Wanted: A Leopold Blake Thriller (26 page)

“
Je suis désolé
,” said Rousseau, opening his jacket to reveal his sidearm and badge. “
Occupé
.” He hit the button to close the doors and smiled as the suits disappeared from view.

The elevator set off again and Rousseau composed himself. He had heard two other voices on the phone earlier in addition to Blake’s, one with an American accent and one that sounded German. Blake had mentioned a gun. Something about the German gave Rousseau shivers, a feeling that he couldn’t shake off. Probably just the effects of the adrenaline pumping through his blood. The captain put one hand on his service revolver.

Twelfth floor.

The low rumble of the elevator reached a crescendo. The walls of the car seemed a little closer in than before.

Fifteenth floor.

The captain steadied his breathing and ran through a mental checklist: Backup was on the way. There were six rounds in the barrel of his revolver and extra rounds in his pocket, just in case.

Eighteenth floor.

He wasn’t wearing a protective vest.

His hand was shaking a little.

He wasn’t as good a marksman as he used to be.

He wasn’t exactly getting any younger, either.

His muscles ached.

Rousseau told himself to stop worrying. Thirty years on the force was long enough to develop an instinct. Muscle memory and gut reactions had kept him alive so far, and he wasn’t about to break the habit.

Nineteenth floor.

Nearly there. Rousseau kept his hand on his gun and watched the elevator lights announce the next stop.

Twentieth floor.

A soft chiming noise announced his arrival. The doors opened.

Time to move.

Chapter 57
 
 

LEOPOLD HEARD THE crunch of glass under Harris’ shoe. The cell phone was destroyed, completely useless. The police wouldn’t even be able to track it. Hopefully, Rousseau had taken the bait already.

“We won’t be needing that, I think.” Harris reached forward and took the gun away from the German. “It doesn’t really look too good, does it? A gunshot wound to the back of the head doesn’t really scream ‘self-defense’. We’ll have to be a little rough around the edges this time, Reiniger.”

Harris lay the gun on the desk and walked around to his chair. Leopold heard a drawer open.

“When a wanted murderer breaks into your office and attacks you, it’s far more likely you’ll end up in a bit of a struggle.” Harris pulled out a heavy-looking revolver and lay it down next to the German’s pistol. “I reckon it’s more likely an intruder would get hit in the chest. What do you think, Reiniger?”

Leopold turned his head and saw the German nod. It was definitely the same man from Dubois’ house, still dressed in the suit he was wearing when he murdered Gerard. The man’s expression was cold, impassive. There was a spark of something ruthless in his eyes. Leopold knew the look well.

“Good,” Harris continued. “Why don’t you give me and Mr. Blake a little time alone? We’ve got some catching up to do. Keep an eye out for any other visitors.”

Reiniger turned and left the room without another word.

“So, this is what it all comes down to,” said Leopold. “All this, just for a chunk of money? You’d betray everything we built together?”

Harris picked up the revolver, weighing it in both hands. “Everything
you
built. Everything your
father
built. I was along for the ride, sure. At first, that was all I needed. But after ten years, fifteen years, hell…” he smiled. “After
twenty
years working with you and your father, what do I have to show for it? You don’t pay that well, you know. And the way you’re going about running this place, the whole company is going to be looking at bankruptcy in a few years. I’ve got to start thinking about retirement, Leopold. After a lifetime of working my ass off, I deserve the chance to live a little, don’t you think?”

“Business is booming, Harris,” said Leopold. “You got greedy, that’s all.”

“You really have no idea, do you?” He shook his head and stepped out from behind the desk. “We’re struggling to break even. And that’s on a good year. If you spent more time in the office, where you belong, and less time playing cops and robbers, you’d know that. But so long as your trust fund stays topped up, you really don’t care, do you? The sale of Chemworks is the only thing that can really get us back in the game. And I knew you’d be too blind to go along with it.”

“And that’s why you kept things from me, all these years,” said Leopold. “This was your intention the whole time.”

“Not the whole time,” said Harris. “But when we made the discovery… Well, suffice it to say my eyes were open to what was possible with the right attitude and approach.” He shook his head. “The Chemworks business is a regulatory nightmare. If anyone found out what we were doing,” he paused. “Still, none of that matters now. With you out of the picture, I can take control of your shares and push the sale through with the other stockholders. The board will sign off the paperwork and it’s a done deal. We get an injection of capital to get us through another few years, and I get a significant boost in my investment portfolio – enough to make sure I never have to work another day in my life. It’s a win-win situation. It’s a shame you won’t be around to enjoy it.”

“Don’t do this, Harris. You have no idea what these buyers will do with the company. If that sort of research fell into the wrong hands, the results could be devastating.”

“Relax. You’re being paranoid.”

“I suppose you did your due diligence, did you? Or was the lure of the money too tempting to question their motives?”

Harris shook his head. “Why should I care? I spent my whole life doing what other people thought was the right thing. Now it’s my turn.”

“People have died. Can’t you see what’s happening here?”

“People like Dubois? His own greed was his downfall. Do you know how easy it was to convince him to arrange the break-in? Once I found out the Louvre was kicking him to the curb, it was a done deal.”

