Nightwork, page 39
“Which makes me an honorary grandmother,” Mags put in. “They call me Magma. Time goes,” she added with a wink at Sebastien. “The smart ones go with it and enjoy the ride.”
The purpose of the visit didn’t come up until they sat with servings of bread pudding and caramel sauce.
“Mais,” Sebastien began, “tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Booth repeated. “The appointment’s at two, so we should leave here at two. Dubeck keeps them waiting. You’ve got the transportation arranged?”
Sebastien nodded. “Bien sûr.”
“I figure about ninety minutes should do it, and I’ll give the client a business card—or Miranda will—with the direct line to the drop phone. Dauphine has that?”
“She’s set,” Mags confirmed. “Monsieur Dubeck’s administrative assistant.”
“I’ll assess the security—electronic and human—evaluate the weak spots, locate the target area, and get the client’s schedule for the next three months.”
“You’ll do all that in ninety minutes?”
Booth glanced at Miranda. “Less, but ninety for the flourishes. Dubeck’s a busy man. If it takes longer, it’s because she’s giving me more than I expect.”
“She’s a talker.” Looking smug, Mags sipped coffee. “I got a mani-pedi at her salon when she was in. You wouldn’t believe what they charge in that place for nails.”
“You need to bill me.”
“Oh, stop.” She waved Booth away. “I got a glass of good champagne and some time watching your target out of it. Plus a damn good pedicure. She brags, she name-drops, and spent a lot of her time there on her phone gossiping with friends. Otherwise flipping through fashion magazines. She struck me as about as deep as a puddle of rainwater, harmless, and on the giddy side.
“Her aura’s got touches of brown with the rosy pink. She actually loves her husband, but his money sure doesn’t hurt.”
“Wait.” Miranda’s hand shot up. “You read auras?”
“Madame Magdelaine sees what she sees,” Mags said, piling on the drama. “Yours? Red, touches of orange and yellow. Confident, direct, creative. You need as much as want to learn through experience.”
“I could’ve told you all that without reading auras,” Booth pointed out, and Mags fluttered her lashes at him.
“I’ll add you’re a lucky bastard, pal. Those orange lights mean sexual as well as creative energy.”
“And moving on,” Booth said as Miranda let out a quick laugh. “The mark?”
Mags winked at Miranda. “We’ll talk later.”
“Oh, yes, please.”
“So … as a casual conversation starter, I admired her earrings—canary diamond studs, Graff, about two carats each—and she told me her husband had given them to her on a romantic weekend in Paris for Valentine’s Day. He’s a doll baby. Her words.”
“And you were?”
“She didn’t ask for my name or anything else about me. We only spoke for a few minutes, and still she managed to drop in the fact she was consulting with the famous designer Dubeck over reimagining her master suite. I acted suitably impressed.”
Her eyes laughed over her spoon. “More, I think you’ll be interested to know she’s doing all this as a surprise for her husband for their third anniversary. He’s currently on a golf trip in Hilton Head.”
“All the better.” Booth turned to Sebastien. “And the setup for Lake Charles?”
“We have a house from the ones you picked. A good choice, I think. We find a coordination with LaPorte’s schedule, then move the family and staff out.”
“And how do you arrange that?” Miranda wondered.
“Maybe we get lucky and work it in with a family vacation. Then it’s only the staff to deal with,” Booth told her. “Or we find a reason everyone has to vacate overnight.”
“Pests work,” Sebastien said. “Or the gas leak.” And Booth nodded.
“Quick and easy. I think the gas leak—if I can work the timing. If not, a couple rats, a few mice. Time to call the exterminator. Which,” he told Miranda, “will be one of us. We suggest they leave—all humans and pets—and we’ll solve this problem overnight.”
He looked back at Sebastien. “I’m targeting—best scenario—the middle of June.”
“We’ll aim for it.”
“It’s all about the illusion and the timing.”
“Isn’t there also the matter of stealing a big hunk of diamond?”
This time Booth patted Miranda’s hand. “Not yet, but we’ll get there.”
She supposed preparations the next morning for casing the joint equaled the start of getting there.
After an elaborate brunch, she sat in the back courtyard with Mags while Wiley, after a walk, napped under the table.
“I’m not going to poke and pry,” Mags began. “But I want to say you make my boy happy.”
“I hope I do.”
“He’s had a lot of sad and mad and bad in his life. He’s had some happy, too, but nothing happier than you.”
The words struck her heart, and just held there. “That’s … that’s an amazing thing to hear.”
“When he first told me about you, back in college? I could hear that happy, that all-the-way happy, and I thought: My boy’s in love. It cut a piece of his heart out to walk away from you. And he walked because of me.”
“No, Mags.” Direct, determined, decisive Miranda reached out to grip Mags’s hand hard. “No. He walked because of LaPorte. I wanted to blame Booth—I did blame him,” she admitted.
“Of course you did,” Mags said quietly. “He wanted you to.”
“But I know better now. I know there’s only one villain here. It crushed me, I won’t deny it. And it changed me, my attitudes, my outlook. But … Do you believe in fate?”
“Oh, honey.” Mags barked out a laugh. “Do I.”
