Èze is a medieval city perched on a hillside above the Mediterranean Sea. Built around a twelfth-century castle, it remains remarkably well preserved, although marred by rampant commercialism. Tourists throng its narrow streets, which are crammed with shops, galleries, restaurants, and one or two hotels vying for attention with the spectacular views. I visited here once before with an international group that met in nearby Monaco.
Just south and west, Èze Sur Mer caters to the rich and reclusive. Five-and-a-half hours after our dawn departure, we’re sitting with Charlie at a beachside cafe near the town’s train station. It’s a beautiful day: cloudless sky, soft breeze, dazzling seascape. I’m surprised I can notice such things.
The address I have is for a residence on the upper end of a treacherous switchback on a street of villas. Charlie has confirmed via the local realtor that the house has been rented to an old man whose name no one can remember. A nosy neighbor confirms the man pays his staff handsomely and has also retained three armed guards. No one thinks twice about it. Along the Côte d’Azur, many of the wealthy take such precautions. Although no one has seen the man, rumor has it he is either very ill or horribly disfigured.
Simon drops me off two blocks away just before noon. The villa is well set back from the narrow street behind a low wall covered with flowering vines. It’s also partially hidden by an eclectic mix of palm, pine, and eucalyptus trees. I walk up the path as if I’m expected. I’ve dressed in dark green slacks, a beige sweater, oversized sunglasses, and a scarf worn over my head. Very Jackie-O. I don’t carry a handbag. Two men gently examine me for weapons and ask me in French if I’m alone. I stifle the urge to tell them the cavalry is right behind me. All the while, I’m trying to spot the third guard.
I hear the voice before I see its owner.
“Welcome to the South of France. What a pleasant surprise.”
The guards step aside. I follow the sound into a small sitting room, dark but cozy. To my right, the house opens to a light-filled dining room and then to a canopied porch with comfortable chairs. Beyond is a swimming pool and beyond that, a glorious vista. Typical people would find much to celebrate in that view, but we’re not typical and neither is this visit.
Victor Kemp steps out of the shadows. His appearance shocks me. He’s much smaller than I remember, not just thinner but somehow diminished. He wears loose-fitting navy slacks. His beige sweater seems two sizes too big for him. He’s stooped, almost frail. The ghastly injury to his face is both repellant and captivating, like a science experiment gone wrong. He’s missing every finger but one on his right hand. My revulsion is replaced by something more devastating: pity. I almost feel sorry for this wreck of a man.
“Not so pretty, is it? Although I’ve grown rather used to these changes. I’ve even learned to use my left hand. Eating is still difficult, though. Of course, I have you and your family and friends to thank for this, along with the loss of everything else I cared about.” His smile is awful.
I shake my head. “No, Victor. You don’t get to play the victim with me. Your condition is a result of your obsession. You never cared about anything except control. You didn’t have to try to kill my family. You didn’t have to try to find us when you discovered they hadn’t died.”
“But I did, and you know why. Control isn’t something I worship. It’s something my business model requires. Control and obedience. And vigilance. You knew that coming in.”
“I never had a say in the matter.”
“We all have choices, Susan. No, it’s Suzanne. You chose not to thoroughly consider yours. Come, though, let’s not immediately delve into such unpleasantness. Where are my manners? Would you like something to eat? Perhaps some lunch? I don’t eat it, but I’m sure we can come up with something, although the housekeeper is away at the moment.”
How like him to take charge by changing the subject. I never could argue with this man. His unshakeable convictions and his twisted logic did not permit it. His approach always infuriated me, even as it tapped into my insecurities. Nothing has changed. I tremble with the effort of controlling my temper. I want to lash out and pummel his horrible face. Breathe, Suzanne, I tell myself. I inhale and exhale. He will not get to me.
“Why did you really summon me, Victor? Comeuppance?”
“Comeuppance? I’ve already forfeited everything: my business, my sons, my mistress, my fingers, even a part of my face. Why would I want another confrontation with you at this point?”
“Didn’t you invite me here to tell me something about Daniel’s death?”
“I didn’t invite you here at all. As for Daniel’s death, the thought of it stings, if you must know. I simply had no choice.”
I step back, confused. “Wait, you’re saying you did kill him?”
