Chapter Thirty-six

Jane sat down across from the two women. “Ms. Bouchard. Ms. Diaz.”

She blew out a tired breath, envious at the espresso Andrea Bouchard had in front of her. She lifted two fingers in an attempt to summon a server.

“Don’t worry. We already ordered for you. Americano? Three sugars?” Diaz said with a smile.

Jane’s envy turned into suspicion. “How do you know that?”

“I paid attention to what you drank last night.”

Similar to the last time they’d met, Diaz was dressed as if she owned a Fortune 100 company. Bouchard changed her black jeans for blue ones, her shirt covered up by a tightfitting black leather jacket that hugged every angle and curve.

Jane wanted to argue with Diaz, but a cup of coffee appeared before her, along with three brown sugar packets.

“Bless your soul,” she murmured to the retreating back of the server. She dunked the sugar into the coffee, stirred vigorously, and took the first sip like a caffeine junkie.

“You do like your coffee, Detective,” Diaz remarked as she leaned back in her chair.

Jane put down the cup and pointed at her. “You’re nice. Last night—this morning—you treated me like crap. What’s up?”

Diaz sipped from the glass of water in front of her, one eye squinting slightly as the slice of lemon got in the way. She switched to the black tea, steaming in a light blue cup. Finally, she answered. “I was tired last night. And perhaps unnecessarily rude. I’m sure we can all work through this in a civilized way. It’s only a misunderstanding, after all.”

Jane pointed at her. “I spoke to my colleagues at One PP about you. You never play nice. So stop it. You’re making me nervous.”

Diaz frowned, clearly taken aback. Bouchard laughed, of all things. She tried not to, but she did, until Diaz silenced her with a glare that could whither daisies.

Diaz fiddled with the teaspoon in the saucer. “Your choice, Detective. How about you tell us then why you dragged all of us down here this afternoon.”

Much better, Jane considered. She trusted this searing hot version of Caroline Diaz much more than the polite, cool one. In fact, she rather liked her.

“I wanted to see if Ms. Bouchard’s memory had improved in the light of day.” She pointed to the November gloom outside. Last night’s snow was lying on the roadside, treacherous ice patches dotting the sparsely populated sidewalks.

She looked to Andy’s black eyes, the face that should be young but looked older somehow. “Sometimes we remember better when we’re somewhat removed from the heat of the moment.”

Bouchard had the good manners to fake thinking about it. Then simply said, “No.”

Jane drank from the blue mug again and prevented a sigh of contentment from slipping from her tongue. “Let me then raise a few issues that have been bugging me since last night.”

“Fire away,” Bouchard said.

“Ms. Hampton’s partner at Fortress, Philippe Lautrec, said he wasn’t aware that she’d employed any private protection. He said there was no need for it as far as he knew.”

Bouchard looked to Diaz. Diaz shrugged, then nodded.

“As far as I know, my being there had to do with the visit from the Norwegian prime minister, who is also Ms. Hampton’s old friend,” Bouchard explained. “They go way back. Ten years. More. Maybe Ms. Hampton never bothered to tell her partner about it.”

Jane was surprised she’d answered at all. No doubt it was carefully considered though. A strategy even.

“The prime minister—Ms. Siv Sandberg—is giving a speech at the United Nations on Monday,” Bouchard continued. “Ms. Hampton was aware of the contents of the speech. It seems as if it is bound to upset quite a number of people, possibly placing her and Ms. Sandberg in danger.”

Bouchard moved uneasily in her seat. “I’m only giving you this information as it may help you to catch her killer. You have to understand that this is a highly confidential matter.”

Jane rested her chin in her hand. She felt the caffeine waking her up slowly, kicking her mind into gear. What was up with these two? Were they offering her real information or were they attempting to guide her off course, away from what had really happened?

“What’s in this supposed speech?”

Jane watched as Bouchard again glanced at Diaz.

She didn’t buy it. A woman like Bouchard wouldn’t constantly seek permission from Diaz to speak. It hadn’t been the case last night, and it was unlikely to happen now that the sun was up.

