It most certainly was, even if the embers burning inside me begin to glow in a way that says otherwise.
“I’m sure you will enjoy your stay in Monte Carlo. It can be quite the adventure,” he says.
Once again, I’m left wondering if there’s some meaning behind that statement. Until it hits me.
Of course there is.
Chapter Seven Magnus
I watch her walk off, her legs like those of a newborn fawn, uncertain and slightly clumsy. Whether it’s the affliction that hits many a novice who hasn’t found their sea legs, the wine, or the recklessly dangerous way I sped us back to port, I can’t say.
For the moment, I don’t care.
Sloane Alexander is definitely someone I plan to return to. Right now, I have more important business on hand.
I pull out my phone and re-read the message from Anonymous (the name I’ve programmed into my phone for Jacques, the man I hired to handle this):
Fabian est Mort.
Fabian is dead. After this long with no contact, I assumed as much. Now that it’s been confirmed, I almost feel a certain sense of relief, as gut-wrenchingly traitorous as the thought is.
I make a call.
“Jacques,” I say in French as soon as it’s answered. “Meet me at the house. I’m on my way now.”
I don’t wait for a response.
On the same street where I left my bike, a car is parked, the driver standing by the passenger door. In one swift, coordinated move, he opens it as I stride toward him, I slide in, and he quietly closes it behind me.
Usually, I make the winding trek from the marina to my home, driving one of my various cars or on the motorcycle. Navigating the twists and turns of Monte Carlo streets requires the kind of finely honed concentration that I cannot dedicate to it right now.
My head is filled with too many questions.
Questions I plan on getting the answers to very soon.
* * *
“Tell me,” I say to Jacques.
He was already waiting outside my study when I arrived. Now, it’s just the two of us alone inside, and he knows to be perfectly honest with me, holding nothing back.
“As you suspected, he was killed.”
“How?” I ask, looking down on the city below me through the window.
“Gunshot to the head. Dumped in the Hudson River sometime last week.”
“When exactly?”
“My sources inside the NYPD said they don’t have a definite date. The body was…” He pauses.
“Tell me,” I demand, still looking out the window.
“The body had been in the river sometime, so it was partially decomposed. However, there were definite signs of torture. Burn marks. Missing digits. Severe bruising.”
“Do they have a suspect?” I say, trying to control my anger. There’s no place for emotion while I gather information.
I ease my guilt with the certainty that Fabian’s death will be avenged. He was a trusted assistant. Even though he knew the danger involved in his particular duties for me, that doesn’t mean I’m immune to his suffering.
“No suspect yet, but it could only be—”
“Good,” I say, interrupting him before he can tell me what I already fucking know.
Gabriel Fouché. Or rather, Jan Vorster, Gabriel’s latest attack dog. His prior pet is dead; the body still yet to be found. I know first hand it will be some time before it is, if ever.
“Sloane Alexander,” I say, moving on to the next matter I ordered Jacques to look into.
“I didn’t have much time to—”
I turn to face him, silencing that excuse with just one look. I already know that in the period between my calling him before the boat ride and my arrival here, he didn’t have much time to investigate her. It was the second call I made while she was still chatting with her brother.
“She’s a senior associate at Douglas & Foster, a law firm in New York City,” he says, wisely getting to the point. “She specializes in mergers and acquisitions. She’s worked there four years now, on the partner track but no success yet. Princeton for undergrad, Harvard for law school. Graduated magna cum laude for the first, top ten percent of the class for the latter.”
I ponder that information, looking back out the window. I knew she was an extraordinary woman, so this impressive curriculum vitae only fills in the blanks.
“How long has she been in Monte Carlo?”
“She arrived just this morning. That’s the interesting thing.”
I turn to face him, waiting for him to expound on that. He knows how much I hate preambles. Time is money. I don’t like wasting either of those for dramatics.
“She purchased the ticket to Nice only yesterday—and it’s a one-way ticket. From there, she immediately caught a train to Monte Carlo.”
“No return flight?” I confirm. She mentioned staying here for forty days but planning to not use the full time.
“No, sir.”
Interesting.
“Where is she staying?”
“The Papillon.”
I’m impressed Jaques has learned this much about her in so little time. Then again, I did hire him for his ability to get such information as quickly and quietly as possible.
“Anything else?”
“Just biographical. Born and raised in New York City. Both parents alive, still married. One younger brother who has bounced around in various IT jobs. One grandfather still alive. Aunts, uncles, cousins scattered across the country. No suspicious ties among any of them, at least at surface level. Obviously, I’ll keep digging.”
“Do that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“While you’re at it, find out more about her on a personal level. What she likes, dislikes. Her favorites.”
If he has any curiosity about this request, he’s wise enough to keep it to himself. “Yes, sir.”
“That will be all for now.”
“Very good, sir.”
I continue to stare out the window, waiting for the sound of the door to close behind him as he leaves. I reach out to grab a cigar from the case on my desk. After cutting and lighting it, I return to looking out at Monte Carlo beneath me.
A lot of men in my
