Double Cross

Chapter 98

NOW THIS WAS GLORIOUS. Truly.

The last place Kyle Craig expected to be-ever again-was on the Champs-Elysées, but here he was in Paris, probably his favorite city in the world. Top three, for sure. With Rome and Amsterdam. Maybe London. He supposed it was that intense yearning he had for freedom that he was feeling now, the need to do the unexpected, to follow his every whim, ultimately to kill again. To torture. To express his rage in new ways.

Over the last few nights, he’d dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world-Taillevent, Le Cinq inside the George V, right next to the Prince de Galles, where he was staying. None of the meals cost him less than four hundred Euros, about five bills American, but he didn’t care, not in the least. He had more than enough money, and wasn’t that what “vacations” were about? Get away from the job, the rat race, all the killing. Give himself time to think, to plan.

The Prince de Galles was a good spot for him in all regards. It was on the scenic Avenue George V, just a few blocks from the Champs-Elysées. The hotel was gorgeous-Art Deco for the most part, gilded-with the most beautiful chandeliers everywhere you looked. But he particularly enjoyed the Regency Bar, which was English in style, lots of leather, dark wood, and velvet. Elvis Presley had once stayed at the Prince de Galles, and now so had Kyle Craig.

There had been museums to visit in the mornings-the Musée d’Orsay and Musée de l’Orangerie were his two favorites-the Impressionists. Maybe he’d go to the Louvre today as well, but just to see the Mona Lisa. And he’d taken long walks along the Seine, where he’d done a lot of thinking-and some more planning.

There was one decision he’d made for sure: he wasn’t going to let DCAK have Alex Cross as his trophy. No, Alex Cross belonged to him, and so did the Cross family-Nana, Janelle, Damon, and little Alex Jr. That had always been the plan. He’d obsessed on it for years.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d do a little wet work before he left Paris. That was his art, which was just as beautiful, and important, as anything created by the so-called old masters. He was a new master, wasn’t he? Perfect for this barbaric age. Right for the times. No one had ever done it better, certainly not DCAK.

He spotted a pretty young woman in a tight gray blouse, black skirt, and high boots, with long hair that was almost auburn in color. She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a small art gallery. Back and forth, back and forth-very efficient woman. And so attractive to be behind a broom.

So Kyle stopped at the gallery-went inside-and she left him to look around for the first few minutes. So independent-so very French. No wonder he adored them so.

Finally she appeared at his elbow. “You wish some help?”

Kyle smiled, and his eyes went bright. He spoke to her in French. “You are a detective? My clothes, my haircut-they gave me away.”

“No, it was your shoes, actually,” she said.

He laughed. “You just say that-to be perverse.”

Finally she laughed too. “Or maybe humorous?”

“This isn’t funny,” he told her then. It wasn’t. He took over an hour to kill her. And then he used her broom-and not in the usual way, not to sweep, and handle first.

And then, a fabulous parting meal at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon.

Ahhh, Paris. A miracle city.