“He hit me,” said Matthieu. “That’s why I called you guys.”
“You look like you can take care of yourself. Who was this guy ... Conor McGregor?”
“I already explained. He was a foreigner, maybe American. He talked to some of the security earlier. They saw him too.”
“Well, I didn’t,” said Cyrille. “Explain it again.”
“He was six feet tall. An older guy, I don’t know. But fast. I didn’t see it coming.”
“He just hauled out and hit you? Like that?”
“Do I have to go over this again?” Matthieu complained. “I just want to go home. Come on.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Cyrille. “I get out of bed and come all the way down here to help you out, and you’re copping an attitude.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Then how did you mean it?” asked Cyrille, getting up in his face. “I ask a question; I want an answer.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matthieu. “It’s late. Like I said, he told me he was with some hotel and that one of his guests had lost a bracelet.”
“And you just let him in? I would have told him to bug off and come by in the morning.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Cyrille.
Matthieu studied his shoes. “I . . . uh . . .”
“You put the squeeze on him,” said Cyrille. “How much? Stop acting so guilty. Come on. Spill.”
“Five hundred,” said Matthieu.
“Nice,” said Cyrille, with mock appreciation. “You should have been a businessman, not a dishwasher. So he pays you five hundred, you let him in, and what happens?”
“There wasn’t a bracelet,” said Matthieu. “It was BS. He wanted to see the security cameras. He said he’d been at the restaurant earlier with his wife or something and she was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” asked Cyrille. “From the Jules Verne. Are you messing with me?”
“That’s what he said. I know it’s impossible, but whatever. He wanted the see the security tapes.”
“He was there earlier?” asked Cyrille.
“For lunch.”
“Did you check the reservation book? The man’s name is right there.”
“It’s locked up,” said Matthieu. “I don’t have the passcode.”
Cyrille shook her head in disbelief. She wasn’t mad at Matthieu. She was perplexed. Dekker hadn’t tried to conceal his identity, not really, and he’d left Matthieu alive to tell everyone about it.
“I told him he couldn’t see the cameras,” said Matthieu. “That’s when he hit me.”
“Just belted you.”
“He wanted the keys, and I wouldn’t give them to him. I tried to get away. I got an elbow in.”
“An elbow?”
