happened.
She waited for Derek to say something, but he didn’t. He gave her a quick nod, and as if he was slightly dazed himself, he turned and left the room. She didn’t actually breathe again until she heard the door close; then she slumped down on the edge of the bed and sucked in huge gasps of air.
Luke Sentell sat at a sidewalk table in front of Le Bristrot du Peintre on avenue Ledru Rollin. The bistro, located in the heart of the 11th arrondissement between Bastille and Nation squares, was a ten- minute walk from the heart of downtown Paris. Dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton polo shirt, he nursed a glass of Bordeaux, Cote de Bourg, as did his companion, an elderly French gentleman who called himself Henri Fortier. Luke neither knew nor cared what the man’s real name was. They were not friends, not even friendly acquaintances or business associates.
Luke’s French, although not flawless, was more than adequate, but Henri’s command of English was excellent. Wishing to appear as nothing more than customers wanting a good meal, they each ordered. Luke chose the rib steak in cream sauce.
“When you return to America, you will please tell my old friend, Inspector Richter, that I send him my best,” Henri said.
“Yes, of course.”
Henri sipped his wine, all the while studying Luke, his gaze lazily inspecting his dinner companion. “Have you ever visited St. Jakob? It’s a charming little village in the state of Carinthia, Austria.”
“No, I’ve never been there. Do you recommend I visit sometime in the near future?”
“Yes, I highly recommend that while you’re traveling in Europe, you add St. Jakob to your itinerary.”
Luke nodded. “Could you suggest a hotel and perhaps a tour guide while I’m there?”
“Indeed. You must stay at the Inn Steinhof.”
When the waiter brought their orders, Henri smiled at the young man, thanked him, and looked at his meal, eggplant lasagna with parmesan cheese.
As soon as they were alone again, Henri tasted a bite of the delicious concoction, sighed with satisfaction and then returned his attention to Luke.
“You must ask for Jurgen Hirsch. He will know where you need to go, what you will need to see.”
Luke repeated the name quietly.
He would make reservations for the first flight from Paris to Carinthia tomorrow.
“And just where can I find Jurgen Hirsch?”
“When you arrive at the Inn Steinhof, leave a message for another guest, a gentleman named Aldo Finster. Simply state in your message that you are a friend of Henri Fortier and are looking for a reliable tour guide.”
Luke nodded.
Henri smiled. “I think I shall order the orange tart for dessert.”
Following his informant’s lead, Luke, too, ordered dessert, but he ate only a few bites before saying goodnight. He had plans to make, a flight to book, and a report to send to Powell headquarters.
Chapter 16
The ringing telephone woke Derek from a sound sleep. He rolled over, kicked back the sheet, and noted the time on the digital bedside clock as he reached for his phone. 2:15 P.M. He had slept longer than he’d intended. Instantly recognizing the caller ID, he swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up as he answered.
“Derek Lawrence,” he said, holding the phone with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.
“We think we have found Albert Durham.” Sanders’s voice seldom denoted emotion of any kind, always calm and even, regardless of the circumstances.
“Alive?” Derek said the first thing that popped into his mind.
“Yes, we assume he is alive,” Sanders replied. “Of course, if you find him dead, then we will know he is not the Copycat Carver.”
“Right. So, where is he?”
“He owns a home in Cleveland, Tennessee, but apparently he does not live there. There are renters residing there at present. He has an apartment in New York City, but it has been subleased for the next six months. And he has a condo in Aspen that he rents when he is not in residence.”
“You’ve told me everywhere he’s not,” Derek said. “Do you know where he is right now?”
“Yes, of course. Otherwise, I would not have called you.”
“So where can we find the guy?”
“He has rented a house on St. Simons Island, off the coast of Brunswick, Georgia.”
“I’m familiar with St. Simons Island.” Derek had spent many summers of his childhood vacationing there at the beach house owned by his family for several generations. The house had been built by his great-grandmother’s uncle.
“I assume you and Maleah are no longer in Apple Orchard,” Sanders said.
“We’re in Aiken.” Derek stood up and headed for the bathroom. “We’re at the Holiday Inn Express.”
“Hmm . . .” Sanders remained silent for a full minute, then said, “This puts you approximately two hundred miles from St. Simons. The quickest route should get you there in four hours. If you and Maleah leave within the next fifteen minutes, you could be there no later than seven this evening.”
“Doesn’t the agency have anyone closer who could check things out while we’re en route?” Derek asked.
“We have already sent someone up from Jacksonville to keep an eye on Mr. Durham until you arrive.”
“That’s great. Give me the address and—”
“Barbara Jean has sent you the information you need. Check your e-mail.”
“Right. Okay. Maleah and I will be on our way in a few minutes.”
He should have known that Sanders would be one step ahead of him. The man had an uncanny sixth sense. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Sanders had some psychic abilities of his own. In the past, Derek had often wondered why, if Dr. Meng possessed the empathic psychic talent Griff believed she did, Griff didn’t put her gift to good use for the Powell Agency. When he had finally posed the question to his boss, Griff had explained:
“Yvette was once forced, by a madman, to use her special talents completely against her will. I would never use her in that way. I have rarely asked her to help me. How and when she uses her empathic abilities is her choice.”
Derek used the bathroom, washed his hands and splashed cold water in his face. He had shaved and showered before lying down for a nap. His slacks and shirt had been wrinkled, so he’d folded them and placed them in a plastic bag. He put on a pair of jeans and a clean cotton shirt that he’d taken from his vinyl suitcase. Then he stuffed the bag containing his dirty clothes inside the suitcase and zipped it closed. He picked up the holster containing his personal weapon—an 8-shot 45 Colt XSE. He seldom carried a weapon, but considering what had happened in Apple Orchard, he had decided to take his pistol out of his suitcase. After strapping on his holster and lifting his jacket from the back of the desk chair, he felt inside the coat pocket. He hadn’t realized until he had removed his jacket before taking a shower that, after he had opened Maleah’s door for her, he had slipped her key back into his pocket.
He put a tip for the maid on the bed, left his room, vinyl carryall in hand, and walked the few feet to Maleah’s door. He knocked softly. When she didn’t respond, he inserted the key and unlocked her door. Damn it, she hadn’t put on the latch or double bolted the door. He entered, intending to remind her that she had neglected to take the proper safety precautions, but stopped immediately when he noticed the room was semidark. He set his bag on the floor, walked quietly over to the bed and looked down at a sleeping Maleah. She wore only her panties and bra, her hair was still partially damp, and she lay sprawled in the middle of the bed, the sheet covering one leg and hip.
He shouldn’t be standing there looking at her. If she knew how much he was enjoying seeing her like this,
