“Go back,” she told Luna. “Replay that last part, then stop.”
She stared at the still frame image. It was an impression more than anything, that sense of seeing something—or someone—that she'd seen before.
It took a moment for it to sink in, for her to wrap her head around what she was seeing. She sat back. She felt as if she'd taken a blow to the stomach. It was the same person from the airport.
She looked at the rest of the footage, concentrating on that slender figure as the two people rounded the front of the van, then crossed the garage and climbed the half dozen steps into the back of the gallery. She sat for several moments trying to absorb what she had seen.
If the person was the same one she’d had that encounter with at the airport, then it was connected to everything else that had happened—not a random thief, but someone after something.
What? Obviously not the usual ID, cash, credit card theft, but something that had to do with Cate's accident. And had been trying to stop her since.
The photograph?
“Innis pulled up messages from your cell account.” Luna brought up another screen.
“James wanted to know if anyone had attempted to hack into it.”
Something else he didn't bother to tell her.
“What did he find?” If someone had hacked into her phone, they would have access to all her information, including calls she made.
“Nothing that seemed obvious. It depends on their expertise.” Luna gave her a faint smile.
“There are some people who can access an account and leave no trace.”
One guess on who 'some people' might be.
“There were several voicemail messages.”
She wasn't surprised. She'd been out of communication since leaving London. She turned on her phone.
There were three messages from Alec.
“Where the bloody hell are you? The media is all over the attack in London, and there is security footage from that attack at Mont St. Michel! Call me before the old man has a bloody coronary!”
Her publisher had called a half dozen times, the message the same, and Nina had left two messages.
“Ellison is meeting with our legal department over everything, but he needs you here. You need to call in so we can discuss everything that's happened.”
Then the last message.
“My dear Kris.” The accent was familiar from dozens of calls in the past, and meetings in both London and Paris when he had joined them for Cate's latest book launch—Marcus Aronson.
“Such sad news about our friend Cate. I cannot believe it. You must call me.”
The sound of his voice, that slight accent—French, that she'd come to recognize and that had become more pronounced the longer he lived in Paris. It brought back memories of those earlier trips to promote Cate's latest book, late-night discussions at their hotel after the media had left, a cigarette usually in his hand, although not the last couple of times as the major hotels set up smoking venues, the rest of the hotel off limits.
He was tall, handsome, and seemed to have a perpetual tan, courtesy of a distant ancestor, he had once joked, and with those startling blue eyes. He had more gray in his hair than the last time she saw him, which only contrasted the tan and those blue eyes. And he had an amazing knowledge of European history, particularly military history. He'd made a career of it. And there had been two books that had been published about prominent battles, including the Middle Ages.
Only once he'd spoken about that earlier career as a field correspondent, when he and Cate had worked together.
“We were both up for the same assignment,” he had explained. “I had more experience, more time in the field, but the assignment went to Cate.”
He had sat back then, watching Cate across the table. He smiled that charming, some would call it sexy smile, that had a way of pulling you in.
“I have always suspected she may have slept with the bureau chief to get that assignment.” He had winked at Kris across the table.
It was said with humor, but Kris had the distinct impression he was the only one amused.
