the hotel in Monte Carlo. He knew she was a friend of Allie's and therefore of Sunny's. “Mac Reilly,” he said.

“You don't know me,” she said, speaking rather fast and, Mac thought, sounding extremely nervous. “My name is Prudence Hilson.”

“I remember. You're a friend of Allie's. Ron told me you spent Christmas with them.”

“I did?” She sounded astonished. Then, “Do you realize, that was only
days
ago? Oh my God, have you any idea how much has happened since then?”

“You're alarming me, Pru,” Mac said, keeping a smile in his voice so she would know he was only joking. “Is this about Sunny?”

“Ooh.
Sunny.
Well, that's a yes and a no. First and foremost though, its about Eddie Johanssen.”

Eddie Johanssen was the good-looking rich guy Sunny had met on the flight to Paris after she'd left him. Mac wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Pru had to say. “I know who you mean.”

Her sigh was huge. “It's not what you think. Listen, Mac, Eddie Johanssen is a nice man, a decent man. He's a friend. A new friend I admit, but a good friend. He's not seeing Sunny . . . Look, I know you're in Prague. Where are you staying?”

“The Four Seasons.”

Then, “Where
is
Sunny?” Mac asked, suddenly tired with talking around things. “Is she with him?”

“Good God, no. Of course she's not. The woman's crazy in love with you, always has been. Take it from a girlfriend, mister, that woman walks around in an aura of love and sexual fulfillment and
you
are the sole reason. She's not interested in anyone else. Eddie just happened to be there when she needed a shoulder to cry on.”

“Okay.” Mac wasn't convinced.

And then Pru said, “Eddie is in trouble. Serious trouble. He needs your help and I need to talk to you. I'm at the airport now, on my way to Frankfurt, and from there to Prague. I'll be at your hotel by eight tonight. Is that okay with you?”

“What?” He was stunned.

“Eight o'clock at your hotel. I'll be downstairs in the lobby. We have a lot to talk about, Mac. An awful lot. And it's very serious.”

His phone went dead. She had cut him off. What the fuck was going on? What was there about Eddie Johanssen that didn't have to do with Sunny? He didn't give a shit about Eddie Johanssen and in fact he wished Eddie Johanssen had never entered his life. But then he remembered Pru was a friend of Allie's, and that Allie was
Sunny's best friend; and Ron, with the broken leg, was his friend. A circle of friends. Whatever it was, it was urgent enough for Pru to get on a plane and come here and ask his help. Whatever it was, he would do it.

 

 

The ribbed-glass door to the Barnes Model Agency led directly into a small office plastered wall-to-wall with photos of would-be models, though how many of them had gone on to a career in fashion, or swimsuit or even catalog was debatable. Sharon recruited from all the East European countries, the Balkans were particularly good for sexy unknown and eager girls, fresh from school and ready for anything. Sharon wasn't interested. She sent them on to other agencies who dealt in that sort of sleaze. What she was good at was getting roles in horror movies being made cheaply in Rumania, small-time stuff but she kept the producers and directors supplied and they kept her with sufficient money to run this small office.

The outer room, the one with all the model pics, was minimally furnished: a glass table on sawhorses; a Philippe Starck clear plastic Ghost chair; a faux zebra bench along the wall for waiting girls, kept busy filling out their resumes, or scanning their portfolios hoping they looked better than they really did. This was not a high-class business. To an outsider, like Mac, it looked as though it barely ticked over.

There was no receptionist in attendance behind the glass table; the computer was shut down. An old-fashioned telephone, a replica
from the thirties, nickel silver with a big round black dial, was pushed to one side. A white leather appointments book was closed.

There was no sound. Yet, somebody had buzzed him in.

A door led to another office. Mac tapped briskly on it. “Ms. Barnes?”

Sharon Barnes froze in her position in front of the triple tall arched windows that were the only reason she had taken this cheap office. It gave her a dramatic backdrop and the light flooding in from behind left her face in shadow while illuminating those of her wannabe models and movie stars opposite, giving her a distinct advantage in that she could see exactly what was going on behind their hopeful greedy eyes; while they had no clue as to how she viewed them as potential clients. Right now the light from the windows had the opaque quality of falling snow, whiter than white and cold as the ice of fear that clutched suddenly around her heart.

She did not know who this man might be. He was definitely not the person she was expecting. She moved quickly. The safe was a big old iron model, an antique they said when she'd bought it, but it worked better than all the electronic ones whose codes were so easily broken. Sharon, with her old safe, had become quite the safecracker. Just one more of her hidden talents. She closed it now.

Was this man someone Maha had sent? Sharon knew she had been fired and she also knew why. That was okay. The money was in her secret account, as usual. She wanted revenge on Maha though, for cutting her off. She would get her eventually, one way or the other.

She scanned her desk, a narrow slab of steel like something found in a mortuary, quickly placed some papers in her leather Gucci tote, closed down her Mac laptop and lit a cigarette.

It had taken her less than a minute.

Arranging herself in her big pearl-leather executive chair, she dragged on the Gauloise, ran a hand through her black buzz cut, perched horn-rimmed glasses on her nose, smoothed her red suede
skirt over her long thighs and said, “Who is it? I'm not expecting anyone.”

That was a lie. She was expecting Ferdie and Giorgio, her co-planners. They were two hours late though and that made her nervous. Now this stranger brought a whiff of danger.

“May I come in?” Mac did not wait for an answer. He opened the door and, surprised, looked straight into Sharon Barnes's eyes.

Sharon felt the shock of recognition down her spine. She stiffened, her face tightened into a mask and then she said, “I don't know you. I was expecting somebody else, that's why I buzzed you in. Get out or I'll call security.”

