Rosenfeld nodded.
“Of course you do,” said Mac.
Rosenfeld’s wife peeked her head out of the bedroom. “Gerard ... is everything all right?”
“Stay there,” commanded Mac, advancing on her. Before she could retreat, he grabbed her by the shoulders and led her into the hall. She was petite and frail, coarse red hair tumbling to the shoulders of her flannel nightgown. “I need to speak to your husband. It shouldn’t be long.” Mac looked around and led her to a guest bathroom. “Lock the door. Don’t come out until I say.”
The woman looked at her husband, eyes wide.
“Please, Laura,” said Rosenfeld. “Do as he says.”
The woman cursed, entering the bathroom. It was Hebrew, but Mac understood a few words. Something about this being his brother’s fault. She slammed the bathroom door, and Mac heard the key turn the lock.
“Get up,” said Mac, giving Rosenfeld a kick. All he could see was a reel of Ava being drugged and forced into the elevator. Rosenfeld was a party to the crime, an accessory at the least. Mac believed more.
Rosenfeld clambered to his feet. He was smaller than Mac remembered, a slight man with curly gray hair, fifty years old, give or take. In his dark pajamas—head bowed, shoulders hunched—he looked like a bullied schoolboy.
“Pour yourself a drink,” said Mac.
“No thank you.”
“I could use a coffee.”
“You’re not going to kill me?” said Rosenfeld.
“Depends on the coffee.”
The kitchen was modern and airy. Rosenfeld made an espresso from an expensive machine. Mac drank the coffee at once, getting the jolt he needed.
They returned to the living room. It was a large, open room, with casual sofas and armchairs and throw pillows everywhere. Oil paintings of sunny landscapes decorated the walls. Photographs crowded an antique wooden dresser. The Wailing Wall, the dome on the Mount, a group of Hasidim at prayer.
“Sit.”
Rosenfeld took a place on the couch.
Mac sat down next to him. With care, he slipped the pistol from his waistband and set it on the coffee table. Rosenfeld saw it and shuddered. Mac leaned close to the man and slapped him across the face. Just once. Very hard.
“Who is he?” asked Mac. “Who took Ava?”
Rosenfeld threw a hand to his cheek. “I thought you weren’t going to—”
“Kill you?” said Mac. “That’s up to you.”
Rosenfeld looked at Mac. His mouth tightened, and he crossed his arms. Mac raised his hand dramatically, ready to deliver another blow. “Who took her? Tell me his name.”
Chapter 20
Eiffel Tower
Paris
Cyrille de Montcalm made the drive from Montmartre to the Eiffel Tower in twelve minutes, a quarter of the time she’d need at any other hour. Two policemen waited at the barriers, with them a very impatient Francis Matthieu. Cyrille badged the cops and bantered with them for a minute, then told them to get the hell out of there. “Don’t you have anypoulesto roust in the Bois?”
Smiles all around. A wave to wish them good night as they piled back into their vehicles.
“So,” said Cyrille, directing the full force of her personality onto Matthieu. “How’d you get that shiner?”
The nice, chatty Cyrille had taken a break. This was the real Cyrille: pushy, pissed off, and about one misunderstood comment from blowing up. Matthieu was no longer the victim. In her eyes, he was the assailant and to be treated accordingly.
