The Accident (30 page)

Just shy of the museum, Hayden exited the Tuileries, and stopped to wait for the traffic light at the rue de Rivoli. He turned to face the oncoming traffic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sunglassed woman from the fountain, trailing him by thirty meters, trying to cloak herself in the dense crowd.

Hayden waded through the teeming crush, and a block later trotted across the rue St-Honoré, and crossed the busy little
place
. He took a seat at the big bustling café, facing out onto the plaza, under a heat lamp glowing red, projecting its warmth down on his chilled head. He rubbed his hands together, and ordered a
chocolat chaud
. It was fucking freezing, colder than he expected, wearing his trusty old Mackintosh instead of a wool coat. It was supposed to rain today, tomorrow. Every goddamned day for months on end, rain was possible. Hayden had owned this raincoat as long as he’d been dealing with Charlie Wolfe, about a quarter of his lifetime.

He scanned the crowd, as ever looking for familiar faces, overcoats, hats. Hundreds of people streaming by, disappearing into the Métro, going this way and that, glancing at one another, and occasionally at him.

Then there she was, that woman again, walking across the plaza, toward the café, at a leisurely pace. Daylight was disappearing, but she still wore her sunglasses, which seemed to play a practical function in pinning the paisley scarf that covered her head, and wrapped around her neck, atop a subtle plaid coat with big brass buttons.

She walked straight up to Hayden’s table, and took the seat by his side, also facing out to the plaza.

“Oui Madame?”
the waiter asked.

“Un café crème, s’il vous plaît.”
She sounded fluent, and she certainly looked the part, red lipstick and snug leather gloves with a fold of fur lining. She removed the dense boiled-wool blanket from the back of the caned chair, and spread it across her lap.

They sat in silence for a minute, people-watching. Then she removed her sunglasses, folded them, placed them on the table in front of her. She unfurled the scarf. Then she pulled the tiny speaker from her left ear, and coiled its thin wire, and tucked the neat little package into her pocket.

“So,” Hayden said, “what do you think?”

The waiter delivered their drinks, and retreated hastily to the warmth of the
salle
.

“Je crois que ça pourrait devenir difficile. Très difficile.”

“Ooh.
Nice
tense there, Kate.” It was just a couple of years ago that she barely spoke a word of French.

She tried to hide her smile in her coffee cup.

“And
fault
less pronunciation.” Hayden too took a warming drink. “I agree. This could become very difficult indeed.”

Kate had been back on Hayden’s payroll just a few months. Nothing except small jobs, for what they’d taken to calling the Paris Substation. But this job, it was clear, was going to be big.

“Are you ready?”

“I am.”

They fell silent again, while Hayden’s mind chased a few different routes this could take on the way to a rich variety of disasters.

“Do you know what’s in this book?” she asked.

Hayden took another sip of his chocolate, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “No one is a villain in his own autobiography, Kate. We all spend our whole lives thinking we’re the heroes. But there are, obviously, villains in the world.” He turned to her. “Would you agree?”

She nodded.

“Well, Charlie Wolfe is one of them.”

CHAPTER 37

A
s anticipated, it had indeed been easy for the author to find the potential witness. All it took was a couple of minutes on the web and a single quick phone call for definitive confirmation.

So he found himself loitering in a service doorway across the street from the woman’s office in the Flatiron District, a dark tight street just a few blocks from the Wolfe offices, nearly all the buildings down here constructed well before setback laws, the fifteen-story structures rising straight up from narrow sidewalks, blocking out sky and light and breathing room, claustrophobic blocks of gray stone filled with small businesses, tech and web, retail and media.

She didn’t emerge till after seven, when he’d been standing out there for two hours, as daylight slipped away and the temperature dropped fifteen degrees, huddled in a not-heavy-enough overcoat over his best suit and shiniest shoes, though not the most comfortable, especially for standing on pavement for hours on end, nose running, ears tingling, hands shoved deep into pockets, gloveless, not as prepared as he should’ve been.

