She exhaled and coughed heavily when she heard the words, “San Diego Police Department,” come from outside.
“Dieu merci,” she said as uniformed officers approached.
A tall uniformed police officer smiled at her. “Not God, ma’am, but I am here to help you. I’m Sergeant Taggart Dupart. Fire Department will figure out how they can best get you to safety. Hang in there.”
She rolled her eyes. “I thought I could just pose here for my photoshoot.” Sarcasm dripped from her lips.
“Sergeant, this is Monique Lillier. She is a model,” Alain explained.
“Sir, right now, she could be my sister, and I would do the same thing,” Taggart deadpanned.
“What do you have, Sarge?” Firefighter Shaun Dupart pushed passed the sergeant. The fresh-faced kid was Taggart’s baby brother.
Coughing heavily, she asked, “Why don’t you ask me? Someone tampered with my seltzer. It’s eating through everything, and I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Can we have the small talk after you get me the hell out of here?Tu m'emmerdes avec cette perte de temps pendant que je meurs.” She told them she was pissed off by them wasting her time while she died. She followed that outburst with an even more unpleasant tirade in French. Monique’s temper was blooming.
The Dupart family, transplants from Louisiana, were Cajun and all spoke French fluently. “Madame, nous travaillons aussi vite que possible.”Shaun told her they were working as fast as they could in perfect French. He also told her she was not going to die.
Monique’s chin fell to her chest, and she shrugged. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem, ma’am.” Shaun and two other firefighters rolled out a rubberized mat, and in combination with their boots, they crossed the acid-filled area. Shaun offered his hand and, scooping her into his arms, carried her to safety. There he handed her off to another firefighter to bring her into the villa.
Shaun stepped out of his boots. “Madame Lillier, I’m a paramedic. Let me take a look at you.” His partner Liam assessed her vital signs while Shaun listened to her chest and applied oxygen.
Her angry bravado turned to tears and shakes. “Nice and slow breaths,” Shaun soothed her, adding medication in a nebulizer. “We’d like to transport you to the hospital. These fumes were caustic.”
Monique shook harder as anger mixed with the jitters from the meds. “Alain, I thought you said things were handled,” she screeched and choked.
“Calm down,” Alain said.
“You tell me to calm down, and I’m telling you I have every right not to be calm.” She could see her red blotchy face in a hotel mirror.
“Excuse me, Madame Lillier, what things did you think were handled?” Taggart asked. He’d been watching the scene unfold.
“Nothing, Sergeant,” Alain interrupted.
“This is what I mean. I’ve been receiving creepy mail. Things missing. Hang-up phone calls. Flat tires, and now this.” Monique frowned.
“Sir, what is your relationship with Ms. Lillier?” Taggart asked.
“I’m her manager,” Alain said.
“What happened today was serious. How did you manage not to drink it?” Taggart asked.
“I knocked it off the table when I stretched.” She looked out toward the terrace.
“Did anything splash on you?” Taggart crunched his brow.
Monique ran her hands over her clothing. She held her hand to her mouth and rushed to the bathroom when she saw multiple pinholes in her sundress. Shaun and Liam followed.
An hour later, after Monique refused to go to the hospital, she thanked the firefighters and Taggart. She’d make contributions to police and fire charities as a further thanks.
* * *
Kieran Chase tookthe elevator up to the tenth-floor penthouse of the Chase Group building, blocks from the White House. “Morning, Kieran,” Verna, his secretary, said.
Kieran smiled. “Morning. Anything I need to know?”
She cocked her head. “Need to know or want to know?”
