to treat a hero.”
The apparition girl glowered at him. Spencer liked that; the look of impotent rage. It was delicious, and he couldn’t say why. “Let’s talk about the boy.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
“He knows something that could help you to—”
“You’d better know what the consequences are here if that boy knows nothing,” he stipulated. “If you continue on like this, just know that, while I can’t touch you, if you’re fuckin’ with me I’ll hurt that boy just to spite you.” Kaley flinched as if slapped. “That’s what I am, that’s what I can do. This is a dangerous fucking game you’re playing here.” Spencer hopped in the driver’s seat, cranked up the Subaru’s heat, then hopped back out and shut the door. “I’m gonna leave the engine runnin’, get her warmed up. Then I’m gonna go check this kid out, an’ if it’s all square like ya say, I’ll let him be. But if that boy’s a blank…” He chuckled, and headed back to the house.
The apparition waited a moment, then followed him.
Lyon, France
Detective-Inspector Aurélie Rideau had just finished texting her wife. Their anniversary was next weekend, and Rideau was reminding her not to let her forget.
Patricia texted her back: What happens if I forget to remind you? ;)
Rideau smiled: Then we’re both out of luck!
Stepping out the back of the black sedan, Rideau nodded a cursory thank-you to Sylvie, her driver and personal guard for the trip from the airport. She barely looked up from her phone before walking through the revolving door. The streets of Lyon were choked with tourists this time of year, mostly Americans, Canadians and Chinese. You could spot them on the sidewalk just by their dumb expressions. They crawled along quai Charles de Gaulle like happily lost zombies.
Patricia texted her again. Rideau checked it: Always putting the burden on me!
Rideau scoffed. Her wife always played pouty. That was part of her charm. As per their ritual, Rideau texted back: Why not? You’re never doing anything constructive .
That’ll get her goat . Rideau smiled to herself when she hit SEND and turned her phone off. She couldn’t be interrupted by personal calls; she had to go to work, if the message she received from Mitchell was accurate. She had a different phone for work, and she left that one on when she stepped inside the Interpol main offices. She and Sylvie both had to present their ID badges at the front desk, and were only permitted to pass the lobby and go near the elevators after raking the same badge over a scanner and running their thumbprints over another scanner.
“ Bonjour, Inspecteur ,” said the British security guard at the front desk, practicing her French. “ Huitéme étage? ”
“ Good morning, Katrina,” Rideau returned, practicing her English. “Yes, up on eight. Hey, you had the root canal, right? How’d that go?”
“Not as bad as I thought, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”
Rideau checked her e-mail on her work iPhone, as she habitually did every ten minutes. Then she zipped over to BBC News and CNN’s website to see what was being said about the subway bombing at St. Paul’s. So far, the death toll remained the same number; two people were killed, and four were injured. That’ll probably be shuffled over to Oskar Wahlström’s department before the day’s out , she thought.
She stepped into an elevator, and stepped out onto a bustling eighth floor of the Interpol HQ building. A sea of cubicles and kiosks greeted her; fax machines, personal computers, and various printers were dishing out the latest criminal activity coming from a range of news services around the world. Many nuggets of information were being sent via secure fax to countless embassies across the planet. At least two people shared a cubicle, each unit a small team that worked closely to sift through photos
The apparition girl glowered at him. Spencer liked that; the look of impotent rage. It was delicious, and he couldn’t say why. “Let’s talk about the boy.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about.”
“He knows something that could help you to—”
“You’d better know what the consequences are here if that boy knows nothing,” he stipulated. “If you continue on like this, just know that, while I can’t touch you, if you’re fuckin’ with me I’ll hurt that boy just to spite you.” Kaley flinched as if slapped. “That’s what I am, that’s what I can do. This is a dangerous fucking game you’re playing here.” Spencer hopped in the driver’s seat, cranked up the Subaru’s heat, then hopped back out and shut the door. “I’m gonna leave the engine runnin’, get her warmed up. Then I’m gonna go check this kid out, an’ if it’s all square like ya say, I’ll let him be. But if that boy’s a blank…” He chuckled, and headed back to the house.
The apparition waited a moment, then followed him.
Lyon, France
Detective-Inspector Aurélie Rideau had just finished texting her wife. Their anniversary was next weekend, and Rideau was reminding her not to let her forget.
Patricia texted her back: What happens if I forget to remind you? ;)
Rideau smiled: Then we’re both out of luck!
Stepping out the back of the black sedan, Rideau nodded a cursory thank-you to Sylvie, her driver and personal guard for the trip from the airport. She barely looked up from her phone before walking through the revolving door. The streets of Lyon were choked with tourists this time of year, mostly Americans, Canadians and Chinese. You could spot them on the sidewalk just by their dumb expressions. They crawled along quai Charles de Gaulle like happily lost zombies.
Patricia texted her again. Rideau checked it: Always putting the burden on me!
Rideau scoffed. Her wife always played pouty. That was part of her charm. As per their ritual, Rideau texted back: Why not? You’re never doing anything constructive .
That’ll get her goat . Rideau smiled to herself when she hit SEND and turned her phone off. She couldn’t be interrupted by personal calls; she had to go to work, if the message she received from Mitchell was accurate. She had a different phone for work, and she left that one on when she stepped inside the Interpol main offices. She and Sylvie both had to present their ID badges at the front desk, and were only permitted to pass the lobby and go near the elevators after raking the same badge over a scanner and running their thumbprints over another scanner.
“ Bonjour, Inspecteur ,” said the British security guard at the front desk, practicing her French. “ Huitéme étage? ”
“ Good morning, Katrina,” Rideau returned, practicing her English. “Yes, up on eight. Hey, you had the root canal, right? How’d that go?”
“Not as bad as I thought, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”
Rideau checked her e-mail on her work iPhone, as she habitually did every ten minutes. Then she zipped over to BBC News and CNN’s website to see what was being said about the subway bombing at St. Paul’s. So far, the death toll remained the same number; two people were killed, and four were injured. That’ll probably be shuffled over to Oskar Wahlström’s department before the day’s out , she thought.
She stepped into an elevator, and stepped out onto a bustling eighth floor of the Interpol HQ building. A sea of cubicles and kiosks greeted her; fax machines, personal computers, and various printers were dishing out the latest criminal activity coming from a range of news services around the world. Many nuggets of information were being sent via secure fax to countless embassies across the planet. At least two people shared a cubicle, each unit a small team that worked closely to sift through photos
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