Elementary, My Dear Watkins (7 page)

“Gee, thanks. But, really, why don’t you just make the whole trip instead of me? I hadn’t even thought about the language issue. If you speak all these different languages, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to be the liaison? Especially since the doctors that are going probably all speak German?”

Luc shrugged, easing around another car and shifting into fifth gear before replying, “You are right. That would make more sense. But most of the doctors are probably multilingual. If they don’t know English, they will at least know French. You will survive.” He blasted the horn at a slow-moving truck and then swerved around it.

“Besides, Georgette said that Bashiri asked for you specifically.”

“He did?” Danny asked, his eyes wide. “Me? Specifically?” Unbelievable. Had Bashiri seen Danny’s work? Did he sense a fellow artiste? Did he recognize the burning ambition in Danny’s soul, the raw talent that yearned for recognition? “How do you know?”

“Georgette told me that Bashiri said he had never seen anyone pack a set of lenses with such care. He was also impressed with the amount of weight you were lifting while loading the truck. They are calling you a liaison, but I have the feeling that ‘pack animal’ is more like it. Get ready to feel like a burro,
mon ami
.”

Luc laughed, but Danny didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He realized that this evening’s offer from Chester Parks had pumped up his ego to the point where he was ready to believe that even someone like Kalunga Bashiri could be impressed with his talent. Instead, this dream opportunity had come about only because Danny had a few muscles and knew how to handle good equipment.

It figured.

“What’s the problem, Danny? Do you not want to go?”

“Of course I do. In fact, I want this more than I’ve wanted anything since I’ve been in Paris.”

“Certainly more than a high-paying job at
Haute Couture
, eh?”

Danny felt a flush of embarrassment. How could he explain to Luc his reasons for turning that down? More than likely, it was Luc’s dream job, and considering that he was the one who set up the meeting between Danny and Chester Parks in the first place, he was probably more shocked about the outcome than Chester had been. Danny realized that maybe an apology was in order.

“Listen, man, I’m really sorry about how that all turned out. The whole thing sort of blindsided me, you know? I never saw that job offer coming.”

“You followed your heart and not your wallet,
mon ami
. That’s to be admired, I suppose.”

“How about you, Luc? You’d be great for
Haute Couture
. If you know the guy, why not pitch yourself for the same position he offered me?”

“I did, after you left. Chester said he would consider it. I know what that means, ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Then Georgette called, looking for you, and I had to make a quick exit. Perhaps Chester will reconsider later.”

“Is he familiar with your work? How do you know him, anyway?”

Luc rode aggressively close to the bumper of the car in front of him, forcing it to pull into the slow lane before speeding past.

“I do not know him well. We met the other night at the
Gallerie du Monde
. He was very taken by the picture you have on display there, and Georgette was bragging that you were one of her interns. She even started telling him about your movie poster and your other stock photo sales—just bragging, I am sure, not knowing he was listening very carefully, planning to steal you out from under her.”

Danny flinched as they reached their exit and Luc raced to pass a car on the single-lane exit ramp. Danny had skipped the gallery event on purpose, fearing yet another boring, drawn-out cocktail party where everybody got drunk on the free booze and spent the whole evening name-dropping, one-upping, and pretending they were art experts.

“This morning I got a call from Chester, asking me to arrange an introduction to you. I suggested dinner and that was that.”

“But why didn’t you tell me the real reason for the dinner? I just thought you wanted company at the restaurant.”

“Georgette was nearby at the time. As was Kalunga Bashiri. What would you have had me say? ‘Come to dinner with me tonight, Danny, where you are going to be wooed by the competition’?”

Danny gripped the armrest as Luc floored the accelerator to make it through a light that had already been yellow for several long seconds. It was red when they reached the intersection, so he simply pressed down the horn and kept going.

“It would be nice to make it to the station alive,” Danny gasped as they narrowly missed a car coming at them from the side.

“
Eh bein
, we will make it, do not worry. I grew up in a racing family. My uncle drove in the Grand Prix.”

“Wow. How’d he do?”

Luc slammed on the brakes, clipping a rubber traffic cone before swerving to miss an open manhole.

“He lived to tell about it,” he replied. “As will we.”

“I had a feeling I might find you here,” Bradford said, stepping toward Jo. “If you’re going upstairs to talk to your dad, I’d like to come too. He’s been refusing my calls for the last few weeks, but if I’m with you, he’ll have to see me and listen to me. Between the three of us, maybe we can figure out what’s really going on.”

Jo swallowed hard, searching Bradford’s face for signs of malice or anger or insanity. Instead, all she could see was an eager sort of desperation. Was he to be believed about anything?

“He’s at a ribbon-cutting ceremony,” she said finally. “I’m going there.”

“Fine. We can take my cab.”

“It’s out in North Ulton. I’m going by train.”

“I’ll come too. We can talk on the way.” Bradford stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. “I know you don’t really trust me right now Jo, but you need someone with you, to protect you.”

“Hey, buddy,” the cabbie called. “Your fare?”

“Just a second,” Bradford said, holding out one hand. “Jo, let me finish telling you what I have to say on the train ride out there. When we get to North Ulton, we can talk to your father together.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Come on. You seem almost frightened of me. Believe me, Jo, I’m the one person right now you
don’t
need to be frightened of.”

