In Their Footsteps / Stolen: In Their Footsteps / Stolen. Tess Gerritsen

moved on to other jobs. Still, it was worth a shot.

      To his surprise, he discovered that Mario Cassini was still employed as a waiter. Well into his forties now, his hair a salt-and-pepper gray, his face creased with the lines of twenty years of smiles, Mario nodded and said, “Yes, yes. Of course I remember. The police, they come to talk to me three, four times. And each time I tell them the same thing. M. Tavistock, he comes for café au lait, every morning. Sometimes, madame is with him. Ah, beautiful!”

      “But she wasn’t with him on that particular day?”

      Mario shook his head. “He comes alone. Sits at that table there.” He pointed to an empty table near the sidewalk, red-checked cloth fluttering in the breeze. “He waits a long time for madame.”

      “And she didn’t come?”

      “No. Then she calls. Tells him to meet her at another place. In Pigalle. I take the message and give it to M. Tavistock.”

      “She spoke to you? On the telephone?”

      “Oui. I write down address, give to him.”

      “That would be the address in Pigalle?”

      Mario nodded.

      “My father—M. Tavistock—did he seem at all upset that day? Angry?”

      “Not angry. He seems—how do you say?—worried. He does not understand why madame goes to Pigalle. He pays for his coffee, then he leaves. Later I read in the newspaper that he is dead. Ah, horrible! The police, they are asking for information. So I call, tell them what I know.” Mario shook his head at the tragedy of it all. At the loss of such a lovely woman as Mme Tavistock and such a generous man as her husband.

      No new information here, thought Jordan. He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back.

      “Are you certain it was Mme Tavistock who called to leave the message?” he asked.

      “She says it is her,” said Mario.

      “And you recognized her voice?”

      Mario paused. It lasted just the blink of an eye, but it was enough to tell Jordan that the man was not absolutely certain. “Yes,” said Mario. “Who else would it be?”

      Deep in thought, Jordan left the café and walked a few paces along Boulevard Saint-Germain, intending to return on foot to the hotel. But half a block away, he spotted the blue Peugeot. His little blond vampiress, he thought, still following him about. They were headed in the same direction; why not ask her for a ride?

      He went to the Peugeot and pulled open the passenger door. “Mind dropping me off at the Ritz?” he asked brightly.

      An outraged Colette stared at him from the driver’s seat. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded. “Get out of my car!”

      “Oh, come, now. No need for hysterics—”

      “Go away!” she cried, loudly enough to make a passerby stop and stare.

      Calmly Jordan slid into the front seat. He noted that she was dressed in black again. What was it with these secret agent types? “It’s a long walk to the Ritz. Surely it’s not verboten, is it? To give me a lift back to my hotel?”

      “I do not even know who you are,” she insisted.

      “I know who you are. Your name’s Colette, you work for Claude Daumier, and you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on me.” Jordan smiled at her, the sort of smile that usually got him exactly what he wanted. He said, quite reasonably, “Rather than sneaking around after me all the way up the boulevard, why not be sensible about it? Save us both the inconvenience of this silly cat-and-mouse game.”

      A spark of laughter flickered in her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips. “Shut the door,” she snapped. “And use the seat belt. It is regulation.”

      As they drove up Boulevard Saint-Germain, he kept glancing at her, wondering if she was really as fierce as she appeared. That black leather skirt and the scowl on her face couldn’t disguise the fact she was actually quite pretty.

      “How long have you worked for Daumier?” he asked.

      “Three years.”

      “And is this your usual sort of assignment? Following strange men about town?”

      “I follow instructions. Whatever they are.”

      “Ah. The obedient type.” Jordan sat back, grinning. “What did Daumier tell you about this particular assignment?”

      “I am to see you and your sister are not harmed. Since today she is with M. Wolf, I decide to follow you.” She paused and added under her breath, “Not as simple as I thought.”

      “I’m not all that difficult.”

      “But you do the unexpected. You catch me by surprise.” A car was honking at them. Annoyed, Colette glanced up at the rearview mirror. “This traffic, it gets worse every—”

      At her sudden silence, Jordan glanced at her. “Is something wrong?”

      “No,” she said after a pause, “I am just imagining things.”

      Jordan turned and peered through the rear window. All he saw was a line of cars snaking down the boulevard. He looked back at Colette. “Tell me, what’s a nice girl like you doing in French Intelligence?”

      She smiled—the first real smile he’d seen. It was like watching the sun come out. “I am earning a living.”

      “Meeting interesting people?”

      “Quite.”

      “Finding romance?”

      “Regrettably, no.”

      “What a shame. Perhaps you should find a new line of work.”

      “Such as?”

      “We could discuss it over supper.”

      She shook her head. “It is not allowed to fraternize with a subject.”

      “So that’s all I am,” he said with a sigh. “A subject.”

      She dropped him off on a side street, around the corner from the Ritz. He climbed out, then turned and said, “Why not come in for a drink?”

      “I am on duty.”

      “It must get boring, sitting in that car all day. Waiting for me to make another unexpected move.”

      “Thank you, but no.” She smiled—a charmingly impish grin. It carried just a hint of possibility.

      Jordan left the car and walked into the hotel.

      Upstairs, he paced for a while, pondering what he’d just learned at Café Hugo. That phone call from Madeline—it just didn’t fit in. Why on earth would she arrange to meet Bernard in Pigalle? It clearly didn’t go along with the theory of a murder-suicide. Could the waiter be lying? Or was he simply mistaken? With all the ambient noise of a busy café, how could he be certain it was really Madeline Tavistock making that phone call?

       I have to go back to the café. Ask Mario, specifically, if the voice was an Englishwoman’s.

      Once again he left the hotel and stepped into the brightness of midday. A taxi sat idling near the front entrance, but the driver was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Colette was still parked around the corner; he’d ask her to drive him back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. He turned up the side street and spotted the blue Peugeot still parked there. Colette was sitting inside; through the tinted windshield, he saw her silhouette behind the steering wheel.

      He went to the car and tapped on the passenger window. “Colette?” he called. “Could you give me another lift?”

      She didn’t answer.