The Killer

NINE

13:15 CET

“What the hell is going on here?”

Alvarez and Kennard stood on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. In front of them the crowd was three ranks deep before a police barrier. The road had been cordoned off on either side of the hotel. Alvarez could see numerous uniformed and plain-clothes officers and crime-scene personnel going about their duties.

Kennard got off his phone and turned to Alvarez. “From what I can make out something crazy went down this morning. I’m hearing eight people dead-shot-and one suspect at large who may sound familiar.”

“Holy crap, John.” Alvarez looked at Kennard expectantly. “The same guy who capped Ozols?”

The younger man nodded. “The shooter shares the same taste for exotic projectiles. Apparently several people were shot with 5.7 mm subsonics. It’s too early for them to have matched the bullets yet, but…”

“The chances of two separate gunmen both using that specific round in Paris on the same morning-”

“Are slim at best.”

“Skeletal, even.” Alvarez did his best to peer over the heads of the spectators who were eager for a glance at something juicy. “When did all this go down?”

“Sometime in the am is the best anyone can tell me. So not long ago.”

“Before Ozols got clipped?”

“Not sure, at least an hour later I think.”

“We’ve got to get inside there.”

Alvarez pushed his way through the crowd. He was a big man by anyone’s reckoning. He had wrestled his way through college, strictly Greco-Roman, and at six even and two ten he still looked like a warrior, even if his black hair had developed more than a few gray friends. His size could be intimidating, and he had exploited that plenty of times before, but these days Alvarez realized it was far better for people to underestimate him than to be afraid of him. At times like this, though, he put his bulk to good use.

He met a palm the instant he reached the line. Alvarez showed his credentials. After examining them for a moment the guy gestured for his superior. The Frenchman who sauntered over was middle aged, short, meticulously groomed, looking annoyed at actually having to do something. Alvarez still had his hand up and the policeman squinted at the opened wallet for a few seconds.

“Yes?” he asked simply in English.

“Are you in charge here?”

The guy nodded. “I’m Lieutenant Lefèvre.” He paused. “What can I do for you?” He added the second part almost as an afterthought.

Alvarez put his wallet away. “I’m with the United States Department of State working out of the American embassy here in Paris. I believe your suspect for this shooting may be the same individual who killed a contact of mine earlier today, a Latvian national by the name of Andris Ozols.”

Alvarez could tell Lefèvre knew of the connection already, but he doubted Lefèvre knew what Ozols had been doing in Paris. “So?” he asked simply.

Alvarez wasn’t exactly surprised, but he would have liked a more encouraging response. “So,” he echoed, “it’s in both our interests to pool our resources on this. If I can take a look around the hotel I-”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why, did you not hear what I just said?”

Lefèvre shifted the weight between his legs, which, judging by his gut, was considerable. “This is our investigation. You have no jurisdiction in this country.”

Alvarez resisted taking the bait; instead, he took a breath and said evenly, “I’m not looking to steal your suspect from you or your credit, I just want to help find him. And crazy as this sounds, I thought we might help each other to achieve that.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Lefèvre said, with no attempt at sincerity. “If your assistance is required you can be assured we’ll ask for it.”

He turned around and headed back toward the hotel.

“What a dick,” Alvarez muttered after he’d gone.

He pushed his way out of the crowd less politely than he had made his way in. He got out his cell phone and looked at Kennard.

“Okay, time for plan B.”