'Mossad is probably following me too.'
'You're a very popular man.'
'It's because I'm a good listener. People like a good listener.'
'Indeed.'
'I'm also fun at parties.'
'And a snazzy dancer. What do you want to do about the tails?'
'I'd like to lose them for the day.'
'No problem.'
LOSING a tail is fairly easy. In this case, Win got us a car with tinted windows. We drove into an underground garage with several exits. The car left. Two others came along. I hopped in one, Win the other.
Terese was at Karen's now. I was on my way to see Mario Contuzzi.
Twenty minutes later, I rang the doorbell at the Contuzzi apartment. No answer. I checked my watch. I was about five minutes early. I thought about the case, about how Interpol had gone crazy over that mug shot.
So who was the guy who pulled a gun on me in Paris?
I had tried all the cute 'n' fancy ways to find the man's identity. Maybe, while I had a free minute, I should try the most direct route.
I called Berleand's private line.
Two rings later, a voice answered and said something to me in French.
'I would like to speak to Captain Berleand, please.'
'He is on holiday. May I help you?'
Holiday? I tried to picture Berleand enjoying some leisure time on the beach in Cannes, but the picture wouldn't hold. 'I really need to reach him.'
'May I ask who's calling?'
No point in not saying. 'Myron Bolitar.'
'I'm sorry. He's on holiday.'
'Could you please contact him and ask him to call Myron Bolitar? It's urgent.'
'Please hold.'
I held.
A minute later, another voice-this one gruff and speaking perfect, uh, American-came on the line. 'May I help you?'
'I don't think so. I wanted to talk to Captain Berleand.'
'You can talk to me, Mr. Bolitar.'
'But you don't sound like a very nice man,' I said.
'I'm not. Cute how you slipped our tail, but this isn't very funny.'
'Who are you?'
'You can call me Special Agent Jones.'
'Can I call you Super Special Agent Jones? Where is Captain Berleand?'
'Captain Berleand is on holiday.'
'Since when?'
'Since he sent you that mug shot against protocol. He was the one who sent you that mug shot, wasn't he?'
I hesitated. Then I said, 'No.'
'Sure. Where are you, Bolitar?'
From inside the Contuzzi apartment I heard the phone ring. Once, twice, three times.
'Bolitar?'
It stopped after six rings.
'We know you're still in London. Where are you?'
I hung up and looked at Mario's door. The ringing phone-ringing like a phone used to, not like some ringtone on a cell-had sounded very much like a landline. Hmm. I put my hand on the door. Thick and sturdy. I pressed my ear against the cool surface, hit Mario's cell phone number, watched the LCD display on my mobile. It took a moment or two before the connection went through.
When I heard the faint chime of Mario's cell phone through the door-the landline had been loud; this was not-dread flooded my chest. True, it may be nothing, but most people nowadays do not travel even the shortest of distances, including bathroom visits, without the ubiquitous cell phone clipped or carried upon their person. You can bemoan this fact, but the chances that a guy working in television news would leave his cell phone behind while heading to his office seemed remote.
'Mario?' I shouted.
I started pounding on the door.
'Mario?'
I didn't expect him to answer, of course. I pressed my ear against the door again, listening for I'm not sure what-a groan maybe. A grunt. Calling out. Something.
No sound.
I wondered about my options. Not many. I reared back, lifted my heel, and kicked the door. It didn't budge.
'Steel-enforced, mate. You'll never kick it down.'
I turned toward the voice. The man wore a black leather vest without any sort of shirt underneath, and sadly, he didn't have the build to pull it off. His physique, on too clear a display, managed to be both scrawny and soft. He had a cattle-ring piercing in his nose. He was balding but the little hair he had left was done up in what might be called a comb-over Mohawk. I placed his age at early fifties. It looked like he had gone out to a gay bar in 1979 and had just gotten home.
'Do you know the Contuzzis?' I asked.
The man smiled. I expected another dental nightmare, but while the rest of him might be in various stages of decay, his teeth were gleaming. 'Ah,' he said. 'You're an American.'
'Yes.'
'Friends with Mario, are we?'
No reason to go into a long answer here: 'Yes.'
'Well, what can I tell you, mate? Normally they're a quiet couple, but you know what they say-when the wife's away, the mouse will play.'
'What do you mean?'
'Had a girl in there, he did. Must have hired her out, you know what I'm saying? The music was loud too. And bloody awful. The Eagles. God, you Americans should be ashamed.'
'Tell me about the girl.'
'Why?'
I didn't have time for this. I took out my gun. I didn't point it at him. I just took it out. 'I'm with the American police,' I said. 'I'm worried Mario may be in serious danger.'
If my gun or pleas ruffled the Billy Idol wannabe, I couldn't see it. He shrugged his bony shoulders. 'What can I tell you? Young, blond, I didn't get a good look. Came around last night as I was heading out.'
Young, blond. My heart started thumping. 'I need to get into that apartment.'
'You can't kick it in, mate. You'll break your foot.'
I aimed my gun at the lock.
'Whoa, hold up. You really think he's in danger?'
'I do.'
He sighed. 'There's a spare key above the door. On the ledge there.'
I reached up and felt along the small edge of the door frame. Sure enough, a key. I put it in the lock. Billy Idol moved next to me. The stench of cigarette smoke came off him as though he'd been used as an ashtray. I opened the door and started inside. Billy Idol was right behind me. We both took two steps in and froze.
'Oh, sweet Jesus…'
I said nothing. I stood and stared, unable to move. The first thing I saw was Mario's feet. They were strapped to the coffee table with duct tape. The baby booster and plush tot toys I had seen yesterday had been strewn to
