Double Cross

than four hundred Euros, about five bills American, but he didn’t care, not in the least. He had more than enough money, and wasn’t that what “vacations” were about? Get away from the job, the rat race, all the killing. Give himself time to think, to plan.
    The Prince de Galles was a good spot for him in all regards. It was on the scenic Avenue George V, just a few blocks from the Champs-Elysées. The hotel was gorgeous—Art Deco for the most part, gilded—with the most beautiful chandeliers everywhere you looked. But he particularly enjoyed the Regency Bar, which was English in style, lots of leather, dark wood, and velvet. Elvis Presley had once stayed at the Prince de Galles, and now so had Kyle Craig.
    There had been museums to visit in the mornings—the Musée d’Orsay and Musée de l’Orangerie were his two favorites—the Impressionists. Maybe he’d go to the Louvre today as well, but just to see the
Mona Lisa
. And he’d taken long walks along the Seine, where he’d done a lot of thinking—and some more planning.
    There was one decision he’d made for sure: he wasn’t going to let DCAK have Alex Cross as
his
trophy. No, Alex Cross belonged to him, and so did the Cross family—Nana, Janelle, Damon, and little Alex Jr. That had always been the plan. He’d obsessed on it for years.
    And maybe, just maybe, he’d do a little wet work before he left Paris. That was his art, which was just as beautiful, and important, as anything created by the so-called old masters.
He was a
new
master, wasn’t he
? Perfect for this barbaric age. Right for the times. No one had ever done it better, certainly not DCAK.
    He spotted a pretty young woman in a tight gray blouse, black skirt, and high boots, with long hair that was almost auburn in color. She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a small art gallery. Back and forth, back and forth—very efficient woman. And so attractive to be behind a broom.
    So Kyle stopped at the gallery—went inside—and she left him to look around for the first few minutes. So independent—so very French. No wonder he adored them so.
    Finally she appeared at his elbow. “You wish some help?”
    Kyle smiled, and his eyes went bright. He spoke to her in French. “You are a detective? My clothes, my haircut—they gave me away.”
    “No, it was your shoes, actually,” she said.
    He laughed. “You just say that—to be perverse.”
    Finally she laughed too. “Or maybe humorous?”
    “This isn’t funny,” he told her then. It wasn’t. He took over an hour to kill her. And then he used her broom—and not in the usual way, not to sweep, and handle first.
    And then, a fabulous parting meal at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon.
    Ahhh, Paris.
A miracle city.

Chapter 99

    THIS MONTANA CONNECTION was a big break in the case—with any luck, the one we needed. Information on Tyler Bell began to pile up quickly. He was in fact the brother of the late Michael Bell, and actually the more elusive character of the two. While Michael was becoming a minor player in Hollywood circles, Tyler made his living as a river guide and general handyman; he operated out of a Rocky Mountain cabin he had built himself. His reputation around Babb, Montana, population 560, was that of a quiet, nice-enough fellow who wasn’t unsociable but mostly liked to be alone. There was no mention of a steady female companion.
    More to the point, Tyler had inherited nearly a million dollars from his brother’s estate, sat on it for six months, then closed the account and received several dozen cashier’s checks in varying amounts on the last day anyone saw him out in Montana.
Now what was that all about? And where was Tyler Bell right now
?
    Bree, Sampson, Anjali, and I had a conference call going with the sheriff’s department in Glacier County, along with a senior agent named Christopher Forrest in the FBI’s Salt Lake City field office. John Abate, a senior agent in charge of DCAK here in Washington, had joined us as well.
    “What’s the status of your missing-persons case?” Abate asked into the speakerphone.
    “The file’s certainly open but not what I’d call active. This bloke’s either dead or doesn’t want to be found.” The Montana deputy on the case, Steve Mills, had an unexpected English accent.
What was with that
?
    “Forrest, what have you got?” asked Abate in a curt, take-charge voice. “Tell us everything you can about Bell.”
    “Far as we can tell, he was pretty much cut off