Legally Dead (27 page)

“Of course, Mikey.”

“I need your help. Here's what I want you to do. Open the door and casually walk out, let them think you're coming to them. Instead, go to my car.” He pressed the remote key into her hand.

“There's a leather folder taped under the glove box. Take it out, don't let them see it. Signal them that you'll be right back and bring the folder to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Bail out, but I can't let them follow me.”

She nodded.

“Take your cane,” he said. “Use it, and move slowly.”

She went to the intercom and told the reporters she'd be right out.

The aggressive pack of cameramen jockeyed for position and crowded closer to the gate. Why do they do that, he wondered, even when someone is willing to talk to them?

Vicki did as he asked, smiled reassuringly at the reporters, signaled them to give her a minute, and brought the folder back to the house.

By then he'd thrown some things into a duffel bag.

He heard the reporters' aggrieved shouts from the gate as she reentered the house and closed the door. Somebody put a finger on the buzzer again and didn't take it off. He took the folder from her, checked through it: his passport, a bank book, ID, and credit cards were all there. He snatched up the duffel bag and the computer's TravelDrive.

“I'm out of here,” he said. “But don't let them know that. When I close the back door, you step out the front and move down the driveway as slowly as you can.

“Smile as if you can't wait to meet them. Ignore the cameras. When they ask for me, answer with questions. ‘Who is it that you're looking for? How do you spell that? You sure you have the right address?' Look confused. Be vague but charming. When they ask your name, act coy. Be shy. Say you're visiting. That you're the caretaker, or the real estate agent, or a tourist who rented the place for a week. Say whatever you like. Use your fertile imagination. Just speak slowly and keep them occupied long enough for me to split.

“If they realize I'm making a run for it, they may call in a news chopper. That could be a problem.

“Once I'm gone, leave your car where it's parked. They can't see the tag number from there without trespassing. If they do, call the police. Say you're alone, frightened, and strangers are breaking in. Use my car. The gas tank is full.”

“I know, dear. It's always full.”

“Love you, lady.” He kissed her cheek. “Hold down the fort till I get back.”

“I will,” she promised. “Don't worry about a thing. Love you, too, Mikey. No problem. Be careful.”

“Take care of her,” he told the dog, who panted and wagged his tail.

Venturi looked back. Vicki stood poised, one hand on the doorknob.

“I'm ready for my close-up,” she said, and blew him a kiss.

He closed the back door behind him as she swung open the front. The reporters began to shout.

“Danny, where are you?”

“Douglas Road, on my way to the house of death for more fun and frolic.”

“Can you pick me up? I need your help.”

“I'm on the way. Where you at, bro?”

“In my boat, headed west in the canal toward the levee. You know the one. Meet me there.”

Venturi did his best to conceal the boat, which he left tied up in the mangroves, and waited by the road.

“Thought you were going to Europe,” Danny said, as Venturi yanked open the car door and threw his bag into the back.

“Had to go over the wall at the house. It's surrounded—a three-ring media circus.”

“I heard.”

Venturi did a double take.

“Luz just saw Vicki live on the noon news and called me. Said she had a half dozen microphones stuck in her face. Looked like one of America's most wanted, or a politician. Oops, I'm being redundant.”

“Hated to leave her there, but I didn't have a choice.”

“No sweat. Luz said she looked like she was having fun. Misinterpreting their questions, acting confused and hard of hearing. Made them scream and shout, which made Scout bark his brains out. When the TV people asked her to shut him up because he kept ruining their takes, she slooowly turned and started to limp after him. The reporters all screamed, ‘Never mind! Never mind.' Nice work.”

They bumped off the rutted dirt road onto solid pavement.

“Where to, boss?” Danny flashed his trademark grin.

“MIA.”

“Gotcha.”

At the airport, Danny drove into the long-term parking garage and snatched a ticket from the machine.

“What are you doing?” Venturi demanded. “Don't park. Just drop me off.”

“And do what with the car?” Danny looked puzzled.

Venturi blinked. “You don't…?”

“Think I'd miss this? Let you have all the fun?”

Their eyes locked.

“You don't have to come, Danny.”

“No way I'm not.”

“Got a passport and ID handy?”

“Always.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “I've got American, Canadian, and Colombian, among others.”

“What about Luz?”

“She and the kids have 'em, too. The world's closing in on us, bro. Never know when the big shit bomb hits the fan and we all have to make a run for it.”

“No, no. I meant does she know you're leaving the country, for Christ's sake.”

