Sanguineus leaned toward Tertia and said in a calm but firm voice, "I don't care about your private life, but if you're hiding something from me that could put me in jeopardy, I have the authorization to bring your days to an abrupt end."
She wadded up the napkin, placed it beside the basket, unstuck an eyelash with the blunt nail of her little finger, and smiled at herself. "I have paid Red Rum eighty-two thousand dollars and change," she said, as if to someone sitting between them. "That leaves me with just over five thousand in my bank account." She gave Sanguineus a hurt look. "If you don't trust me, and I'm sure you don't, then walk away with your cut of the fee and I'll find someone who works cheap and isn't afraid of his client's second cousin. "
She sighed. "Estelle Woodward. The daughter of my adoptive mother's aunt's daughter. We call her Izzy. She's a home-care nurse who tended my boyfriend when he was temporarily blinded in a construction site demolition accident. All right?"
"You're lying. It took you too long to come up with that explanation. All that talk about your finances. You were buying time with it. I've been in this field of endeavor for thirty years. I know a load of bull when I hear it. But it doesn't matter, so long as you tell me what I need to know."
"Fuck, San, you think I want you to fail? What's gotten into you? And don't look now, but Drake just walked in."
Sanguineus turned his head to the right. He was looking down the length of the bar, which made a horseshoe curve beneath a double row of pendant lights shaped like upside-down wine glasses. At the far end, at the bend of the bar, stood a young man of less than average height, dressed in a dark blue ski outfit minus the jacket. He was setting snow shoes on the bar stool next to his own, those awkward things that look like oversized tennis rackets. His profile was familiar.
"That's him, wouldn't you say?" said Tertia. "That slight bump on the bridge of his nose. I had forgotten about that. And the 'pronounced lower lip,' as you call it. I'd swear to God it's him. What do we do? That Isabel girl's here by coincidence, after all. Ha. In your thirty years of experience--"
"Shut up."
"Fuck you. I don't think I like you anymore. Is this how you act when the drama ramps up?"
Tertia knew instantly that she had come as near as possible to getting her neck wrung. His eyes, as he looked at her, were coal black and soulless.
"Sorry, I'm just a little drunk," she said. "He stared at the back of your head when you looked at me just now, stared at you like you were a target. Not a mean look, nor a desperate one, not anything like that, just staring at you intently. I haven't caught him looking at me. Do we stay or go? Would it look suspicious if we got up now and left?"
Sanguineus considered her a lengthy moment longer. He said, with a touch of irritation, "Of course not. It's late. I've some contacts to make, and you need to unwind and get some sleep. Tomorrow's the intended hit. But with Iceman in the freezer, Drake may have a change of heart."
This had Tertia putting on a bright authentic smile. But her eyes were dark with a wariness that included excited speculations. "I like you again," she remarked airily as they stood.
She was surprised when Sanguineus went to the bar. The drink and food tabs were put on the guest bill, so she supposed he was going to tip the bartendress.
Tertia watched him speaking to her in a voice she couldn't hear above the music and chatter of the lounge. The blond Scotswoman behind the bar seemed as wondering as herself, Tertia thought. The woman, a slender petite type, brought her pretty face close to that of Sanguineus and turned an ear to him.
It occurred to Tertia that this was done to catch the attention of the man who might be Drake. He was glancing at them frequently as he nursed his drink, though his primary interest seemed to be the crowd by the fireplace. Tertia thought he was a bit shy; or good at pretending to be.
Sanguineus came back and said, "Right. Everything's on your tab. Let's go."
They went out to the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the hall in the Inn where their adjoining rooms were located. A security guard smiled at them as he passed.
Tertia used the card key and Sanguineus followed her into the powder blue room with the white drapes and walnut furniture. "We didn't finish our cognacs," she was saying, "so why not some house brandy? Or would you like a decaf? You're mad at me." She stood looking at him like a schoolgirl in trouble.
"It's true I don't trust you, if that's what you mean. But if you're insinuating something more intimate, the answer is that it's immaterial how I feel about you."
"You're such a romantic. But I like it. I'm weird that way. Have we identified Drake? Let's have coffee. I disabled the smoke alarm. Proud of me?" She went to the coffee maker.
Sanguineus caught the pack of Sultans she tossed him. "Madelaine Woolf showed me a copy of LeCourt's passport photo," he said, "taken a year ago. Didn't I tell you?" He lit one and sat in a chair at a tile-top round table.
