CHAPTER THIRTY

Paris had lost its luster. What had always been the most beautiful city in the world to Taylor was now just a jumble of crowded streets and muddy sidewalks, bordered by imposing stone buildings. Perspective was everything. People were rude, prices were ridiculous, and the cold cut through to her bones. The only time she felt any semblance of warmth was when she was sequestered in the bathtub at her hotel. By Wednesday evening, she gave up on the idea of finding Alan and booked a Thursday afternoon flight back to Dulles.

Taylor wheeled her bag to the lobby three hours before her flight was to depart, and the bellman called a cab. She tipped him and slid in the backseat, wanting to be alone with her thoughts from the past two days.

First thing Tuesday morning she had rented a car and spent the daylight hours driving the streets of the East Bank, concentrating mostly on the vicinity of Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine, where she had seen Alan on the sidewalk the day before. Her flaming red hair was tucked up inside the tam, as it had been when she had seen him. Lucky thing, she thought, as Alan probably would have caught the color flash and recognized her. Women with striking red hair were not that common.

He was there somewhere, amidst the tangle of ancient cobblestone roads and historic buildings. He lived there, of that she was now certain. Anything else was just too coincidental. That meant he was either French by birth or had relocated to Paris later in life. She leaned toward the latter, as he had absolutely no trace of a French accent, nor did he drop his h’s when he spoke. At dinner, he switched the fork to his left hand to slice through the meat, then back to his right hand to eat. A North American trait not practiced in Europe. There were other details as well, all leading to the same conclusion—Alan was an American living in Paris. But where?

She wasn’t ready to spend any more time on what was a long shot. She had been very lucky to see him on the street Monday, but the chances of a repeat performance were slim to nil, and the longer she trolled the streets, the more she was convinced counting on sheer luck twice was not the answer. There were other ways to attack this problem. And to Taylor, that was exactly what this had now become. A problem. Something to be solved. She had always excelled at circumstances that involved logistics and creativity. And what could be more apt than trying to piece together exactly how Alan Bestwick and Edward Brand had worked together to pull off the scam. They had taken her for a lot of money, but Alan had taken something far more valuable. He had reached inside her soul and stolen her trust. The money she could live without, but the deception was too much. There was one word that summed up what she wanted. It wasn’t a pretty word, but it was the one.

Revenge.

How to get it was another story. She wasn’t sure. But she felt that the first step toward that goal was to involve Kelly Kramer. Whether he could empower the resources of the NSA was doubtful, but Kelly was an intelligent man who thought outside the box. The kind of person she needed on her side right now. On her side. What a way to think. Almost as if it were a battle. Or a war for that matter. But in some ways, it was. Alan had infiltrated her life, wooed her, married her and lived with her as her husband for almost three years. All of it, every minute, a lie. She felt the anger rising again, as it had so often over the past forty-eight hours.

Her driver pulled into the airport and stopped in front of the Delta entrance. She paid him, wheeled her bag to the counter, checked in and immediately went through the gate to the waiting area. It was cold in the airport, and she kept her jacket on, shivering as she sat alone in the crowded terminal. They announced the boarding for her flight, and she waited until most of the passengers had checked through before getting on. The plane departed about six minutes off schedule, and once it reached cruising altitude, she pulled a blanket over her, tucked her head into the pillow and slept. When she woke they were about an hour from landing at D.C. It was the best sleep she’d since bedding down in Kelly’s guest room.

He was waiting for her when the plane arrived, just after six on Thursday afternoon. She had departed Paris at four in the afternoon, and the time change had almost wiped out the flying time. Since she hadn’t eaten on the plane, she was hungry.

“Perfect,” Kelly said when she told him she needed to eat. “I thought you’d be hungry so I made reservations at the Dupont Grille. You’ll like it. Great atmosphere, very good food.”

“Need both right now,” she said, staring out the window at the snow as Kelly drove. A low-pressure front had passed through, dumping about six inches of snow on the city. Plows were out, and the main streets were clear, but the side streets were a mess, with cars sitting under huge mounds of ice and snow, useless until the plows made it through. “My God, look at this. It’s like the North Pole.”

