Swimsuit - James Patterson [81]
I was still unsure what I would do after that.
I thought I could probably restrain him, call the police, have them hold him on suspicion of killing Gina Prazzi.
Or maybe that was too chancy. Maybe I’d put a bullet in his head and turn myself in at the American embassy, deal with it after the fact.
I reviewed option one: The cops would ask me, “Who is Gina Prazzi? How do you know she’s dead?” I imagined showing them Henri’s film in which Gina’s dead body was never seen. If Henri had disposed of the body, he wouldn’t even be arrested.
But I’d be under suspicion. In fact, I would be suspect number one.
I ran through the second option, saw myself pulling the .38 on Henri, spinning him around, saying, “Hands against the wall, don’t move!” I liked the idea a lot.
That’s how I was thinking when, among the dozens of people crossing the lobby, I saw two beautiful women and a man pass in front of me, heading toward the front door. The women were young and stylish, English-speaking, laughing and talking over each other, directing their attention to the man sandwiched between them.
Their arms were entwined like school buddies, breaking apart when they reached the revolving door, the man hanging back to let the very attractive women go through first.
The rush I felt was miles ahead of my conscious thought. But I registered the man’s bland features, his build, the way he dressed.
He was very blond now, wearing large, black-framed eyeglasses, his posture slightly stooped.
This was exactly how Henri disguised himself. He’d told me that his disguises worked because they were so simple. He adopted a distinct way of walking or speaking, and then added a few distracting, but memorable visual cues. He became his new identity. Whatever identity he’d assumed, this much I knew.
The man with those two women was none other than Henri Benoit.
Chapter 109
I DROPPED the newspaper to the floor and followed the threesome with my eyes as the revolving door dispensed them one at a time into the street.
I headed for the main door, thinking I could see where Henri was going, buy some time to come up with a plan. But before I reached the revolving door, a clump of tourists surged in front of me, staggering and giggling and bunching up inside the blades of the door as I stood by wanting to scream, “You assholes, get out of my way!”
By the time I got outside, Henri and the two women were far ahead of me, walking along the arcade that lined the west side of the street.
They were now heading down the Rue de Castiglione and toward the Rue de Rivoli. I just caught a glimpse of them turning left when I reached the corner.
Then I saw the two pretty women standing with their heads together in front of a designer shoe store, and I saw Henri’s white-blond hair far up ahead.
As I tried to keep him in sight, he disappeared down into the Tuileries Métro station at the end of the street.
I ran across the stream of traffic, ran down the stairs to the platform, but the station is one of the Métro’s busiest, and I couldn’t see Henri.
I tried to look everywhere at once, my eyes piercing the clots of travelers weaving through the station.
And there he was, at the far end of the platform. Suddenly he turned toward me, and I froze. For one eternal minute, I felt completely vulnerable, as if I’d been illuminated with a spotlight on a black stage.
He had to see me.
I was in his direct line of sight.
But he didn’t react, and I continued to stare at him while my feet behaved as though they were glued to the cement.
Then his image seemed to shift and clarify. Now that I was looking at him straight on, I saw the length of his nose, the height of his forehead, his receding chin.
Was I this crazy?
I’d been so sure — but I was just as sure now that I’d gotten it all wrong. That I was a dumb-ass, a total jerk, a failure as a sleuth. The man I had just followed from the Ritz? He wasn’t Henri at all.
Chapter 110
I CLIMBED UP out of the Métro, remembering that I’d