“Ms. Sandberg can tell you that,” Bouchard finally said. “Let’s just say it would upset the American government. And it appears as if she would have the reluctant backing of the Russians on this issue, and possibly also the Chinese, as it offers them the opportunity to push the US into a corner. So, the purely hypothetical question is, what if Ms. Sandberg had something to make the Russians play ball? What if Ms. Hampton was killed as a warning to Ms. Sandberg to ensure that she doesn’t force the Russian president’s hand in supporting her? That she doesn’t make that speech on Monday? Or, at the very least, tone it down? The second, perhaps more urgent question is, what would happen if Ms. Sandberg refuses to do so?”

For the first time, Jane got the feeling that Bouchard was telling the truth. From murder to international politics. This case was getting stranger by the minute. And quickly escalating into something that could soon have the State Department up her ass as well. “What could the prime minister of Norway possibly have on the Russian president?”

Bouchard searched for the server, lifting her empty cup. She raised a questioning eyebrow at Jane. Jane nodded and drained her mug, then played tag and looked at Diaz, who stared at her with something bordering on irritation.

No.

Neglect. Caroline Diaz hated being ignored while she and Bouchard had their little tête-à-tête.

“What about you, Ms. Diaz?” she asked. “Would you like a fresh cup of tea?”

Diaz snapped her head away, clearing her throat. She looked past Jane at the coffee shop entrance. “Why not? Earl Grey tea. Black. Honey.”

“Of course. Honey,” Jane teased her.

There was the slightest of smiles on Diaz’s lips, but it disappeared as the server took the order from Bouchard.

Back to business. Bouchard leaned forward in her chair. “I don’t know what Sandberg has on the Russian president. All I know is that Sandberg, Hampton, Popov, the Russian president, and Phillipe Lautrec all crossed paths at Davos at some point for a few weeks about six years ago. That’s the only place we can put the four of them all together in one spot.”

“Davos? The big annual politics and investment schmooze fest in Switzerland where the world’s CEOs and presidents go to live it up every year?”

“Yes.”

Jane waited for the punchline, but it didn’t come. “So?”

“I don’t know any more. At this point it’s the only connection I’ve managed to make between these people.”

“And based on these random facts you believe Ms. Sandberg may be in danger?”

“Yes.”

Jane contemplated Bouchard’s earnest expression and decided to give her a bone. “Ms. Sandberg called the police commissioner this morning. She and her wife are extremely upset by the murder of Arlene Hampton, as you can imagine.” She watched Bouchard’s face closely. “It seems Ms. Sandberg is indeed concerned that she would no longer be safe traveling to New York. Mr. Philippe Lautrec has also advised her to reconsider her itinerary.”

“Then perhaps you should do the same and ensure that they don’t make the trip,” Bouchard said.

“I can try, but put yourself in my shoes. Why would I do that? Based on the word of a suspect in a murder inquiry? As I said, Mr. Lautrec doesn’t know anything about you providing personal protection to Ms. Hampton. And I also have a number of questions about who you are exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You came here recently from London?”

“Yes. I work there mainly.”

Jane fished a notebook from her coat pocket and looked at the information the uniforms had given her last night. “And your home address here in New York is that of a nonprofit organization?”

“Correct. I stay there sometimes. They have rooms available as long-term rentals. It provides an extra source of income for them.”

“But it seems you also work there, as I understood from the receptionist. I called there this morning.”

Bouchard shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “She’s mistaken. I did some work for Ma Soeur, as I said, but the last time was around three years ago. Personal protection is an unfortunate side business when you look after the rights of women. When you have to protect them and remove them from dangerous situations. You know most women are murdered by someone they know.”

“Of course, yes,” Jane agreed. Very smooth answer, she thought. Well rehearsed. “So, you’re no longer with Ma Soeur?”

A moment’s hesitation. “I’m considering a job offer from them. We’ll see.”

Bouchard crossed her arms, the biceps in her arms straining against the leather. She shook her head. “Detective, I’m not involved in Arlene Hampton’s murder. If I were you, I’d be more interested in the fact that Phillipe Lautrec advised Sandberg to reconsider her travel plans. It seems rather convenient. It could stop Sandberg from giving that speech on Monday.”

