Elementary, My Dear Watkins (6 page)

He looked across the lobby and then back at her.

“All right, let’s go,” he said, glancing in all directions as he escorted her toward the restroom. “You can wait there for me, and I’ll be back as soon as I have a room key.”

“Fine.”

Jo’s mind raced as they walked. She really did want to hear more of what he had come to tell her, just not in a private place where he might be able to do her harm. The look in his eyes was growing more intense, almost crazed, and that was scaring her as much as the things he’d been saying. Considering the limited choices available to her at the moment, Jo decided her safest option was to get away from Bradford for now and get to her father as quickly as possible. Kent Tulip was a cold and calculating businessman, yes, but Jo also knew that he would never, ever physically harm her or allow harm to come to her. It was possible that he had a lot of explaining to do, but at least she knew she would be safe with him. Fortunately, his office was also in Manhattan, only about ten or fifteen blocks away. From there, perhaps she and her father could talk to Bradford together, maybe even over the phone, and hear the rest of his claims.

At least then Bradford wouldn’t be in a position to harm her.

Once they reached the bathroom doorway, Bradford nodded at Jo, pulled out his wallet, and headed for the front desk. She went into the restroom, turned back, and peeked out to watch him walk away. She waited until her view of him was blocked by the elevator bank.

Then she hobbled as fast as she could to the escalator, wishing she could throw off the cast and simply run.

Danny waited in the
Métro
station for his train, though the place was much more quiet and empty than before. He was still trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. A contract photography position with
Haute Couture?
For $175,000? For an unknown? It made no sense.

In the end, Chester wouldn’t take Danny’s no for an answer. He said merely that he’d give Danny a few days to think about it—and that he would call him before he headed back to the States. Danny didn’t care how long the guy gave him to make up his mind. No meant no. Danny wasn’t even going to consider it. Maybe.

“
Attend!
Danny!
Attend!
”

Danny looked up to see Luc quickly coming down the
Métro
stairs toward him. From his heavy breathing it appeared as if he’d been running, cell phone clutched tightly in one hand.

“I was hoping your train hadn’t come yet,” Luc said, coming to a stop in front of him and holding out the phone. “Georgette called, looking for you. She said it was urgent.”

A cell phone was a luxury Danny had given up when he moved to Paris. He couldn’t afford the monthly fee, and even if he could, cell phone rates for international long distance were prohibitive, and he didn’t know that many people locally who might be calling him anyway.

“Georgette?” he asked, taking the proffered phone from Luc. “Why?”

“She didn’t say. I told her to give me five minutes and I would try to catch up with you.”

Georgette Tatou was their boss, a smart and efficient woman who helmed the photo department at the Paris office of
Scene It
. She rarely worked past six o’clock, but tonight she was probably still busy making final arrangements with the photographer or the magazine’s liaison for the photo shoot. Danny just hoped that nothing had gone wrong with any of the details that had been left to him. He’d been so careful about everything. His stomach clenched at the thought of having made a mistake.

“Just press there and then there,” Luc instructed, pointing to the buttons that would return the last incoming call. Danny did as Luc instructed, another thought suddenly occurring to him as soon as it started ringing.

“Does she know about Chester and
Haute Couture?
” Danny whispered to Luc, his thumb over the speaker holes, feeling slightly guilty even though he had done nothing wrong.

“Not from me,” Luc replied, shaking his head. “But she knew we were dining together tonight. She figured calling me to find you was, how do you say, ‘worth a shot’?”

Danny heard a click and then the voice of his boss.

“Luc? Did you find him?”

“Georgette? It’s Danny. Luc told me you were looking for me.”

“
Bon soir
, Danny,” Georgette replied, pronouncing it—as most Parisians did—Dah-nee. “I’m sorry to call all over town and track you down like this.”

“That’s fine. What’s up?”

“
J’ai une question:
How quickly can you pack and get to
Gare de l’Est?
’

“The train station? Why?” he asked urgently, hoping beyond hope that her question meant what he thought it meant.

“Because Rémi’s wife went into labor three weeks early. Congratulations, Dah-nee, you will have to take his place as liaison on the photo shoot.”

F
ifty-seventh and Madison,” Jo told the driver as she slipped into the backseat of a taxi. She was going straight to her father’s office to get herself to safety—and to have the truth spelled out for her once and for all. This whole thing was ridiculous.

The cabdriver flipped on the meter, slid a baseball cap onto his shiny brown head, and pulled away from the hotel. As he did, Jo scooted down low in the seat and watched out of the back window. Other cabs were also pulling away from the Marriott, so she had no way to know if she was being followed or not.

The drive to Bosworth Industries was quick and uneventful, thank goodness. Jo paid the driver, glancing backward to make sure no other cabs or cars were also pulling to the curb. She didn’t see any, so she climbed out and moved as quickly as possible into the massive building.

The lobby was busy, though she didn’t notice anyone who seemed particularly threatening. She made her way to front desk security. It had been so long since she had been there that she didn’t recognize either of the men behind the desk.

“Help you?”

“I need to see Kent Tulip.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m his daughter. I don’t need an appointment.”

The man reached for the phone, no expression on his face.

