it.
"His left forearm was chewed up a good bit more than
his right. That was the work of two different hounds."
The spray would have come from a severed artery that
still pulsed with blood. The left arm would have been used in a
defensive move. That meant Trevor had been alive at the time
of the attack. I stayed silent, absorbing that information while
McNulty read my thoughts.
"The tabloids will have some fun with dogs as murder
weapon." He grunted a dry laugh. "Won't they now?"
I nodded to the phone.
"I checked out your finance guy, Mumby. He had
worked at LIFFE until about a month ago, when he left for an
investment bank. That was before Trevor transferred
twenty-five thousand euros to the same bank. "
I decided I might need an interview with Mumby
whether he agreed to one or not, but that could wait. I called
Pascal, my Paris investigator, and asked him to meet me and to
engage the lady he called a ghost.
This time, the venue was close to my neighborhood.
We met at the Sacre Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. I stood at
the edge of the bluff overlooking the city. The winter sky was
mostly clear, but still a haze lay above the cityscape stretched
out for miles below. Among the chattering of small bands of
tourists, I heard a familiar voice.
"We should have met indoors, Irish. Cold out." Pascal
stepped next to me. "This is Marie, the phantom."
She was an elfin young woman, with a delicate face and
deep-brown eyes that seemed as big as a deer's. She stuck out
her hand and squeezed hard when I took it. She was stronger
than she looked.
"How long have you been doing this kind of work?" I
asked her.
"Counting today?"
"Yes."
"Including the time it took to get here, about forty-five
minutes."
I scowled at Pascal. "I thought you'd worked with
her."
"I've been training her."
"But she's never worked. This is a bad case, Pascal.
There's been another... I don't know what we have, but Trevor
Jones' body was found outside London."
Pascal shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "No problem,
she's good."
"No problem," Marie hooked her thumbs into her belt
and stuck out her chin. "I move like—"
"A ghost. I already know." It turned out she really did.
We tripled-teamed the PDVSA duo when they left their office
that evening. They split up. Pascal stayed with one. Marie and I
trailed the other. Our guy took evasive actions, stopped to
check reflections in windows, doubled back along his path,
walked into the front entrance of a building checked the area
for faces then took a side exit. He turned down an alley. I gave
him time to get ahead and almost followed, but Marie signaled
for me to stop. A few minutes later, he walked back out. She'd
known it was a dead-end.
He finally went into a dingy couscous restaurant on a
narrow side street off Rue Lafayette. Marie took an oversized
tam out of her purse, stuffed her hair underneath it and pulled
the band down to her eyes. Then she went into the restaurant. I
waited inside the entry of an apartment building across the
street and listened to my stomach rumble while I watched the
restaurant's door. The most curious thing about this episode
was why our man had taken evasive action. Maybe he was
meeting a girlfriend or a boyfriend he didn't want his colleague
to know about.
Maybe a private business deal.
The light in front of the restaurant was not good, but it
was enough to see that one of the two men who got out of a
taxi shortly thereafter bore a strong resemblance to photos of
Cervantes. The other man appeared to be Middle Eastern.
Could he be the Saudi Gavizon had told me about?
I was in for a long wait. When I wasn't fielding stares
from suspicious residents entering or leaving the apartment, I
played mental games that mostly involved trying to convince
my feet that they weren't tired and cold. They weren't that
dumb. Their protest had grown about as loud as I could
tolerate by the time a taxi stopped in front of the café an
hour and seventeen minutes after Marie had followed
"His left forearm was chewed up a good bit more than
his right. That was the work of two different hounds."
The spray would have come from a severed artery that
still pulsed with blood. The left arm would have been used in a
defensive move. That meant Trevor had been alive at the time
of the attack. I stayed silent, absorbing that information while
McNulty read my thoughts.
"The tabloids will have some fun with dogs as murder
weapon." He grunted a dry laugh. "Won't they now?"
I nodded to the phone.
"I checked out your finance guy, Mumby. He had
worked at LIFFE until about a month ago, when he left for an
investment bank. That was before Trevor transferred
twenty-five thousand euros to the same bank. "
I decided I might need an interview with Mumby
whether he agreed to one or not, but that could wait. I called
Pascal, my Paris investigator, and asked him to meet me and to
engage the lady he called a ghost.
This time, the venue was close to my neighborhood.
We met at the Sacre Coeur Basilica in Montmartre. I stood at
the edge of the bluff overlooking the city. The winter sky was
mostly clear, but still a haze lay above the cityscape stretched
out for miles below. Among the chattering of small bands of
tourists, I heard a familiar voice.
"We should have met indoors, Irish. Cold out." Pascal
stepped next to me. "This is Marie, the phantom."
She was an elfin young woman, with a delicate face and
deep-brown eyes that seemed as big as a deer's. She stuck out
her hand and squeezed hard when I took it. She was stronger
than she looked.
"How long have you been doing this kind of work?" I
asked her.
"Counting today?"
"Yes."
"Including the time it took to get here, about forty-five
minutes."
I scowled at Pascal. "I thought you'd worked with
her."
"I've been training her."
"But she's never worked. This is a bad case, Pascal.
There's been another... I don't know what we have, but Trevor
Jones' body was found outside London."
Pascal shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "No problem,
she's good."
"No problem," Marie hooked her thumbs into her belt
and stuck out her chin. "I move like—"
"A ghost. I already know." It turned out she really did.
We tripled-teamed the PDVSA duo when they left their office
that evening. They split up. Pascal stayed with one. Marie and I
trailed the other. Our guy took evasive actions, stopped to
check reflections in windows, doubled back along his path,
walked into the front entrance of a building checked the area
for faces then took a side exit. He turned down an alley. I gave
him time to get ahead and almost followed, but Marie signaled
for me to stop. A few minutes later, he walked back out. She'd
known it was a dead-end.
He finally went into a dingy couscous restaurant on a
narrow side street off Rue Lafayette. Marie took an oversized
tam out of her purse, stuffed her hair underneath it and pulled
the band down to her eyes. Then she went into the restaurant. I
waited inside the entry of an apartment building across the
street and listened to my stomach rumble while I watched the
restaurant's door. The most curious thing about this episode
was why our man had taken evasive action. Maybe he was
meeting a girlfriend or a boyfriend he didn't want his colleague
to know about.
Maybe a private business deal.
The light in front of the restaurant was not good, but it
was enough to see that one of the two men who got out of a
taxi shortly thereafter bore a strong resemblance to photos of
Cervantes. The other man appeared to be Middle Eastern.
Could he be the Saudi Gavizon had told me about?
I was in for a long wait. When I wasn't fielding stares
from suspicious residents entering or leaving the apartment, I
played mental games that mostly involved trying to convince
my feet that they weren't tired and cold. They weren't that
dumb. Their protest had grown about as loud as I could
tolerate by the time a taxi stopped in front of the café an
hour and seventeen minutes after Marie had followed
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