“I had him killed. The distinction is merely a technicality. What could I do? First the incident with the human trafficking—”
“The dead girl from the ship that belonged to Francesco Guzman. Your second identity.”
He flashed his disagreeable smile again. “You’re up to date. Daniel was responsible for the debacle with the girl. Then the fool tried to get back into my good graces by attempting to kill you. An idiotic move.”
The puzzle pieces fall into place, all but one.
“Then why did you send the box of chocolates to Michael? The text to me, claiming you hadn’t killed Daniel but you knew who had? The invitation to meet?”
“I didn’t send those things.”
“Who did?”
“I did.”
We turn to look at the woman standing in the foyer. I judge her to be perhaps sixty. She is, in a word, stunning: tall, slender, and thoroughly elegant. Her dark, shoulder-length hair falls around a face barely touched by time. She could pass for a model with her blue-black eyes, white skin, straight nose, full lips, and high cheekbones. She’s even dressed like one. Her charcoal slacks are complimented by a lightweight poncho in gray and red worn over a white silk turtleneck. A thin silver bracelet encircles one wrist; simple earrings twinkle at her lobes.
She’s perfectly put together, right down to the .22 LR NAA Sidewinder she points at us. The gun is small, relatively lightweight, and almost old-fashioned in appearance. Not the most accurate weapon at a distance, but she’s moved closer.
Luisa Guzman.
“How did you get in, Luisa? Where are my men?”
“Disabled, Victor. Or dead. No one feels threatened by an old woman, do they? And no one expects a Taser. I may have set it too high, though.” She shrugs and turns to me. “You must be Susan Smith. No, it’s Suzanne Foster. Excuse me for eavesdropping. I simply wanted confirmation that he killed Daniel. And I have it.”
She seems too composed for a person who’s learned the father of her son had him killed. Her voice is smooth, her accent light. It produces an almost heady sensation, like a fine wine drunk too quickly.
“I assume you came by yourself,” she says, nodding at me. “Victor always said you were inclined to work alone. If not, I would guess you’ve kept your people at a distance. Just in case, I have your mother as collateral.”
“My mother?”
“Luisa, I’m so glad—”
“Don’t say a word, Victor. I am here to kill you. She is here to watch. I can grant her that bit of satisfaction before I end her life as well.”
Luisa walks all the way into the room and looks around the corner. The light makes more apparent both her beauty and her pain. This woman has suffered greatly.
“Stand together, please. By the fireplace.”
Neither of us moves.
“Where do you have my mother?” I ask.
“You are just like him, aren’t you? Obstinate, unyielding, demanding. Your mother is fine, Suzanne. My brother Gabriel is entertaining her. If all goes as planned, she will have a nice vacation before returning home to news of her daughter’s death.”
“Luisa, you can’t do this.”
“Please, Victor, stop. I can do anything. Put up with years of neglect and disrespect. Love a man without a heart. Live with the death of my eldest because, like you, I blamed her. Although it appears I should have blamed your preoccupation with her.”
She swings the gun back and forth between me and Kemp.
“What I can’t live with is the death of my remaining son at your hands, Victor. Or perhaps you had your man Dyukov do it. I think that is what happened. Which is why I had Lucas take care of him. I believe he chose the punishment to fit the crime.” She giggles.
“Your nephew? That psychopath? What did he do to Arkady? Answer me.”
Kemp is so deeply flushed, I wonder if he might have a heart attack and die before she has a chance to shoot him.
“I see you have some feelings to spare for at least one of your employees. As well you should. He was, after all, your dedicated servant to the end. What did Lucas do? The kind of job you’ve no doubt asked of Arkady Dyukov many times. My nephew has his peculiarities and his predilections, I’ll grant you. But he knows the meaning of loyalty.”
The hand holding the gun wavers. Luisa is nervous. Despite Kemp’s frailty, he frightens her. She looks away from his murderous gaze and addresses me.
“This is what we put up with all these years, didn’t we? This monster who turned you and me into collaborators and my sons into pawns.”
Her arm is definitely wobbling. It’s not just fear. She’s not used to holding a gun, even a light one.
“Luisa, listen to me.” I want to reason with her, presuming she isn’t beyond all reason.
