The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [62]
“Any address?”
“Nope.”
McVey wrote Agnes Demblon’s name on the back of his boarding pass envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Any idea where Merriman’s buried?”
“Nope again.”
“Well, I’ll bet you ten dollars to a Diet Coke if you locate the box you’ll find it’s Willie Leonard in there.”
In the distance McVey heard his flight being called. Amazed, he thanked Benny and started to hang up.
“McVey!”
“Yeah.”
“The Merriman file. Hasn’t been touched in twenty-six years.”
“So?”
“I’m the second guy to pull it in twenty-four hours.”
“What?”
“A request came yesterday morning from Interpol, Washington. A uniform sergeant in R and I pulled the file and faxed them a copy.”
McVey told Grossman Interpol was involved on the Paris end and had to assume that was the reason. Just then a final boarding call came for McVey’s plane. Telling Grossman he had to run, he hung up.
A few minutes later, McVey buckled his seat belt and his Air Europe jet backed away from the gate. Glancing again at Agnes Demblon’s name on the back of the boarding pass envelope, he let out a sigh and sat back, feeling the bump of the plane as it moved out onto the taxiway.
Glancing out the window, McVey could see a succession of rainclouds rolling across the French countryside. The wet made him think of the red mud on Osborn’s shoes. Then they were up and in the clouds.
A flight attendant asked him if he wanted a newspaper and he took it but didn’t open it. What caught his eye was the date. Friday, October 7. It was only this morning that Lebrun had been notified by Interpol, Lyon, that the fingerprint had even been made legible. And Lebrun himself had traced it to Albert Merriman while McVey stood there. Yet a request to the New York police for the Merriman file had come from Interpol, Washington, on Thursday. That meant that Interpol, Lyon, had sourced the print, uncovered Merriman and asked for data on him a full day earlier. Maybe that was Interpol procedure, but it seemed a little odd that Lyon would have a complete folder long before giving the investigating officer any information at all. But why did he think it made any difference anyway? Interpol’s internal procedure was none of his business. Still, it was something that needed to be brought to light if for no other reason than to relieve his discomfort with it. But before bringing it up either to assignment director Cadoux at Interpol, Lyon, or cluing Lebrun, he’d better have his facts straight. He decided the simplest way was to backtrack from the time of day Thursday the Interpol, Washington, request had been made to the NYPD. For that he’d have to call Benny Grossman when he got to London.
Abruptly bright sunlight hit him in the face and he realized they’d cleared the cloud deck and were moving out over the English Channel. It was the first sun he’d seen in almost a week. He glanced at his watch.
It was 2:40 in the afternoon.
33
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, in Paris, Paul Osborn turned off the television in his hotel room and slipped the three succinylcholine-filled syringes into the righthand pocket of his jacket. He’d just pulled on the jacket and was turning for the door when the phone rang. He jumped, his heart suddenly racing. His reaction made him realize he was even more keyed up than he thought, and he didn’t like it.
The phone continued to ring. He looked at his watch. It was 2:57. Who was trying to reach him? The police? No. He’d already called Detective Barras and Barras had assured him his passport would be waiting for him at the Air France counter when he checked in for his flight tomorrow afternoon. Barras had been pleasant, even to joking about the lousy weather, so it wasn’t the police, unless they were toying with him or McVey had another question. And right now he had no interest in talking to McVey or anyone else.
Then the phone stopped. Whoever was calling had hung up. Maybe it was a wrong number. Or Vera. Yes, Vera. He’d planned to call her later, when it was over, but not beforehand when she might hear something in his voice, or for some other reason