Kill Me If You Can

Chapter 45

MARTA KRALL CHECKED her Breitling Starliner and rang the doorbell to Leonard Karns’s apartment. One thirty-three in the afternoon. The building was drab, dilapidated, and depressingly quiet. Karns buzzed her in, and she took the stairs to apartment B4.

A short, fat lump in gray sweatpants and an olive-drab T-shirt that said ART IS RESISTANCE stood in the doorway.

“You Detective Krall?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded. Then she pointed to her throat and whispered, “Laryngitis.” She liked acting and had unsuccessfully attempted a transition from modeling to movies back in Germany.

“That sucks,” he said. “But no problem. I know what you’re here to find out.”

Marta smiled again. Good boy.

She stepped into the apartment, and he shut the door. It was stuffy and smelled of burnt coffee. There was art all over the walls. Undoubtedly his. She stopped to look at one of the paintings and gave him a big thumbs- up.

“It’s called Improbabilities Number Six,” he said.

“Nice,” she whispered. It was true. She genuinely liked Improbabilities Number 6. It was powerful, meticulous, urban chic — nothing like the loser who painted it.

Marta tapped her hand to her heart to show how much she loved it. Karns’s eyes settled on her chest as he mumbled a shy thank-you.

Marta took the picture of the man she was trying to find and handed it to Karns.

“You’re going to give me the paperwork for the reward, right?” he said.

She waved him off with an of course I will gesture, and sat down on the sofa. She pulled her skirt up a little so he could get a good look at her legs. She took out a pad and pencil and sat waiting for him to speak.

“The guy you’re looking for is Matthew Bannon,” Karns said. “He’s in one of my classes at Parsons. Since you like my work, you’d hate his. He’s all technique. But he’s dead inside. No originality.”

Marta nodded and tried to communicate that she understood this idiot.

“Who did he rob, anyway?” Karns said.

Marta turned to a clean page on her pad and wrote Where can I find him?

“Believe it or not, he’s been shacking up with the professor of our Group Critique class. Her name is Katherine Sanborne. She’s an asshole, just like he is. Talk about a conflict of mediocrity.”

He watched her write it down. “No, that’s not how she spells it,” he said.

He took the pad and wrote Katherine Sanborne in clear block letters. Marta wrote the words Where is she above the name and added a question mark after it.

“Just a sec,” Karns said. He scrambled over to his desk, opened a center drawer, and pulled out a packet of papers that were held together by two brass brads.

“This is the faculty directory,” he explained. “They don’t exactly give it out to students. I happened to get my hands on a copy. You never know when you might want to get in touch with one of your professors.”

Or stalk her. Marta gave him another thumbs-up for his ingenuity.

He opened it to Katherine’s name in the directory. There were penciled doodles all around it. Karns had obviously spent time staring at it. Below Sanborne’s name were her address, home phone, cell phone, and e-mail. That was all Marta needed.

“And you think that zis Sanborne woman will be wiz Bannon?” Marta said loud and clear.

“Definitely,” Karns said. “Hey, how did you get your voice back like that?”

“I sink it’s a miracle,” Marta said.

Karns looked totally confused. “Are you German?” he said.

“What’s the difference?” Marta said as she crossed her legs like sharp scissors.

He never even saw the Glock. He was staring at Marta’s thighs, lightly licking his lips, as she pulled the trigger and blew most of his head off.

A few minutes later, Marta Krall casually walked down the steps and checked her watch as she left the building. She’d taken something to remember Leonard Karns by. Improbabilities Number 6.

Chapter 46

LIKE A LOT of young women who move to Manhattan, Katherine Sanborne couldn’t afford to live in a building with a doorman. So she invested in three heavy-duty locks for her front door. And none for her windows. As she had said to her concerned parents, “Who’s going to climb five stories up the side of the building? Spider-Man?”

Marta Krall didn’t have to climb up. She took the elevator to the roof, rappelled ten feet down, and went through the unlocked window. It took less than thirty seconds.

The apartment looked like it had been hit by Hurricane Katherine. Dresser drawers were open, and there were piles of clean clothes on the bed and the floor. Katherine had obviously packed and left in a hurry.

Marta was familiar with the scenario. Her target was on the run and he had invited his girlfriend to run with him.

But where were they going?

The first clue lay on Katherine’s four-by-five-foot dining room table: a red ribbon and a handful of postcards with pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and other Paris landmarks.

There was also a bottle of French wine on the table.

Instinctively, Marta opened the refrigerator. It was single-girl-in-the-city sparse. But there, alongside the nonfat yogurt and the Coke Zero, were two baguettes and a chunk of creamy-rich 60-percent-butterfat Brie.

All part of Bannon’s romantic invitation, Marta decided.

Katherine’s computer was sitting on her desk. Marta booted it up. No password required, because, once again, the prevailing thought process was I don’t have anything worth stealing, and even if I did, how could anyone get into my apartment?

Marta opened Katherine’s e-mail in-box. The last message was from Beth Sanborne. Kat,Can’t believe you and Matthew are going to Paris on the spur of the moment. Oh, to be young and in love. Send us the flight number and the name of the hotel. I don’t care how old you are. Mothers need to know.Love,Mom and Dad

Marta checked the sent mail. Katherine’s response had the flight details, and she’d followed up with Don’t know the hotel yet. Will text you from Paris.

She shut down the computer and called Etienne Gravois at Interpol.

“This Matthew Bannon you found for me is on his way to Paris,” she said. “He’s traveling with another American, Katherine Sanborne. They should have landed at Orly the day before yesterday. I need a confirmation.”

“Hold on,” Gravois said. Twenty seconds later he was back. “They cleared passport control Saturday, no problem. He’s a student. Should they have flagged him?”

“No, he’s not a terrorist,” Marta said. “Just a small nuisance I have to deal with.”

“Yes,” Gravois said. “I know how efficient you can be with nuisances.”

“And don’t ever forget it,” Krall said. “Where are they staying?”

“The Bac Saint-Germain.”

“Is that a decent hotel?”

“It’s not the George Cinq, but it’s clean and it’s in the Quartier Saint-Germain-des-Pres, which is very vibrant,