Trump Tower (65 page)

Slipping it off, she went looking for the right underwear.

She asked herself,
where is all that Firenzi stuff when you need it
?

There was a silk thong and matching bra in her suitcase, but when she put it on and inspected herself in the mirror, it wasn't the right look.

When in doubt, don't
, and decided, no underwear.

She put the dress back on, stepped into her new red shoes, sorted through all the various perfumes she'd been given, settled on the Hermès 24 Faubourg, put on her Cartier watch, her wedding band, and her big diamond ring, then added her new Dior earrings and the enameled bracelet.

Fumbling through Cyndi's suitcase, she borrowed a little red evening bag, dropped her key card in it, and left the suite.

T
HE
H
EMINGWAY
B
AR
at the back of the Ritz is wood paneled, with green leather stools in front of the bar and green leather chairs at the dark wood tables scattered around the smallish room.

There were couples sitting at tables and several men hanging at the bar, all of whom noticed her when she walked in.

Looking around, feeling very sexy with nothing on under her dress, she went to a table in the corner to her left.

A waiter came by and asked what she wanted. She ordered a Campari soda. He quickly came back with the drink, some olives, and a plate filled with small Spanish tapas.

Sipping her drink, she sat back to wait.

A middle-aged man, who'd been with two other men at the bar, walked over. “Excuse me.” He was American. “My friends and I were wondering if . . . I mean, if you're alone . . . could we buy you a drink?”

She smiled at him, then pointed to the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. “What would she say?”

He seemed embarrassed. “She'd say . . . when in Rome.”

Alicia smiled, “But this is Paris.”

He forced a grin and returned to the bar where his friends began teasing him.

Next, a younger man came from across the room and apologized to her. “I am sorry that the gentleman embarrassed you,” he spoke with an accent she didn't recognize.

“I don't embarrass easily.”

“Perhaps I could buy you a drink.”

“I already have a drink.”

“Would you like another?”

“I haven't finished this one.”

He wondered, “Do you always play so hard to get?”

She asked, “Do I strike you as easy to get?”

He raised his hands in surrender, “
Bonsoir
,” and walked away.

Now two good-looking men in their forties walked into the bar, and one of them stared at her. “Don't I know you?”

She shrugged, “I don't think I've ever been there.”

“I'm Lamar Jackson from Dallas, Texas. This is my partner Rainer Martin.”

“His poor partner,” Martin said.

She smiled. “Good evening.”

“And you are?” Jackson wanted to know.

She told them, “Dolores del Rio.”

Martin hesitated. “Like the old movie actress?”

“Do I look like an old movie actress?”

“Matter of fact, you look like a gorgeous young movie actress. Are you an actress?”

“Actually,” she said, “I run my family's scaffolding business in Miami, Florida.”

The two guys stared at her then looked at each other.

“Scaffolding?” Jackson said, “You're joking.”

“I never joke about scaffolding.”

The waiter came by to ask what the gentlemen wanted to drink.

Still standing in front of her table, Jackson asked Alicia, “How about a bottle of champagne?”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I never drink champagne with two men at the same time . . . until I've known them for at least an hour.”

“Okay,” Jackson smiled, then said to the waiter. “Scotch on the rocks for us, and the lady here will have . . .”

Alicia answered, “Campari soda, please.”

The waiter nodded.

“And then,” Jackson said to him while checking his watch, “It's quarter to eight. So at quarter to nine you can bring us that champagne.”

The two men sat down at her table.

Jackson smiled at Alicia.

She smiled back at him.

“So tell us, Dolores,” Martin wanted to know, “what brings a gorgeous woman like you to Paris all by herself?”

With a straight face she answered, “Scaffolding. And you? What do you do as partners? Everything? Or is it strictly business.”

Jackson looked at Martin and grinned. “We, ah . . . we're in green fuels. You know, like ethanol.”

Martin cut in, “Was that you this afternoon down at the pool with the blonde chick?”

“Chick?” Alicia gave him a strange look.

“Girl,” he corrected.

“Girl?”

He got flustered. “Woman. Young woman. Younger woman.”

“Younger than who?”

“I meant . . .”

“Keep that up,” Alicia said, “and you're never going to get to the champagne.”

Martin shook his head, “For a gorgeous woman, you sure are tough.”

“I take that as a compliment.” She raised her first glass and finished it. “So
what brings two married guys to Paris, all the way from Texas, without their wives?”

“Divorced,” Jackson showed her, “See? No more ring.” He said to Martin, “You'll have to do your own lying,” then he pointed to Alicia's left hand. “Speaking of rings, that's a pretty good-sized rock.”

She shrugged it off with, “A friendship ring.”

“You must have a pretty good friend.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “But let's not talk about me. Let's talk about ethanol.”

C
arson's JAL flight from Tokyo landed half an hour ahead of schedule.

While they were taxiing to the gate, the pilot welcomed his passengers to Paris—in Japanese, French and English—wished everyone a pleasant stay and announced that the local time was 5:40 pm.

Carson reset his watch.

He'd managed to get some sleep on the flight and had written an e-mail that he would send to Ken Warring from the hotel, outlining the next steps they'd need to take to finish the Shigetada deal.

