Read Online The Paris Game by Alyssa Linn Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Alyssa Linn Palmer
Ads: Link
buzzed, its vibration loud on the wood of the coffee table. He snatched it up. The number displayed was blocked.
“Oui?”
“We made it.” Claude’s voice came over the line, heavily distorted by static.
“I’ll be there shortly. Do you have them?” All Marc could hear was static. “Claude?”
“Well, you see, monsieur...” Again, static.
He stood, laying his cello carefully in its case. He left the bow on the seat and walked the length of his apartment.
“What do I see, Claude?” The reception cleared and he could hear Michel in the background, talking to Claude.
“Tell him it wasn’t my fault!” Michel sounded panicked, almost hysterical.
“What wasn’t Michel’s fault?” Marc paced back across the living room, stepping around his cello. He paused in front of the window. The setting sun made him squint. He shaded his eyes and watched a pedestrian turn the corner at the boulevard de Courcelles while he waited for Claude’s reply.
“Shut up!” Claude hissed at his brother, though he’d poorly covered the phone and it carried to Marc. “Michel’s just over-excited,” Claude emphasized. “He thought we were going to get caught by the cops.”
Half a dozen violent scenarios came to mind as Marc listened to Claude embellish their daring escape from the pursuing police: how they’d ducked into alleyways and through parks, hopping on buses and finally the metro. Marc revised his favourite scenario—hanging Claude and Michel from a garret window by their ankles—to include gags. He moved away from the window, his body feeling like a coiled spring. His hand tightened around the phone.
“You’ve always been a poor liar, Claude.” He could hear Claude sputtering his assurances and Michel in the background. “Do you have them?”
Claude didn’t answer.
“You had better not disappoint me,” Marc warned. He heard Claude start his protests again, but he took the phone from his ear and ended the call. He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans and bent to put the bow back into the case with his cello. He closed the lid and left it lying in the middle of the floor. The anger came swiftly and he cursed. He should have turned down Bates’ offer. He’d known better.
He’d slung his leather jacket on the sofa earlier and he grabbed it now, putting it on as he made his way to the door. Claude would find out just how furious he was. He paused in front of the bookshelf. He went cold. Something was off about the stack of books that he’d placed in front of the box holding his handgun and switchblade—and information on the theft. He’d stacked the books in alphabetical order by author, but several were now out of place.
Only Sera had been in the apartment. Had she looked? He moved the books aside and took out the box. It appeared untouched, all the materials as he’d left them. He removed the switchblade and tucked it into his jacket. If she’d said anything, given up any information, he would have to protect himself. He replaced the box and the books, re-stacking them in the proper order. He’d go see her later and find out what she knew. But not now.
Marc left his black Peugeot around the corner and down the block from the apartment. It was one of several he owned and rented out, and the only one unoccupied. He kept it that way, though on paper it was just another apartment without a steady tenant. He saw no one as he let himself into the building. He hadn’t been here in some time. The concierge’s door was closed and looked as if it had been undisturbed. A drying puddle of soda buzzed with flies and the door to the garbage disposal gaped open, filling the air with the stench of rotting food and refuse. Even on his first visit some years prior, when the building had been little more than a brothel, it hadn’t looked this neglected.
He took the stairs to the fifth floor apartment. The first time, he’d taken them at a mad dash, flinging open the door to find his uncle’s
“Oui?”
“We made it.” Claude’s voice came over the line, heavily distorted by static.
“I’ll be there shortly. Do you have them?” All Marc could hear was static. “Claude?”
“Well, you see, monsieur...” Again, static.
He stood, laying his cello carefully in its case. He left the bow on the seat and walked the length of his apartment.
“What do I see, Claude?” The reception cleared and he could hear Michel in the background, talking to Claude.
“Tell him it wasn’t my fault!” Michel sounded panicked, almost hysterical.
“What wasn’t Michel’s fault?” Marc paced back across the living room, stepping around his cello. He paused in front of the window. The setting sun made him squint. He shaded his eyes and watched a pedestrian turn the corner at the boulevard de Courcelles while he waited for Claude’s reply.
“Shut up!” Claude hissed at his brother, though he’d poorly covered the phone and it carried to Marc. “Michel’s just over-excited,” Claude emphasized. “He thought we were going to get caught by the cops.”
Half a dozen violent scenarios came to mind as Marc listened to Claude embellish their daring escape from the pursuing police: how they’d ducked into alleyways and through parks, hopping on buses and finally the metro. Marc revised his favourite scenario—hanging Claude and Michel from a garret window by their ankles—to include gags. He moved away from the window, his body feeling like a coiled spring. His hand tightened around the phone.
“You’ve always been a poor liar, Claude.” He could hear Claude sputtering his assurances and Michel in the background. “Do you have them?”
Claude didn’t answer.
“You had better not disappoint me,” Marc warned. He heard Claude start his protests again, but he took the phone from his ear and ended the call. He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans and bent to put the bow back into the case with his cello. He closed the lid and left it lying in the middle of the floor. The anger came swiftly and he cursed. He should have turned down Bates’ offer. He’d known better.
He’d slung his leather jacket on the sofa earlier and he grabbed it now, putting it on as he made his way to the door. Claude would find out just how furious he was. He paused in front of the bookshelf. He went cold. Something was off about the stack of books that he’d placed in front of the box holding his handgun and switchblade—and information on the theft. He’d stacked the books in alphabetical order by author, but several were now out of place.
Only Sera had been in the apartment. Had she looked? He moved the books aside and took out the box. It appeared untouched, all the materials as he’d left them. He removed the switchblade and tucked it into his jacket. If she’d said anything, given up any information, he would have to protect himself. He replaced the box and the books, re-stacking them in the proper order. He’d go see her later and find out what she knew. But not now.
Marc left his black Peugeot around the corner and down the block from the apartment. It was one of several he owned and rented out, and the only one unoccupied. He kept it that way, though on paper it was just another apartment without a steady tenant. He saw no one as he let himself into the building. He hadn’t been here in some time. The concierge’s door was closed and looked as if it had been undisturbed. A drying puddle of soda buzzed with flies and the door to the garbage disposal gaped open, filling the air with the stench of rotting food and refuse. Even on his first visit some years prior, when the building had been little more than a brothel, it hadn’t looked this neglected.
He took the stairs to the fifth floor apartment. The first time, he’d taken them at a mad dash, flinging open the door to find his uncle’s
Similar Books
