He took a big bite of bread, washed it down with his coffee.
Mike played with her spoon, dipping it in and out of the coffee absently as she thought aloud. “The murders will be easier to track. Even though it’s a cold case, the French police will have the records. As for the adoptive parents, let’s assume parts of her story for the Victoria Browning identity were real. She did have a Scottish accent. It could have been faked, but that’s hard to do for months at a time. So let’s look for missionaries near Roslin, Scotland. Her brother said England, but it was a long time ago. Perhaps they brought her home before they set out on their voyages, or came back to Scotland after their mission was accomplished.”
“Good thinking. I’ll tackle the adopted parents. Would you like to use your considerable American charm to get the murder information from the French?”
“If it’s a cold case, I doubt it will help, but I’ll call Zachery. He’s got a friend over here. This same friend is also the reason we were able to get into the prison so easily. In the meantime, you may want to think about where we’re sleeping tonight. Not to mention, I’d like a shower.” She yawned, not bothering to try and hide it. “And a nap. And I’d like to take a look at your back. After our car chase in Geneva, I want to be sure your stitches aren’t ripped.”
He arched a black eyebrow at her. “I have the accommodations covered. We’re going to the Ritz, on the Place Vend?me. We’ll regroup, as you Yanks like to say, and you can strip me down.”
77
Ritz Paris
15 Place Vend?me
Saturday afternoon
When they arrived at the Ritz, the valet took the car, and Mike stared at the white awnings of the swanky hotel, wondering how, exactly, she would write this off. She couldn’t afford to stay here, but she wasn’t about to say so to Nicholas, who was holding out his arm and smiling like they were on a date. She laughed to herself. A very demented date.
She tucked her arm in his and he whispered, “Follow my lead.”
They entered the hotel and walked to the desk. A young blonde with her hair drawn back in a messy, casual bun looked up from her computer to greet them, and her face broke into a wide smile. She spoke in rapid French to the woman next to her, who scurried away, then acknowledged them with a nod.
“Monsieur DuLac, welcome back to the Ritz.”
“Merci, Clothilde. Comment ?a va?”
She dimpled at him. “I am well, Monsieur DuLac. It is good to see you again. Will you be staying long?”
“At least one night, perhaps two.”
She glanced at Mike, who suddenly felt very American, very tall, and very underdressed in her motorcycle boots and jeans.
“One room or two?”
“A suite would do nicely, Clothilde. Two bedrooms.”
“Excellent.” She handed him a key. “Shall I send up your usual?”
“That would be lovely. For two, if you will. Merci, Clothilde.”
Mike followed him across the elegant lobby, past the Bar Vend?me. Nicholas paused for a moment to watch the small flat-screen TV. A panel of jewel experts on a local news station were yelling over one another to see who could condemn the Americans more for the Koh-i-Noor theft. He shook his head. It wouldn’t stop until the diamond was back. Once on the elevator, Nicholas smiled at her. “All right?”
She grinned back. “What was all that? Who is Monsieur DuLac? And do I want to know what your usual is?”