After thanking the cabin attendants, he stepped off the plane and walked for what seemed like a very long time until he got to Immigration. From there, he picked up his luggage, went through the nothing-to-declare line at customs and found the taxi stand.

He told the driver, “The Ritz Hotel.”

The driver said, “
Place Vendôme, oui monsieur
,” and drove him into town.

Arriving at the hotel, the doorman welcomed him, signaled for a groom to fetch his luggage, and escorted him to the front desk. A woman there handed him a registration form to fill out, then escorted him to a lovely suite toward the rear of the hotel, overlooking a small garden.

The furniture was Louis XV and the walls were covered in a warm beige silk fabric. It was considerably smaller than the suite he'd left in Tokyo. But then, that one could have been anywhere in the Orient. This one could only be in Paris.

After his luggage arrived, Carson opened the French doors in the living room that led to a tiny balcony, stepped outside and stood there for a moment gazing at the surrounding buildings.

He thought to himself,
les toits de Paris
, then checked his watch, wondered if he had time for a fast swim downstairs, decided he probably didn't, and took a very long, very hot shower instead.

After he sent his e-mail to Warring, he unpacked, picked out a fresh white shirt, put on a dark blue suit and chose a pale blue tie.

Taking one of his two key cards, he sat down at the desk in the living room, addressed an envelope, wrote his room number on the stationery, then slipped the key card and stationery into the envelope and sealed it.

He stopped in the bathroom to check himself in the full-length mirror there, and finally added a light spray of his current favorite eau de cologne, Ambre Topkapi. It was a complex mix of bergamot, grapefruit, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, sandalwood, leather, musk, vanilla and a dozen other spices. At $600 a bottle, every time he used it, he thought to himself,
this is as far away as a man can possibly get from his teenaged years of Canoe
.

Feeling very grown up, and on time at exactly eight o'clock, he left the room.

The elevator brought him down to the ground floor, where he handed the envelope to the woman at the front desk—“In case she asks”—then went to the main restaurant.

The
maître d'
greeted him, “
Bonsoir, monsieur
.”

“
Bonsoir
.” Carson looked around the candlelit room. “You see that table over there . . . in the corner.” He pointed to it. “That table right there strikes me as being a very romantic table.”

“I would say, monsieur, it is the most romantic table in the room.”

“Eight thirty? Mr. Haynes and guest.”

“Of course.”

“And . . . please put a bottle of champagne on ice at the table.”

“Any choice of champagne?”

“Cristal. You choose the vintage.”

“With pleasure, monsieur.”

He smiled, “
Merci
,” started to walk away, then stopped and came back. “Ah . . . when I say, you choose the vintage, that means within the past, say, seven to ten years.”

“May I ask about your dinner companion?”

“I have it on good authority that she is an exceptional woman.” He remembered the word Cyndi taught him. “A very beautiful . . .
nana
.”

The
maître d'
gave him an odd look. “
Nana
? Perhaps what Monsieur really means is,
une très belle femme
.” A very beautiful woman.

“Yes.
Une très belle femme
. But she's also a babe.”

The
maître d'
suggested, “If monsieur is looking for an exceptional vintage to go along with an exceptional woman, may I suggest the ninety-six.”

“Exceptional?”

“Yes, monsieur, I assure you, exceptional.”

He nodded, “That sounds, I assure you, very appropriate. Thank you.” He
started to walk away, then stopped and came back again. “So that there are no surprises . . . that is nineteen ninety-six, not eighteen ninety-six.”

The
maître d'
grinned broadly and reassured him. “
Oui, monsieur
.”

Carson said, “Thank you,” left the restaurant, walked through the long corridor to the back of the hotel and stepped into the Hemingway Bar.

T
he 911 call was panicky, as most of them usually are.

“It's a body . . . we found a body . . . I think the person is dead.”

“All right sir . . .” the woman working the call said with practiced calm . . . “please tell me your name and where you are.”

“We're in Central Park. My girlfriend and I are in Central Park. We were taking a walk . . .”

“And what is your name?”

“Ah . . . why do you need my name?”

“My name is Janet, sir, and I want to help you. What's yours?”

“Ah . . . okay . . . I'm . . .” He stopped and asked his girlfriend, “What?” Then he told Janet, “My girlfriend says we shouldn't give our names. We don't want to get involved.”

Janet saw the man's cell phone number come up on her screen, along with his name and address. “That's all right, sir, I understand. Now . . . where in Central Park are you?”

“You know the Boat House? There are some woods to the north of that . . .”

Janet brought up a map of Central Park on her screen. “Sir, tell me, are you closer to the Fifth Avenue side or the Central Park West side?”

“We came in at Seventy-Seventh Street . . . and Central Park West.”

“Are you on . . .” she checked the map, “West Drive?”

“What's West Drive?”

“That's the road inside the park that runs north and south. If you came in at West Seventy-Seventh, there's a road . . .”

“Yes, that's right. We turned left on that road . . . wait . . . what?” He spoke to his girlfriend, then came back, “She says that the Swedish Cottage is up there.”

“All right, sir. Thank you for that. Now, where did you find the body? And where are you now?”

“Just off the drive, below the theater, in the woods . . . but please, we don't want to get involved, we were walking and we found . . . it's horrible . . . the person is dead . . .”