“But why?”

“You can work it out, I’m sure.” Harris leaned against the desk, holding the gun loosely by his side. “You’re supposed to be the smart one, after all.”

“It was all about me, wasn’t it?”

“There’s that ego again.” Harris rolled his eyes.

“You needed me in Paris for this to work, and you knew I’d never turn down a job with the Louvre. But you had to give them a strong enough reason to hire me.”

“A stolen painting seemed like a strong enough reason. After the FBI Director recommended you, it was in the bag. Or, at least, someone who sounded a lot like the FBI Director on the phone.”

“And once you had me in place, all you had to do was have your Rottweiler set me up and make sure everything went down smoothly.” He shook his head. “What I still don’t understand is why you killed all those people at the cathedral. They were no threat to you. Why did they have to die?”

“No loose ends, like you said. And with you in prison, without that bodyguard of yours to keep an eye on you, it was inevitable that something bad was going to happen eventually. I expect your giant friend is learning that for himself.”

“Those people died for no reason,” said Leopold. “There were never any loose ends. You killed innocent people just to make me look like more of a killer. You didn’t need to do that.”

“Oh, but I did. But you’ll never know why.” He raised the gun. “It’s enough for me to know that I beat you. That I’m smarter than you.”

Leopold sighed. “You went to a lot of trouble. And for what? I’m still here. A smart man would have just killed me in the first place.”

Harris smiled and took a step forward, aiming the revolver at Leopold’s chest. “There’s still time for that.”

Chapter 58
 
 

ROUSSEAU STRODE TOWARD the corner office on the top floor, his open jacket revealing his badge and gun. He ignored the anxious looks and focused on his target. From fifty feet away, he could make out silhouettes against the blinds. There were people in there. Two people. But Rousseau had heard three voices on the phone before the line had gone dead – so where was the other?

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Rousseau felt movement before he saw it, something approaching from behind at speed. The captain turned and registered a gray blur, moving too fast to follow. Then the pain came.

Rousseau felt his head snap to the side. He fell to the floor and rolled, instinctively reaching for his gun as he got up to his knees. He looked up for his target and saw a man dressed in a charcoal suit. His face was familiar. Pain hit again as the captain brought his revolver around and the suit kicked out, knocking the weapon from his hand on to the floor.

That’s when everyone started to panic. Someone must have seen the gun and started screaming. There was a stampede as the office workers realized what was going on and decided to make a run for it. Most of them headed for the elevator, while the smarter ones either dashed for the stairwell or ducked under their desks. A few ran close by, scrambling for the exits, separating the captain from his attacker.

The respite was welcome. Rousseau got to his feet and let his training take over. He recognized the man’s face now, from the parking lot camera footage. Wearing a suit this time, but unmistakable. The tall, broad shoulders and ruthless face, the obvious muscle around the arms and neck. Was this the man with the German accent on the phone? Rousseau shook the questions out of his head, gritted his teeth, and charged.

The
capitaine
lowered his shoulder and went for the knees. The suit tried to move, but Rousseau was too fast. He lifted the German off the floor and didn’t stop driving forward until he hit one of the partition walls. The whole thing shook from the impact, but the suit didn’t make a sound. Rousseau felt a jolt of pain in his shoulder and lost his grip. He saw the German’s knee come up and felt his nose crunch. Something wet dripping down his face. A white-hot daze of pain and disorientation filled him.

Stumbling backward, Rousseau tried to put some distance between them. The suit moved fast, covering the floor in two steps. Something in his hand. Was that a knife? The pain came again as the German lashed out and Rousseau danced to the side, but too late. He glanced at his arm and saw the tear – a deep red gash beneath his jacket sleeve.

The office workers finally worked out the elevators weren’t going to work out for such a large crowd and turned back, heading for the stairs. They froze as they realized Rousseau and his opponent were in the way. At least three dozen people stood staring, dumbfounded. Then someone saw Rousseau’s badge.

“Look! The Police!” A chubby man with a goatee pointed.

“He’s hurt,” said someone else, out of sight.

The German held up the knife. Rousseau noticed his police service revolver, maybe ten feet away, lying on the floor. Within reach of the crowd.

“There’s a gun,” one of the workers said.

“Don’t touch it!” said another.

“But we can help.”

“You don’t know how to shoot.” Another voice joined in.

“I know better than you.”

“How the hell would you know?”

The bickering continued. Rousseau looked over at the German, a little more than an arm’s length away. The captain could see every muscle in the man’s body tensed, ready to strike. Rousseau knew he didn’t stand a chance against his younger, stronger opponent – but, luckily, he had something the German didn’t.

“This is your last chance to walk away from this,” Rousseau said, looking into his attacker’s eyes with as much bravado as he could muster.

“I think you may have misread the situation,” the German replied. “You are wounded and without a weapon.”

“For now. But what happens when that crowd figure out they can pick up the gun and use it. I’m the only one with one of these.” He tapped his badge. “Who do you think they’ll aim for?”

The German paused.

“Make the smart move and get out of here. My men aren’t looking for you. There’ll be nobody to get in the way. If you stay, this won’t end well for you.”