“I'll give her a call from there.”

Venturi rolled his eyes. “I'm glad I'm not married to you.”

“The feeling is mutual. Hate to have to tell you this, but you were never my type.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

Danny hoisted his duffel bag from behind the backseat. “It's always packed,” he said. “What's our first stop?”

“France, the closest as the crow flies.”

“Hoped you'd say that.” He flashed his wicked grin.

Mike frowned.

“We going as strangers, amigo?” Danny asked.

“Yep. We should travel alone.”

“Makes sense.”

Danny strode straight through security. Venturi was wanded, groped, and had his bag searched twice. They boarded separately, assigned to different sections of the next flight to Paris. Venturi slept, or tried to, during the flight. Several times he heard Danny's hearty laughter from somewhere behind him. On a trip to the restroom he saw him seated next to the emergency exit, chatting with the young couple beside him. Danny saw him, too. Neither gave any sign of recognition.

They disembarked at Orly Airport and met at a taxi stand outside the terminal. Danny gave the driver a Paris address, to “pick up some things for the party,” he said.

Venturi waited in the taxi while Danny disappeared into the side door of a costume and party supply store. He returned in minutes with a large shopping bag and a wooden box, which he stowed in the trunk. Then they took off for Tours, more than an hour's drive into wine country.

There they rented a car. Danny filled out the forms. Venturi drove while Danny called home.

“
Bonjour,
sweet face. Yeah. I know I'm late. Won't be home for a while. Paris. No, not Texas. Yeah, Paris. As in France and that skinny Hilton broad. Duty calls. Be back quick as I can…. Not sure. Kiss the kids for me and tell 'em Daddy loves 'em…. I'm always careful…. Love you, too.
Au revoir,
baby.”

He turned to Venturi. “Happy now?”

“Look for Rue Vendome, number 414,” Venturi said.

“How did you get her address?” Danny asked.

“Her
nom de guerre
is Micheline Lacroix…”

“Yeah, but she's on
la liste rouge
.”

“And you know that because?”

He scowled. “Did an operator give you her damn address?”

“Nope. Read the news from Tours last night on the Internet.”

“Hell, tell me she didn't make the news. Did she?” Danny furrowed his brow. “What happened to low profile? If you could find her that way, so could somebody else.”

“Probably not her fault. Online in a business column. Micheline Lacroix was named as the new manager of a specialty wine and food shop in Tours. But you're right, which is why this is our first stop. We can make short hops to cover the 'hood north of here later, if we have to. Lyle Gates is on the run. Hopefully he can take care of himself for a while.

“Shoulda heard him, Danny,” Venturi said earnestly. “In spite of all the shit raining down, he made me proud. He's not the man I first met, ready to lie down and die in a swamp. He handled himself like a champ. Fought for his life. Loves his new job. Excited about the future. How can I regret what we did? He's a goddamn success story. Which is why this is so damn unfair to him, and to Marian Pomeroy. I hope Audra is savvy enough to have a heads-up after my call. She and Aiden are the farthest away. Hopefully that makes them safer, at least for a while.

“I'm not sure where the hell father-of-the-year Andrew McCallum is, or if he's even in Scotland. If we don't find him fast, we may have to forget him and go to Australia.”

“I'm up for that.” Danny sounded enthusiastic. “It's one place I've never been. Slow down! Here's rue Vendome.” Danny stared through the windshield.

They had little trouble finding the specialty shop called Epicure.

They parked nearby and Venturi called the telephone number on the sign outside.

Micheline Lacroix was expected in thirty minutes, he was told.

Danny took the party supplies from the trunk. They opened the packages behind the tinted windows of the car. In the box were two high-powered .45-caliber, fifteen-shot automatic handguns and boxes of ammunition. In the shopping bag were two military-grade protective vests. Body armor.

They loaded the weapons.

“Nice,” Venturi said. “How'd you line this up?”

“Made a few calls from the airport, before we left the States.”

Venturi, who still hadn't shaved, wandered into the shop, browsed the gourmet foods, and bought pastries and coffee to go.

They drank the coffee in the car.

Danny, restlessly scanning the street, didn't touch the food.

“There she is!” he finally said. “Incoming, at three o'clock. On foot.” He whistled appreciatively. “Oh, man.” He moaned. “Look at her.”

Micheline Lacroix owned the street, a head turner in a white silk shirt, tight black skirt, and stiletto heels, the epitome of French womanhood; clothes fashionable, hair sleek, exuding a kick-ass attitude of sultry self-confidence.