Mac knew she knew him. He also knew her. And that there was no security in this cheap office building. He said, “We were introduced a few days ago, in Monte Carlo. You were with Maha Mondragon.”

Sharon changed her tack. “And you were with Sunny Alvarez.”

Mac nodded. “My fiancée.”

Sharon smiled. “I heard.”

“I saw you outside, before that,” Mac said. “You were smoking a cigarette and you were wearing a short black fur jacket. You clutched it around your neck as though you were cold.”

Sharon laughed. “An observant man, but then you are a detective. And let me remind you it
was
cold in Monte Carlo that night. Only addicted smokers would feel compelled to go outside and half-freeze to death just for that cigarette.”

“You should try Chantix.” He was talking about the latest stop-smoking drug.

“Oh,
please.
” Her tone was withering.

“Let me ask you something, Ms. Barnes.”

She lowered her eyes. She was not about to ask him to call her Sharon; she wanted him out of here, and fast, before the other two showed up. If in fact they would, which was getting debatable. She did not trust them. She did not trust anybody. And especially
this detective sitting so coolly opposite her, as though he had every right to be there.

“Why are you here?” She leaned angrily over the desk. She was not allowing him to question her. “Who sent you?”

Their eyes met over the slab of steel. Mac thought she had unusual eyes. Really quite wonderful. Dark green, very beautiful under winging black brows, set like Maha's jewels in her chiseled face.

Furious, Sharon pushed the horn-rims up again, pushed back her chair, leaned away from him, turning her profile to the window.

“I was in Prague on business,” Mac said. “I came across your card and thought it would be interesting to meet.”

“If you're looking for models to use on your TV show I can help you. If you are investing in movies in the Balkans I can find you would-be new stars. Young, attractive.” She swung round to look at him. “Sexy.”

“Is that what you sell?”

Sharon laughed. “You've got the wrong woman there, Mr. Reilly. I'm no pornographer.”

“So what exactly were you doing with Maha Mondragon, in Monte Carlo?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“It's my business because I've been asked to help out in the La Fontaine jewel robbery. Not only the robbery and the murder that night in Monte Carlo, but the earlier one, in Paris.”

Sharon laughed. “I get it. It's
The Pink Panther
and you are Inspector Clouseau. Right?”

“I wish.” Mac took Sharon's business card from his pocket and put it on the desk. She stared at it. He said, “You've no doubt read how the robberies took place. Who the suspects are? Three women, long blond hair, long fur coats . . .”

“I read about it.”

“Someone gave me one of those fur coats. Your card was in its pocket.”

He shoved the card across the steel slab at her. She stared at it but did not touch.

“Anyone could have my card. Girls come in here all the time, looking for modeling jobs.”

“I wonder if you had one particular model, tall, blonde, again wearing a very expensive mink coat, and who also happened to be in Monte Carlo the night of the robbery?”

Sharon turned her profile to the window again. “It was Christmas, nobody was booked. How should I know what models do in their spare time?”

“So what exactly were
you
doing there, Ms. Barnes?”

He had caught her out and she smiled, eyes glittering behind the glasses. “You're right, I
was
working,
Mr.
Reilly, with Ms. Mondragon. Maha is preparing to show her new jewelry line; a slightly less expensive one than the couture she normally does. It's to be a big event, Maha is going for the mass market, better than costume, but lesser than Cartier.”

“Somewhere in between.” Mac knew zero about jewels except for the pink diamond engagement ring and the small diamond drops he'd bought Sunny last Christmas.

“She needed models to show her jewels. Tall girls, very thin with long necks, like dancers. In fact that's what I suggested. Ballerinas are notoriously hard up and always looking for work. I could get them cheap. But Maha said she wanted more exotic girls. Gypsies, that sort of thing.”

“Gypsies?”

Sharon understood that he knew more than he was saying. Disturbed, she got to her feet, towering in her red suede boots that she knew, with a flicker of distaste, would be ruined in the snow. Even at moments like this, moments of stunning danger, Sharon thought only about herself. She knew what to do next.

“I have answered all your questions, Mr. Reilly,” she said coldly. “Though you had no right to ask.” Her shrug expressed her indifference.
“I was in Monte Carlo on business at Christmas. I work for Ms. Mondragon. I suggest you go to her for confirmation of the facts.”

“Trust me, Ms. Barnes. I will.” Mac knew there was nothing more to be gained. Picking up the business card from the steel slab he walked out.

He ran down the six flights of stairs leading from the third floor, footsteps ringing coldly on the marble. He turned from the last flight into the small lobby just as the elevator door clanged shut. In the cage he saw two men. They were the same two men he'd seen with Mondragon and Sharon Barnes at the hotel bar in Monte Carlo.

He stopped to watch as they sailed upward, closed into the cage like zoo animals on display.

He stepped out into the freezing evening that was already drifting into darkness. The leftover twinkling lights of Christmas reminded him that this was New Year's Eve. And that he was alone. In Prague.

 

 

Down the street from the Barnes Agency, music spilled out into Old Town Square. The pastel-colored palaces and Gothic buildings, the restaurants and cafés were alive with revelers. It was already New Year's somewhere in the world, as laughing girls reminded Mac, dancing past him, holding out their hands, inviting him to come and join them.

Mac walked down the narrow street to the river. Prague was a city of churches, so many their illuminated spires almost seemed to touch. He walked across the Charles Bridge with its ice guards to protect the old sixteen arches when the Vltalva froze. He stopped to inspect one of the great Gothic towers. The bridge was bustling with vendors manning their kiosks under the stony glare of the many statues mounted on the balustrades, while painters waited to sketch his portrait or sell an authentic oil of the city, or a pretzel, or a hot dog.