The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [57]
“Nice guy,” McVey said. Then the screen went blank, followed by a single scroll, DECEASED, NEW YORK CITY— DECEMBER22, 1967.
“Deceased?” Lebrun said.
“Your hotshot computer’s got a dead man murdering people in Paris. How you going to explain that to the media?” McVey deadpanned.
Lebrun took it as an affront. “Obviously Merriman faked his death and came up with a new identity.”
McVey smiled again. “Either that or Klass and Halder aren’t what they’re cracked up to be.”
“Do you dislike Europeans, McVey?” Lebrun was serious.
“Only when they talk in a language I don’t understand.” McVey walked off, looking up at the ceiling, then turned around and came back. “Suppose you, Klass and Halder are right and it is Merriman. Why would he come out of hiding after all these years to take out a private investigator?”
“Because something forced him out. Probably something this Jean Packard was working on.”
The command—PHYSICAL DESCRIP-MUG SHOT-FINGER-PRINTS-Y/N?—came up on Lebrun’s screen.
Lebrun punched Y on his keyboard.
The screen went blank, then came back with a second command, FAX ONLY-Y/N-?
Again Lebrun punched the Y. Two minutes later a mug shot, physical description and fingerprints of Albert Merriman printed out. The mug shot was of Henri Kanarack almost thirty years younger.
Lebrun studied it, then handed it to McVey.
“Nobody I know,” McVey said.
Flicking a cigarette ash off his sleeve, Lebrun picked up the phone and told whoever was on the other end to go back over Jean Packard’s apartment and his office at Kolb International with a finer comb than they did the first time.
“I’d also suggest you have a police artist see if they can come up with a sketch of how Albert Merriman might look today.” Picking up a battered brown leather bag that served as suitcase and portable homicide kit, McVey thanked Lebrun for the coffee then added, “You know where to reach me in London if our boy Osborn does anything he shouldn’t before he leaves for L.A.” With that he started for the door.
“McVey,” Lebrun said as he reached it. “Albert Merriman was deceased in—New York.”
McVey stopped, did a slow burn and turned back in time to see a grin creep over Lebrun’s face.
“For the brotherhood, McVey. Make the call, s’il vous plaît?
“For the brotherhood.”
“Oui.”
30
* * *
LITTLE MORE than a stone’s throw from the building on the rue de la Cité where McVey sat with Lebrun’s phone trying to get through to the New York City Police Department regarding the late Albert Merriman, Vera Monneray walked along the Porte de la Tournelle, absently watching the traffic on the Seine.
It had been correct for her to end her relationship with Francois Christian. She knew the break had caused him pain, yet she had done it as kindly and respectfully as she knew how. She had not, she told herself, left one of the most esteemed members of the French government for an orthopedic surgeon from Los Angeles. The real truth was that neither she nor Francois could have continued on as they had and each continued to grow. And life without growth meant a withering and finally a dying out.
What she had done was no more than an act of personal survival, something Francois would, in time, have done to her when he finally resigned himself to the fact that his real love’ belonged to his wife and children.
Reaching the top of a long flight of stairs, she turned back and looked at Paris. She saw the sweep of the Seine and the grand arches of Notre Dame as if for the first time. The trees and rooftops and boulevard traffic were completely new to her, as was the romantic chatter of passersby. Francois Christian was a fine man and she was grateful she had had him in her life. Now, she was equally grateful it was over. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt unencumbered and totally free.
Turning left, she started across the bridge to her apartment. Purposefully, she tried not to think of