Danny reached for the door handle.

“Not on the street,” Venturi warned. “Remember, you were on the outs, persona non grata, when she left. Let's approach her inside where she's less likely to make a scene.”

“Makes sense.” Danny's eyes never left her. “Oh, catch that hip action! It's killing me.”

She walked by, no more than a few feet from their tinted windows, and entered the shop.

“At least we know she's alive,” Venturi said, worried about Lyle Gates.

They gave her a few moments, then walked into the shop. Micheline was at the back, donning a silky black bib apron. She tied it at her narrow waist, glanced up, and saw Danny.

For a moment she looked stunned. They both stared.

“Bonjour, cherie.”

“
Oh, mon Dieu! Qu' est ce que sont vous faisant ici?
Oh my God! What are you doing here?”

Venturi watched the familiar heat sizzle between them.

“You couldn't stay away. I knew it.” She smiled triumphantly, then turned her back. “
Laissez moi tranquille. Je ne veux pas vous parler
,” she murmured. “Leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you.”

She walked away, chin up, all business, speaking rapidly to an employee she called Emile. They couldn't hear the conversation, but Emile didn't seem to notice them.

“We should have snatched her off the street,” Danny muttered, as they took seats at the counter.

They ate sandwiches and sampled gourmet salads. She kept her distance, overseeing the kitchen, the bakery, the front, and the cash registers.

Danny finally asked an employee to pass her a folded handwritten note.
Micheline, it is urgent that we speak
, scrawled in French on a napkin. Discreetly, so that only they could see, she tore it into tiny shreds and flung them into an ashtray.

Eventually they left, drove off, then circled, and parked down the block.

“I don't get the big attraction,” Venturi said, perplexed. “That is one damn difficult woman. It's like she has chronic PMS.”

“I like taming the wild ones. You have to break them, like horses,” Danny said.

“You're not having much luck with this one. If she gets the chance, she'll stomp you to death.”

Customers and employees began to straggle out shortly after 9 p.m. An hour later, the place went dark and she emerged, accompanied by Emile, who stood by as she locked the door.

“Crap, who the hell is he?” Danny said. “If he goes home with her…”

The two chatted for a moment, then walked to their separate cars.

She paused at hers for a moment, glancing up and down the street, her expression disappointed. As she unlocked her car, a BMW screeched to the curb beside it.

“Who the hell's that? Go! Move it! Go! Go! Go!” Danny yelled.

Before the words were out of his mouth, a man burst out of the passenger side and caught Micheline around the waist and by the hair. Muffling her screams with his hand, he dragged her, kicking and struggling, into the BMW's backseat.

Venturi pulled away from the curb without lights as the BMW peeled out and wheeled around the corner.

“Don't lose 'em! Damn! We shoulda seen that coming! Don't lose 'em!” Danny pounded the dashboard.

The BMW now moved sedately at the speed limit from a less-traveled street onto a main thoroughfare. They were three cars behind as it merged into traffic. Only the driver was visible.

“She could be dead already. We have to stop them.”

“Right,” Venturi said, as the car made a sharp turn into the parking garage of a multistory shopping mall. They followed, several cars behind. The first level was full. There were a few open spaces on the second, but the BMW kept ascending through the nearly empty third level and the vacant fourth and fifth.

“Where the hell are they going?” Danny pulled the body armor over his shirt. He tossed a vest to Venturi, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, picked up a gun and racked one into the chamber.

The car emerged on the empty rooftop level and stopped in the center, stars overhead, the glow of city lights below.

Venturi, still without headlights, crept to the entrance.

“Didn't know the party would start so soon.” He pulled on the vest, hoping that the men who snatched Micheline off the street were the same two who attacked Lyle in Ireland and that one was the man who had invaded his home.

“Put the gloves on, man,” Danny reminded him.

Venturi did so. “Stay low,” he warned.

“That son of a bitch in the backseat is mine,” Danny said. “You take the driver.”

On his count of three, they slipped out of the car, leaving the doors ajar. As they approached, guns in hand, the back door on the driver's side burst open. They heard Micheline scream and saw her legs flailing as she tried to escape but was dragged back into the car.

Before her abductor could close the door, Danny wrenched it out of his hand. He reached in, caught the man by the throat, yanked him from the car, kicked his feet out from under him, and slammed him facedown on the pavement. He still clutched a gun in his right hand but let go when Danny stomped his wrist.