Jane hadn’t told Bouchard anything that wouldn’t be in the newspapers or on the news websites this afternoon. Sandberg was about to publicly grieve the loss of her friend, using her murder as a platform to slam her climate opponents.

She decided to let the matter of Ma Soeur go. For now.

“Why do you think Lautrec is involved?” she asked, also dropping the honorifics. All these niceties were exhausting. “Did Hampton mention that she was worried about him on any level?”

“No. But she was very private. They could have been a couple for all I know. All I’m saying is that he says he doesn’t know about me, but apparently he knows enough to tell Sandberg not to come to New York.”

Jane nodded her thanks as the server brought them their coffee. She opened the sugar packets and dunked the contents into the piping hot liquid.

“Hampton’s neighbors said they heard only women’s voices around her apartment,” she said. “Not in the apartment, as that is pretty soundproof, but on the way from the elevator and in the stairwell. Security says the same. Her visitors were almost always female. Arriving at night and leaving in the morning. So, we don’t believe she and Lautrec were sharing a bed. Not at all.”

Diaz looked at Bouchard with the slightest of frowns. Bouchard blinked.

Jackpot, Jane thought. She’d touched a nerve. She stretched in her seat, moving the gun in her side an inch toward her back. “Now, I’m wondering, Andy—may I call you Andy?—whether you are one of those women? Perhaps even, THE woman?” She contemplated the coffee in front of her, the crema on top. “Maybe you and Arlene had a lovers’ tiff. Maybe you imagined her and Siv Sandberg all cozy somewhere in bed. Maybe you killed her. Maybe those men in black work for you. Maybe you rushed down the hall, leaving through the parking garage and coming back up through the front door to give yourself an alibi. Maybe you erased all the CCTV footage to cover your tracks.”

Bouchard had the audacity to smile. “No. Not me, Detective, I can promise you that.”

But thanks for the information on Hampton, said the expression on her face.

Fuck.

“Okay. Do you know who Arlene Hampton’s current lover is?” Jane scrambled to recover. “Maybe you saw her around when you supposedly guarded her.”

“No. But I’ll ask around.”

“And where will you do that?”

“People who might have known her.” Bouchard shrugged.

“Know many of those?”

“One or two.”

Diaz put her hand on Bouchard’s leg, probably telling her to shut up. The gesture seemed intimate and familiar.

Jane felt an unexpected surge of jealousy. It had been 631 days since she and Amy had called it quits. More than 500 since the divorce. Probably close to one thousand nights without someone in her bed.

She didn’t like quick and dirty. Never had. She blamed her parents. Decent people who loved her no matter what. It’s always difficult to disappoint nice people.

Jane sat back, crossing her legs and watching Diaz and Bouchard closely. “Talking about your illustrious career as a bodyguard. We found a document on Hampton’s work computer. Seems like a contract with you. It is unsigned, however.”

Nobody showed any emotion. Neither Diaz nor Bouchard seemed glad Andy Bouchard might be in the clear. It was almost as if they expected it, as if someone planted the document there.

“Seems very convenient,” Jane said.

“As I said earlier, I didn’t want to sign any document,” Bouchard said. “I had an oral agreement with Hampton and that was sufficient for me.”

“You never fear getting screwed?”

Bouchard gave a gentle shake of the head. “By the time payday arrives, I know too much for my clients not to pay.”

Diaz leaned forward to see if her tea had steeped sufficiently. Her red blouse opened, showing a strip of tanned skin and lace, the swell of a breast.

Jane felt her lower abdomen clench involuntarily.

Diaz looked up, her eyes hot and smoldering.

Jane glanced away. It was a trap, her mind warned, but her body was not so eager to listen.

Amy was also a blonde. Gorgeous. Soft and gentle, until she got angry.

The silence lingered, became awkward.

“Is there anything else, Detective Wright?” Diaz asked as she poured her tea. She drank it black, no sugar. “Any news on the DNA?”

“If we’re lucky I’ll get it tomorrow. We’ve fast-tracked the forensics.”

