Trader of secrets

Chapter Thirty-Two

I assume that’s not him,” says Joselyn.

I open my eyes. A fat guy with a bald head has just come out of the front door to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

“No.” I start to close my eyes again.

“You’re going to have to stay awake if we’re going to do this,” she tells me.

“Give me a break. I got almost no sleep last night.” With thoughts of Liquida running through my head, I kept wondering why the FBI hadn’t sent someone to meet us.

“That’s not my fault,” says Joselyn. “I don’t know what he looks like. You do.”

It’s late afternoon. Joselyn and I are camped in the front seat of a small black Renault. We rented it through the front desk at our hotel this morning. She is behind the wheel. I’m in the passenger seat. We are parked across the street and about a half block down from the front entrance to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

It is a European-style boutique inn with a single entrance on the main street shaded by a maroon canvas awning. There is not a lot of foot traffic in or out. On the corner it looks as if there is an attached restaurant or bar.

We are at a loss to figure out how to confirm whether Liquida has checked into the hotel or not. It would be senseless to call the front desk, since it is certain he would never register under the name Liquida. Joselyn called looking for the other name left on the Thailand message system-the name “Bruno.” The desk told her there was no one there, either under the Christian name or surname of Bruno. We’re batting zero for two.

“Tell me what he looks like.” Joselyn is talking about Liquida.

“He’s got black hair.” My eyes are closed again, but I can see him. “You have to remember it was more than a year ago. His hair looked like it might have been slicked down. His face is pockmarked. Childhood acne would be my guess.” The minute I say it the mental image is blocked. The concept of Liquida as a child is a non sequitur, like describing Satan when he was a kid.

“How tall is he?”

“I’m guessing average build, but I don’t really know. He was seated behind the wheel of a car when I saw him. It was quick, nighttime, and I only got a glimpse. But I won’t forget the face.”

“Why not?”

“He was dead in the eyes, if you know what I mean.”

“No. Tell me.”

“How do I explain it? Ever seen any mug shots?”

“A few.”

“Luciano and Dillinger, you look at their eyes?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t cut it, not with Liquida. I’ve thought about it. The only picture I can ever recall seeing that comes close is Dillinger’s postmortem shot, the one they took after the feds shot him. The lids half open but no spark of life whatever. That’s Liquida.”

“Now you’re freaking me out,” she says. “Could it be that’s why you couldn’t sleep last night?”

“You asked.”

“OK. So tell me more.”

“That’s it.”

“No, you said his eyes were dead-why, what’s your theory?”

“It’s no theory. Go to San Quentin, take a look through the yearbook. You can always tell the ones who like to kill from the rest. You don’t need any training. You can see it in their eyes. Like a vampire looking in a mirror. There’s nothing there. I’m not just talking about the nutcases in the adjustment center. I mean the ones who crave killing. The ones who, if you let them out, will kill again before sundown, not because conditions force them, but because they’re addicted. It’s their narcotic of choice.”

“You really think there are people like that?” Joselyn is a romantic. She likes to believe that wherever there is life, there is some goodness.

“I know there are. And Liquida is hooked. He may not be a bloodsucker, but he mainlines on death. Look in his eyes and you’ll get a glassy, dead stare, as if whoever made him forgot to light the candles. If his pupils are moving, it’s only because he’s measuring you for a box, or a fifty-gallon drum if he can fold you up neatly enough to fit.”

“Now I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“If you see him, you’ll recognize him. Trust me. So maybe I can catch a few winks now.”

She waits about ten seconds. “I don’t get it,” says Joselyn. “We send a message to Thorpe, tell the FBI what we found, and we get nothing. You would think they have connections in Paris. The law enforcement fraternity. Why don’t they call somebody with the Paris police and have them come out?”

“Probably for the same reason we don’t.”

“Why is that?” she asks.

“There’s no hard evidence that Liquida’s inside. Britain, Thorpe’s man on the phone-the only thing he seemed to key on when we spoke was the fact that none of us-you, Harry, or I-have seen Liquida in the flesh. Not here and not in Thailand. The minute I told him we had no visual confirmation, he told me to drop it and get back to D.C.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that back in the room?” says Joselyn.

“Because I didn’t want you to lose hope.” I open my eyes long enough to wink at her. “If I tell Harry that, he’s gonna want to go back. And once we go back, that’s it. Thorpe’s not going to let me out of his sight again. And if you recall, Harry was not in favor of this trek to begin with. And don’t you go telling him what Britain said. There’s enough to deal with right now without having to do a pitched battle with Harry.”

“Maybe he’s right,” says Joselyn.

“You heard the voice on the tape. Tell me you don’t think Liquida’s inside that building.” I nod toward the hotel across the street. “He said he’d be in Paris Monday. That was yesterday.”

“If in fact it was his voice,” says Joselyn.

I look at her.

“OK, so perhaps he’s there. We can’t prove it unless we see him.”

“That’s why we’re sitting here.”

“It is possible the FBI might know something we don’t.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“You’re starting to sound like Harry. Give them time. I am confident that Thorpe will come around the minute he hears Liquida’s voice on that tape.”

“If you say so.”

“What time does Harry spell us?” I ask.

“Six o’clock, why?”

“I need to call Sarah at the condo as soon as we get back to the room. I told her we’d be back in four days. Knowing my daughter, she’s going to be mad as hell.”