She walked west and he followed, a safe distance behind as well as across the street, head down. Two blocks, then she turned downtown. He was prepared to follow her onto the subway, or to hop into a trailing cab,
but he was expecting that she’d be going to a bar. It was Thursday night, and she was unmarried.

It turned out to be a subterranean lounge under a mediocre restaurant whose clientele was almost exclusively young gay men, bright-eyed and buff, flexing and preening and laughing too loud, trying to attract the free-floating, fickle attention that buzzed around a room like this.

Downstairs was different, darker and quieter. He saw her settling into a corner banquette, alone, and he took a seat at the bar, facing her, laying his coat on the adjoining stool. He checked his watch, 7:22, and it occurred to him that she must be meeting someone—this didn’t seem like a place to have a drink by yourself, certainly not sitting in a banquette like that—and that date would probably be at 7:30, so he had a few minutes. It would be sort of perfect if they got interrupted by someone else’s arrival—it would give him the impetus to press the issue—but not if that interruption was a boyfriend. He could tell from his online stalking that she was unmarried, but not if she was completely single.

He ordered a neat Scotch, and took a nerve-steeling sip. It was of course possible that she would recognize not only Charlie, but himself. Or not even Charlie, only himself. Tonight. Now.

He crossed the low-ceilinged room, his anxiety buzzing in his ears. He stopped a few steps from her table, knee-high and mirror-topped, a trio of votives flickering, reflecting, scattering light.

She looked up, a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, more attractive than suggested by her pictures on the web. Both expectant and dubious, a look common to women who regularly get approached by men in bars.

“Hi,” he said. His voice sounded like someone else’s. “Could I buy you a drink?”

It was his job to approach this woman, to make this contact. And it had been Charlie’s end of the bargain to procure the gun that was tucked, heavy as an anvil, in the silk-lined pocket of the author’s cashmere overcoat.

CHAPTER 38

J
eff watches Isabel pick up her wineglass. She takes a small sip, and swallows, and licks her top lip, her tongue sliding slowly, leaving a trail of glisten, then disappearing back into her mouth. She glances down at the glass and up to him and off to the side, her eyes dancing, flitting and sparkling and flirty.

She drags on her cigarette, the oxygenized embers glowing, her own private candle, the warm flattering light washing over her face, a brightening and then a darkening. Isabel isn’t one of those nervous smokers, tamping down on new packs, obsessively flipping ash, moving the cigarette from finger to finger, playing with it, posing. She simply lets the thing sit there in the crook of her fingers, inactive except when she moves it to her mouth, wraps her lips around it, and sucks.

Jeff has always loved the way Isabel smokes.

The last of the sunset bathes everything in a golden tint, giving her skin an extra-radiant glow, highlighting the amber flecks in her green eyes. He has never seen her look more beautiful, and she has always been absolutely beautiful.

“I’m exhausted,” she says, shifting in her seat, stubbing out her cigarette, getting ready to rise.

“Me too.” He watches her stand, then he too gets up, puts his hands in
his pockets. “Are you …?” He loses track of what it was he was going to ask. “It’s not even dark out.” He glances out at the water, at the last slivers of brilliant color on the horizon, and the vast expanses of dark blues on either side.

Jeff’s mind flashes back to that night, a half-year after her son died. As soon as he’d entered the dark low-ceilinged room, and saw her slouched at the bar, he’d known that not only her marriage but also her psyche was collapsing, imminently, and totally. And then of course they drank way too much. Then it was late, or maybe it wasn’t so late but it just felt that way, the way an evening can get late-night-feeling when it’s only the two of you, and an empty pack of cigarettes has been crumpled and discarded, and there are fives and singles strewn atop a polyurethaned bar, the remnants of a lot of rounds bought with twenties, without bothering to see if you’ve got exact change.

And then they were hugging. There are many different types of hugs, and this one evolved, so then they were kissing, intensely, messy.

And then she was crying.

And then it passed. It had been effervescent, like the fizz from Champagne, flat before they left the hallway in that Irish pub, flat but still drinkable, drinkable till it was gone, which it was when they left the bar, leaving those singles and fives scattered all over the goddamned place, Lord knows how ridiculous a tip they left.