He laughed. “This is nothing. Boston is at a complete standstill.”

They made it to Dupont Circle and through some stroke of incredibly good luck found a parking spot less than a block down Nineteenth Street. The snow had been cleared from the sidewalk and walking was easy. They reached Jurys Washington Hotel and cut in the Nineteenth Street entrance to the restaurant, which was part of the main floor of the hotel. Inside, the décor was colorful and invigorating. Pumpkin-hued booths were framed by large blocks of white, black and yellow painted on the walls. The sidewalk café was long closed, but the bar occupying the rear wall of the restaurant was jammed with the after-work crowd. Their table was ready and the hostess escorted them in.

“So what’s going on? You said you might need my help with something,” Kelly said as the drinks arrived.

Taylor tried the merlot she had ordered and nodded in approval. It seemed almost trite that it was French. “I’ve been scammed like you would not believe.”

“I know.” His tone was understanding.

“No, you don’t know,” Taylor said. “There’s a lot more to what happened with NewPro than first appeared on the radar. A lot.”

“What do you mean?” Kelly said, leaning into the table.

“Alan is alive.”

There was a full fifteen seconds of silence. Then Kelly said, “What do you mean, Alan’s alive? That’s impossible.”

She wanted to laugh at the conviction with which he said those words. The same conviction she would have used only days before. When she answered, her voice was rife with sarcasm. “Oh, he’s alive all right. Alive and living in Paris. I saw him on the street, walking hand in hand with another woman. He had both his hands by the way.”

“Oh, my God,” Kelly said as what she was telling him sunk in. “Don’t tell me . . .”

She just nodded. Then after a minute and another drink of wine she said, “It was him, Kelly. I know it was him. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that my husband is alive. And I’m equally as sure that he was involved in the NewPro scam from minute one.”

She went on to tell him about the cash Alan had never invested in the company and his antics in Mexico City. It just kept coming—the fake job working for Angus Strang, the severed hand with the chewed fingernails, the million-dollar insurance policy to keep her from digging into his death in desperation, and the sperm Alan had insisted on depositing in case they wanted to have children.

“Children,” she said. “The bastard. He had no intention of staying with me one minute longer than he had to. Get the money and run. And that’s exactly what he did.” The tears wanted to come, but she wouldn’t acquiesce. Not now. Not over him. “I lived with him as his wife for almost three years, Kelly. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

He was silent. He shook his head.

“Like some sort of trailer trash.”

“You’re too good for that,” Kelly said softly.

Taylor stared at him for a second, then smiled. She took another drink of wine. “This food is wonderful.”

“Told you.” They ate in silence for a minute, then Kelly asked, “What now? What are you going to do?”

She shrugged, her mouth full. When she finished chewing, she said, “I’m not sure. I thought you might have some ideas. You’re the spy.”

“I told you, I’m not a spy. I’m a cubicle rat who works on computers.”

“Well, cubicle rats always have ideas in the movies. Remember Three Days of the Condor with Robert Redford. He was totally out of his element, but he used his CIA connections to figure out what was going on.”

“Good movie,” Kelly said. “Wasn’t Faye Dunaway the woman he grabbed out of the store?”

She nodded, spearing a piece of grilled waluu on her fork. “I love this fish.” She finished chewing and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I want to get him, Kelly. He used me in the most horrific way a person can be used. I want . . .” She was reluctant to use the word. He waited, and finally she said, “I want revenge.”

Kelly looked down at the half-eaten food on his plate. Taylor Simons was a real person. She had given him a job, trained him, allowed him to grow and mature in one of the most fascinating businesses he had ever seen, and all the while she had been his friend. Taylor was real because she put people first, everything else second. When she was committed to someone, it was for the duration. She didn’t discard people. Ever. That wasn’t her way. But now she had been discarded. By the one person she felt she could trust no matter what happened. She had taken Alan into her life and had dropped every veil of secrecy. She had let him, and only him, see the real her. In return he had stolen her money and disappeared. He had abused the trust she had bestowed on him. Kelly could only begin to imagine how deeply she was hurt.

He made a decision. “Let’s go back over everything. Right from the start. There’s got to be some way to find Alan and Edward Brand.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Thanks.”