He gestured again toward the cab. Jo looked at the driver, who was watching their exchange warily, as though he was afraid Bradford might bolt without paying.

“What could happen in a cab or on a train, Jo? Once we get there and talk to your father, I’ll say goodbye and promise to leave you alone forever if that’s what you want.”

Jo squinted at him, feeling suspicious and skeptical but also frightened. What if Bradford really was telling the truth and she truly was in danger?

“This all seems like a stupid joke, Bradford, but right now I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. If someone really wants me dead, then tell me who it is, and why.”

“It’s complicated, Jo. I’ll try to explain as much as I know on the way.”

“Then at least tell me who paid you to marry me. Who signed the checks or made the bank transfers or whatever? Was it my father?”

Bradford hesitated.

“Give me a name and I’ll go with you.”

Bradford looked around and then back at her, lowering his voice even more.

“I know what they did was wrong, Jo, but they do love you in their own weird way. I’m sure once they find out that your life is in danger, they’ll move heaven and earth to protect you. They’ve got the knowledge and the resources to figure out who’s behind this—and hopefully to stop it.”

“Who is ‘they,’ Bradford? Are you talking about my parents? Tell me straight out. Did my father pay you to marry me?”

“Yes, he did,” Bradford whispered sharply. “Along with your mother. They did a dumb thing, but right now I think they’re the only ones who can help.”

Heart pounding, Jo didn’t even reply. She simply stood there and considered her options, and then she walked to the cab and climbed inside.

“Grand Central Station,” Bradford told the driver, slipping in beside her.

Jo stared straight ahead, silently burning all the way to the train station. Even if Bradford was nuts or was lying about most of this, something in Jo’s gut told her that her father still had some big explaining to do.

By the time they reached the train station, Danny was ready to jump out and kiss the ground. Instead, he simply climbed from the car, grabbed his bag, and ran with Luc from the parking lot to the station. Rémi was waiting for them at the door, a plastic bag in one hand and a fistful of papers in other, pacing wildly, a look of immense relief covering his face when he saw them.

“Rémi!” Danny said, his heart plummeting. “What are you doing here? I thought Sabine was in labor!”

Rémi gestured for both men to follow him, and he spoke as they dashed down the long hallways of the expansive train station.

“She is, but we are not supposed to go to the hospital until the pains are five minutes apart. Right now, they are between ten and fifteen and she is at her mother’s. I just wanted to make sure everything is taken care of here. Quickly, quickly. Mr. Bashiri is waiting for us at track six.”

They dashed through a series of long halls and down a wide stairway, finally emerging into the open, cavernous part of the station where they would board. As they approached track six, they saw that the train was already there, a shiny and sleek high speed TGV that looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Danny saw that the other passengers had already gotten on, save for one very short, very dark-skinned man dressed in his usual garb of a multi-pocketed khaki jacket and slacks, a neat cotton hat upon his head and a small, tidy camera bag hanging from his shoulder. On the ground nearby was a well-worn black leather suitcase.

“You said they would make it and they did,” Mr. Bashiri told Rémi calmly with a soft, African lilt. Then, with a nod to Danny and Luc, he stepped aboard the train.

“Go with him,” Rémi instructed Danny, thrusting the plastic bag he’d been carrying into Danny’s hands. “I’ll give the paperwork and final instructions to Luc. Grab Bashiri’s suitcase, would you?”

Immediately, Rémi redirected his attention to Luc, switching to their native French language and speaking so quickly that Danny only caught a little bit of it, something about baggage and customs and tickets. Danny picked up the black bag and stepped aboard, looking up the narrow hallway of the train just in time to see Mr. Bashiri step from the hallway into a room. Danny quickly sprinted up the hall and joined him, knocking first and then stepping inside to see a small-but-impressive first-class sleeper compartment.

On the far wall was a large window, flanked on each side by gray velvet seats that faced each other. Above each seat, set into the walls, were folded-up berths. To the right of the door was the private bathroom, which included a toilet, a shower head, and a small, stainless steel sink adorned with several crisp white towels and a freshly-wrapped soap. To the left was a small closet.

Trying not to look flustered or breathe heavily from all of the running, Danny put his bags on the floor beside the door and then set Mr. Bashiri’s suitcase inside the closet.

“Would you like for me to hang up any of your things?” Danny asked, gesturing toward the suitcase.

Mr. Bashiri, a man of few words, simply held out the strap of his camera case. Danny carefully took it from him and put it in the closet as well. Mr. Bashiri settled in the forward-facing seat next to the window, and when Danny asked if he could get him anything, the man asked for a cold bottle of water.

“Of course,” Danny said, suddenly wondering how he thought he was going to pull all of this off.

Liaison? What a joke! Except for a few weekend jaunts to more rural parts of France, Danny had never been on a European train in his life. He didn’t know where to get water. Did they have a club car? A water cooler? Some sort of cabin steward?

Danny hesitated, glancing at Mr. Bashiri, who smiled bemusedly and then gestured toward the plastic bag on the floor, the one Rémi had handed Danny at the last minute. Danny reached for it, picked it up, and looked inside to see two wrapped sandwiches and three bottles of water, foggy with condensation. Smiling, Danny handed one to Mr. Bashiri.