And then out on the street, she hailed a taxi and jumped inside without saying goodnight, without saying anything, without giving Jeff the chance to take any action other than to watch her go, standing there on a sidewalk in front of a bar, swaying.

And he never knew—still doesn’t—whether it had been real in any fashion, or whether it could be completely attributed to all the drink, or whether it was the disintegration of her marriage, or this generalized emotional collapse of hers, under the unbearable burden of her grief. Whether it had anything to do with him whatsoever, or if he was not much more than a bystander.

Jeff was also, at the time, married to somebody else.

They never again discussed it, never mentioned it. So Jeff never knew how Isabel felt about it; or even if she completely remembered it.

What he does know is that he didn’t do what he should’ve: gone after her. He should’ve pushed his way into the cab with her, or he should’ve called her first thing the next morning, or for lunch the next day, or the following night, or at some fucking point he should’ve called her and asked, “Can I see you?” He should’ve been there to pick up her falling-apart pieces when her husband—who it’s now clear was a credulity-defying shithead—couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

But instead of taking immediate action, Jeff kept thinking that tomorrow he would, tomorrow some opportunity would present itself, or he’ll see her next week for sure. These imaginary chances kept floating by, like ice floes that he never hopped on, waiting for a bigger one, a more secure one, he was waiting for an ice floe that was actually a luxury cruise ship that would never arrive to rescue him from his isolation, from the slow disintegration of his own marriage.

And Isabel never called. Not in the way he wanted, hoped. She never rang up and demanded that he join her in some dingy bar at an inappropriate hour. She never called at midnight to say come over.

But now, now she’s standing here in front of him, in the falling light, wearing a Mona Lisa smile that he thinks—hopes—is encouraging. And even if he’s wrong, he still has to try, tonight.

“Isabel?”

“Mmm?”

Jeff takes one of the two steps that separate them. He has always hated this moment, butterflies in his stomach, throat tight and dry.

He takes the second step, and she doesn’t retreat. Their faces are inches apart. He leans in farther, not at all confident that this will be successful. When his lips are just a breath from hers he pauses again, giving her one last chance to back away. But she doesn’t, thank God, and so he kisses her, and she kisses him back, and he almost collapses in joy. He can barely enjoy the real experience of the kiss, too distracted by the idea of it.

Jeff has been kissing women for thirty years now, and he’s never been entirely sure when it’s going to work, with whom, and why, or how. The whole thing has always been a nightmare of indecision and insecurity. Except when it’s magic, like now, and he feels her fingers on the back of his neck, pulling him in tighter, pressing herself against him—

But then what’s this? She pulls her face away, and takes a step back, pouting. But no, that’s just a tease. She’s smiling, and turning away slowly, deliberately.

Jeff is frozen, watching her walk with measured steps, as if keeping the silent beat of a slow song.

“Come,” she says, not turning back, “with me.”

He cannot believe this is happening, and he can’t help but verbalize this in his mind, this incredulity that she’s actually going to take him to bed now of all times, in the middle of this entirely cocked-up situation, about which he has more questions than answers as every minute passes.

Because while Isabel took her late-afternoon nap, and then prepared their dinner, Jeff sat on the veranda and read the remainder of the manuscript, skimming here and there, propelled forward by the magnitude of the accusations, and nearly overwhelmed by their credibility. He’d been expecting something fantastical, something easily refutable. He’d prepared himself to dismiss this manuscript; it’s part of an editor’s mindset to be ready to call bullshit. And for this project, he was way beyond ready.

But even though he wanted—needed—to not believe this manuscript, he does. And that’s an intractable problem.

On the other hand, he’s watching Isabel walk across this living room, her body moving in front of him. He’s acutely aware of her nakedness under her clothes, of her bare skin rubbing against the flimsy fabric that separates modesty from im-, of the curve of her hip, of the line of her calf as she climbs the first stairs toward the inevitable beds, of the bend of her knee, of the space between her legs …