Her mouth opens to reply. It’s open when Kemp shoots her with a handgun he’s pulled from under a table. Before she’s hit the floor, he’s trained it on me. He kicks the small weapon out of Luisa’s lifeless hand without looking down.
“Damn it. Arkady was one of my best men. Lucas will pay dearly for this.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do you look so disapproving?”
“She gave you most of her adult life. Yet you just stepped over her as if she were a spot on the floor.”
“Please, spare me. Luisa meant a great deal to me. She fathered my sons. She may have loved me. She also betrayed me. This was her choice. Nevertheless, I will mourn her.”
He peers at me with surprise. “You’re shocked,” he notes. “Yes, you are. There are many ways to express passion. Luisa wore her heart on her sleeve. But you? I couldn’t believe you’d fallen in love with your teacher. Or that you were even capable of such feelings. You hide everything. Well, almost everything. You traffic in a sort of moral outrage you put on display when it suits you. A bit hypocritical, considering how many lives you’ve taken.”
He walks closer to me. His amusement shifts to anger.
“You’ve always displayed a sort of priggishness, Suzanne. Do you realize that? You sit in judgment of others as well as yourself. You pretend detachment. You imagine yourself removed. As if you were above the sordid business of death. As if you’re better than the rest of us. That was always one of your shortcomings. It’s why you could never look your victims in the face. Why you preferred long-distance killing.”
I want to shut my ears against the torrent of words. “Did you bring me here to lecture me, Victor?”
“As I told you, I didn’t bring you here at all. This was Luisa’s doing from the beginning. The scheme had merit, I admit. Locate you in your safe house. Locate me in the south of France. Bring us together for the dramatic finale. Use her brother and nephew for support and backup. Use your mother as collateral.”
“You knew all along?”
“Every plan has holes in it. I found out about the text Frederick Weber received threatening him with blackmail. Not because he told me, which he should have done, but because I monitor the phones of my employees. The lawyer will be punished accordingly.” His face grows momentarily dark. “There’s also the matter of his relationship with my older son. Well, never mind. I shall deal with it.” He sounds almost cheerful.
“Victor, do you know where my mother is?” I try not to plead.
“The box was a nice touch, I must admit. So was the text. No one ever thinks to verify such things. Et voilà. Here we are. As for your mother, she is, as Luisa told you, close by. They’ve rented a lovely villa just outside Nice. Gabriel may be waiting for his sister’s call. Perhaps Lucas has gone to help. How I would love to take them all out. Maybe I still can.”
The pale eyes are ice and fire now.
“You’re still wondering how Luisa found your mother, how she connected a writer of lowbrow fiction to the former assassin. The answer is simple; I told her long ago. We even shared a laugh about it. You see, I’ve always known who you are, Suzanne Brooks, unloved daughter of the untalented Morris Greenbaum and the unstoppable Betty Brooks. Mo and Lisette. Two faux San Francisco artistes bent on reinvention. Did you think I wouldn’t make it my business to learn everything I could about the lonely sharpshooter with the missing past and made-up name?”
He steps so close I inhale the foul odor coming off him. I see images of rot and decay. Hell must smell like this.
He shoves the gun under my chin and whispers in my ear, “You vex me, Suzanne. I can’t decide whether to kill you here or take you to where Gabriel holds your mother. Are you two close these days? Do you care if she dies in front of you?”
I let my eyes flick over his right shoulder as if tracking a movement. It’s the oldest trick in the book, yet he allows it to distract him. I drive both fists straight up between us, forcing his gun hand to the ceiling. The barrel just misses the side of my face. My luck holds; it doesn’t discharge as it falls to the floor. I drop my hand to his chest to stab him with a tiny syringe I’ve had tucked inside my wide fabric bracelet the entire time. When I first got to Kemp’s door, I lifted my hands into the air like a cooperative guest. The careless guards who searched my body failed to check my extremities. Rookie mistake.
The poison takes effect almost immediately. His body sags. I grab his arms as his body goes limp and pull him close, ignoring the odor of imminent death. I shake him; I force those dimming ice eyes to focus. Then I deliver my message.
“You never thought I could handle close killing, did you, Victor? You were wrong. I will look into your eyes, and I will watch you die.”