“Just a moment, Ms. Tulip. I’ll let them know you’re here.”

He spoke into the phone, and it didn’t sound good. Finally, he held out the receiver toward Jo. It was her father’s secretary, who said that he was out of the office today at a ribbon-cutting ceremony in nearby North Ulton, but that he should be back around 5:00
PM.

“You’re welcome to wait for him up here,” the woman said. “Our employee lounge is quite comfortable.”

Jo told her no thanks and instead asked for the specifics about where her father was, exactly, knowing that if there were a train leaving from Grand Central soon, she could probably be at North Ulton within half an hour at the most. Jo thanked the woman and then handed the receiver back to the guard. Back at the door, the coast seemed clear, but as she stepped outside, she gasped. Bradford was just climbing out of a cab, and he spotted her before she could turn and run.

Danny rolled up a T-shirt and crammed it into his duffel bag, glad that he was an expert in packing light. With all of the camera equipment they were bringing, there wouldn’t be much room for clothes and toiletries. Fortunately, Danny had no qualms about getting grungy or wearing the same gear for days in a row. He had a feeling that the great photographer Kalunga Bashiri was more concerned with the quality of his work than the cleanliness of his clothes anyway, at least once they got to Africa and set to work on the main part of the story.

Tentatively titled “Refuge of Hope,” the article they were photographing focused on a successful group of European doctors who temporarily turned their backs on their cushy lives in order to donate months at a time working in third world refugee camps. Mr. Bashiri had already traveled to Bangladesh with a project team from Doctors Without Borders, and he had come back with some compelling photos of the work they were doing there in caring for the displaced peoples of Myanmar. Now, the plan was to go with a group from a similar organization, Global Mobile Medical, or GMM for short, down to a much larger camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa.

First stop, however, was to spend a few days at GMM’s headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland, to show all of the preparations that went into such a trip—not to mention photograph a few of the doctors in their fancy offices and expensive homes for a neat juxtaposition of environments. Danny knew he might need to dress professionally for all of that, so he begrudgingly added a sports jacket, one dress shirt, three ties, and a pair of loafers to his bag. Thank goodness he had worked with Rémi, the liaison he was replacing, on creating the itinerary. Danny was aware of each stop they’d be making.

His only regret was that he wished he were back at home in the States right then, so he could go down into his basement and grab some old issues of
Scene It
for the plane ride, to study more closely some of Mr. Bashiri’s past work. Bashiri was one of Danny’s all-time favorite photographers, a master of the 4 × 5-inch view camera, known primarily for his photos in and around Africa. Now that Rémi’s wife was in labor and Danny was taking his place on this trip as the magazine’s liaison, he realized that getting some one-on-one time with one of the most talented photographers in the world was the opportunity of a lifetime, not to mention a real God thing.

“You were reinforcing my decision with
Haute Couture
, weren’t You?” Danny prayed out loud, grinning, as he rolled up another T-shirt. “You sure don’t waste any time!”

Sometimes God’s will was difficult to discern—and sometimes it might as well come with flashing lights and big horns. Danny had no doubt that his fate was securely in God’s hands and that the big money he’d been offered today was a temptation he’d needed to resist in order to find his way to more God-ordained opportunities. Working as a liaison between
Scene It
and Kalunga Bashiri, Danny was probably going to learn more about photography in the next two weeks than he had in four years of college. Somehow, that had to be worth way more than a salaried position at a fashion mag.

Eager to share his exciting news with Jo, Danny glanced at the computer on the desk in the corner. He didn’t have time to go online—or even to call her, for that matter, to give her his big news. He decided he would try to phone from the train station if he had the chance, no matter the cost of the long distance. Pinching pennies was one thing, but telling Jo about this amazing opportunity was something that shouldn’t have to wait.

In the meantime, he was going to be lucky if he made the station on time. It depended on the traffic, not to mention the nerve of the driver the magazine sent over. As if in answer to his thoughts, a horn sounded outside, and he peeked out the window to see a small Volvo waiting at the curb.

Pulse surging, Danny tossed in a few granola bars and then grabbed his own Nikon DX1 for personal use. No doubt, he’d be too busy coordinating details to take many photos himself, but he wanted to be ready and able, just in case. He then locked up his flat, raced down the steps, and waved at the Volvo, surprised to see Luc sitting behind the wheel.

“
Bon soir
, Danny,” he said with a grin when Danny opened the door. “Guess what? Georgette has decided that I am to go on the trip as well.”

“Really?”

Danny tossed his duffel bag onto the backseat next to Luc’s neat leather suitcase and climbed in the front. As soon as he shut the door, Luc took off, squealing away from the curb at top speed. Maybe they would make it to the train in time after all.

Danny was surprised that Luc was coming along, mostly because it seemed like such a duplication of effort. They essentially held the same position at the magazine; why did both of them need to go? He asked the question as tactfully as he could.

“Georgette is concerned about the language barrier in Switzerland,” Luc explained as he turned onto the main road and sped through the night at top speed. “I speak German, so I will be on the first leg of the journey to translate. After that, though, you and Bashiri will be heading to Africa without me, assuming your visa can be expedited in time.” He flashed a smile and added, “Your poorly accented American French should be passable enough for the Congo.”