Diaz smiled. It warmed only when it finally reached her eyes. “Sandberg putting pressure on the department?”

Jane finished her coffee, not willing to admit anything to Diaz.

“What about ballistics? The guns used by the men in black? Did you find anything yet?” Bouchard asked.

“Why would I tell you anything about the casings?” Jane said. Why the hell was she answering questions all of a sudden?

“Just wondering. The sooner I’m in the clear the better.”

“You’re not. And you better stay away from this case. If I catch you anywhere near any other person of interest, I’ll haul your ass in front of a judge as quick as you can say obstruction of justice. Got it?”

Bouchard didn’t react.

“Same goes for that redhead of yours,” Jane said. “Tell me. By the way. Does she still dream?”

Bouchard’s mouth became a thin, contemplative line.

“Andy,” Diaz warned her in a low voice.

Bouchard waved a hand at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

When her hand came down, she placed it on Jane’s arm.

The unexpected touch almost made Jane reach for her gun.

So much for pushing Bouchard out of her comfort zone. Here she was, thrashing around in the deep end.

“Detective,” Bouchard said in a sudden gentle tone.

“What?” Jane snapped, shifting her arm out from under Bouchard’s touch.

“That said, should you run into a diner in the next few days with your gun drawn, perhaps just turn around and walk away.”

Jane stared at her, waiting for the punchline.

Diaz puffed out a breath, as if Bouchard had disappointed her.

“A diner? Are you serious?” she asked.

Bouchard just stared at her, her face unreadable.

“How…Of course. Isabelle Templeton.” Jane closed her eyes for a second. She couldn’t believe she was about to ask the question on her lips, but she’d always trusted her gut, and that very same gut had saved her life on two previous occasions. “Tell me. Did she…did Isabelle Templeton dream about Arlene Hampton’s death?”

Diaz, clearly miffed, signaled for the bill and stood up hurriedly. Bouchard followed, tugging at the back of her leather jacket as if to cover a weapon.

Diaz dumped a wad of bills on the table. The server was going to party for a week with that tip.

“Let’s go.” Diaz waved Andy to her side.

“I don’t know anything about Hampton and a dream,” Bouchard said as a parting shot, “all I’m saying is that you need to be careful.” She hesitated. “Please.”

Jane looked on as they left the café, Diaz clearly about to kill Bouchard. If she’d wanted to upset them, she’d certainly managed that, but not in the way she’d expected. Not at all.

 

* * *

 

Andy walked out of the coffee shop, Caroline in a huff.

“What the hell, Andy? Are you insane? Dreaming 101. Shut the fuck up about Ma Soeur. It’s bad enough that Wright picked up on our scent through Ma Soeur. It was a damn smart move calling there this morning.”

“Isabelle would kill me if I didn’t warn Wright.”

“Doesn’t mean you can break the rules as you please.” Diaz dodged a pimply kid, eyes locked on his cellphone. She walked to the curb in search of a cab. “I thought this was a quick in and out for you. Why does it sound as if this girl has already clawed her way in under your skin?”

“It’s not like that. And don’t talk about Isabelle like that. She feels guilty about Hampton’s murder. I can’t let her add Wright’s death to her conscience as well.”

Diaz swiveled around, taking a deep breath in a clear sign to steady herself. “How is she doing?”

Andy dug her hands into her coat pockets. “Not too well. She’s questioning us. Herself. Everything.”

“What about your…death? How does she feel about that? How do you feel about it?”

“You heard?”

“I know everything that goes on at Ma Soeur.”

Andy shivered as a gust of wind cut around the corner of the building. She kicked at a pile of ice that had collected around the bottom of a signpost. The white snow from last night had become dirty, nasty stuff, so far removed from its initial fairy tale beauty.

“Andy?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got people on me. Don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m too stubborn too die.”

A cab pulled up to the curb. “What does Kate say?”

“Nothing.”

“Now that I believe,” Caroline whispered. She headed for the cab, then turned around, walked up to Andy, and kissed her on the cheek. “Please, promise you’ll be careful.”