"On the drive up? I don't know. I was full of Cabernet and chocolate covered raisins. And my free hand was in your lap. Ha. I remember THAT. Do you like flavored creamers?"
Tertia turned to him. Her eyes were sultry. The coffee maker was percolating. Its steam made a reluctant halo above her head.
Smoke curled from the nostrils of Sanguineus, but his eyes were like a cold forensic instrument. He was watching a folded 9x12 inch paper slipping into the room from under the door.
"What the hell--?" said Tertia.
"Leave it," Sanguineus warned her, crushing out his smoke.
He got up, went to the paper, and with his boot he pushed it back under the door.
"Aren't you going to look and see who it is?" she asked him nervously.
"I already know," he said, a hand on the door latch, "by the process of elimination. It isn't LeCourt, for obvious reasons. It's not Ford Edmund, who hasn't the type of personality that would stoop to this level. It's no one I know in the business, certainly. It's Isabel Montoya."
"Why do you think it's obvious that Drake's not the one? That man at the bar, in the ski clothes. Maybe he wants you to think he's on our side or something. Maybe he wants to mislead us, or lure you into a trap. Maybe he's associated with the hitman you killed tonight."
Sanguineus smiled coldly at her. "The man at the bar is LeCourt, and he is not going to attempt scamming a man of my experience. He's not that stupid. As for the Iceman, he had no vengeful-minded buddies. If he wanted friends he would have opted for snowboarding as a profession. No, the messenger is Isabel. Stay here and keep my coffee hot."
He pulled out his Glock and snuggled it in his righthand jacket pocket, where it met the Walther PPK. He smiled, removed the Walther and with an underhand motion flung it onto the bed. "Keep that company," he said, and went out, closing the door firmly.
There was no one in the corridor. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. As he expected, a room number was scrawled on it. 308.
He went up the flight of stairs to the third floor. The door of 308 opened before he reached it. He walked in and closed the door.
"So she was able to get my room number," Isabel said and laughed softly. She put her hands on his shoulders, going up on tiptoe to kiss his grim mouth. "She phoned me a minute ago. Remind me to give her a tip tomorrow, and don't forget to reimburse me. There's no chance of me getting paid, you know. Zilch. Mucho lotta nada."
Sanguineus handed her a set of car keys. "A silver Audi Q7 SUV, space 22. We need body armor for the chest and stomach. Work your magic. A dozen layers of leather upholstery should do it. I need it by lunchtime tomorrow. Fontenay wants to run the extreme trail. LeCourt will be waiting for her with a modified speargun. It fires a ski pole."
"How interesting! He knows the brand?"
"Black Diamond, fixed length. We must suppose he does. But he might opt to shoot her with a light caliber suppressed handgun, dig out the slug and insert one of her poles. Messy business, but the extreme slope is a lonely stretch, on its east trail especially."
"Aren't you going to subdue the dickhead before Fontenay gets to the ambush?"
"You tell me, Izzy."
She looked puzzled. "Izzy?"
"Straight up, have you ever met Tertia Fontenay? I told her you were a former client."
Isabel stepped back, a hand on one spandex hip. "Did you? No wonder she was eyeballing me all evening. Why didn't you tell her I was your assistant operative? She'd keep her mouth quiet. She knows what'll happen to her if she doesn't. No, I never saw her before tonight. Scout's honor!"
"Uh huh. Who's this Ford Edmund fellow? Madelaine was sure you'd sniff out any accomplices. Is he in with Iceman?"
Isabel laughed. She kissed him again, with more feeling. "I thought your text to me was funny. 'The ice melted.' Ha-ha! Yes, Ford's here to accompany that watchmaker, Wisenheimer, or whatever his name is, to Marseilles, for protection from Bastio's thugs. Imagine, he told me all this! The braggart. Wants to impress me. He might know by now that Iceman's a frozen carcass. If so, do you think he'll fill in for him, regarding LeCourt?"
"We'll find out," Sanguineus replied. "Look, I'm going back to the client's room for coffee and a side benefit. You get to work on the chest armor. Just think of the split I'm giving you. Fifteen thousand dollars and you don't even have to kill anyone. I should be so lucky."
"Oh make me laugh," said Isabel, and kissed him in a way she hoped would bring him back to her room early in the morning of the hit.
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