“Well, we were both so young, and who knows how we’d have handled all we felt in the long run. But we’re older now. Smarter now, we’ve lived more now. And in the past few months I’ve gotten to know Booth more than I ever did during that rush of falling.”
She glanced back toward the house, and up to the windows of the room where they’d spent the night.
“Did he tell you about Selene Warwick?”
“He said LaPorte called her and Cannery off.”
“He did, but only after Booth threatened him. And ran Selene off himself.”
As she related the story to Mags, Mags poured more of Sebastien’s sun tea into glasses.
“He never tells me about that sort of thing.” Mags sighed with the words. “I don’t think he often tells Sebastien either.”
“I doubt he’d have told me, but I saw it myself. And one of the things I saw was a man who can handle himself. He took her gun, and ran her off, threatened LaPorte—hell, bullied him,” she corrected, “out of another million dollars. Then he set up the house they’d rented so they’d be identified, so authorities would look for them. Finding them’s another thing, but he did all of that so … smoothly. He did all of that, and what he’s doing now, while teaching full-time and putting on a really impressive high school musical.
“I think he could do anything he wanted to do.”
“Preaching to the choir. You love him. That’s not a question, because I see what I see. You’ll decide what to do about it.”
“Oh, I’ve decided.” Miranda glanced toward the window again. “It just has to wait until this is finished.”
Sebastien stepped out before Mags could ask. He slapped a hand on his heart. “Ah! Les belles femmes!”
Hearing his voice, Wiley scrambled up to race over and dance on his hind legs. Sebastien scooped him up, nuzzled.
“Booth’s ready for you, cher.”
Miranda went in, and up the arrow straight staircase to the landing, turned left.
The bedroom door stood open, so she walked in. Jolted back.
The man who stood studying himself in the cheval-glass mirror boasted a two-toned pompadour—stone-gray topped with snow-white. His goatee, stone-gray, came to a sharp white point.
Under the palest of pale gray suits with a royal-blue waistcoat he had broad shoulders, a broad chest.
Rings sparkled on both pinkies. An elaborate lapel pin in the shape of a phoenix glimmered.
She didn’t see Booth until he spoke.
“Good. We need to get started on you.”
“You— I would’ve passed you on the street. You look older, and—and fuller. Your eyes are brown.”
“Colored contacts.” He spoke briskly—work mode, she realized. “Strip it down and put on the robe. I need to do your hair and makeup.”
“Thanks, but I’ve been doing my own since I was twelve.”
“Not like this. That’s your hair.”
He pointed to a short, blunt blond wig with full bangs.
“Okay. It sort of looks like the one Julia Roberts wore at the beginning of Pretty Woman.”
“I guess it does.”
She walked back to close the door before she undressed. “I take it I don’t get the facial hair.”
“Not this time.” He took off his suit jacket, laid it on the bed as she put on the robe and sat. Then he turned her chair so her back was to the mirror.
Immediately, she tried to turn it back. “I want to watch!”
“No. When I’m done, you’ll get the full effect.” He began to work her hair into a skullcap. “This’ll keep it out of the way while I do the face. I’m going to build on what you’re already wearing.”
“Can you do a beauty mark? I always wondered how I’d look with one.” Then she actually bounced in the chair when he opened a train case. “Oh my God, look at all those brushes! The palettes! Let me—”
He slapped her hand away. “Mine. I’ll share later. I’ve got a schedule going here.”
“Your face is fuller, too, around the jaw.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Are you going to make mine fuller?”
“No,” he said as he worked. “Just stronger makeup, especially the eyes. Bold red on the lips.”
“Red lipstick doesn’t work on me.”
“It will today.”
He brushed, he dabbed, he penciled and powdered. He astonished her by applying false eyelashes—and ignored her claim they’d look cheap and cheesy.
He changed her earrings, and he tugged the wig on, studied her with narrowed eyes before he slipped black-framed glasses on her.
When she tried to turn and look, he pulled her out of the chair and away from the mirror. “Not yet. You need to put this on.”
He held up the bodysuit, watched her mouth fall open.
“Is that going to be my ass? You’re giving me a big ass, and those are my…” She laid a hand, protectively, across her breasts. “I’m going to have a big butt, wide hips, and huge boobs.”
“They’re not huge. They’re in proportion to the rest. If she ever describes you, she won’t say ‘willow slim,’ won’t say ‘lanky,’ she’ll say ‘curvy.’”
“How about ‘robust’?”
“That works, too. You wanted the part, Miranda,” he reminded her. “This is your wardrobe.”
She muttered, but tossed the robe aside and let him help her into the bodysuit. “It’s a little tight, and it’s shoving my own girls way up.”
“It’s supposed to be tight, and it’s supposed to push them up. Here’s the rest.”
She studied the little skirt, the jacket, the silky white tank. “That’s a really short skirt.”
“Miranda.”
“All right, all right. I don’t know if my new ass will fit into this.”
It did, of course, it all fit, and so did the black stilettos. After tying a scarf in red, black, and gold around her neck with the knot on the side, he stood back, circled his finger so she did a turn.
“Good. Very good. Now you can look.”
She stepped to the mirror, just stared.
She’d have passed herself on the street, too, she realized. Her eyes looked huge and madly shadowed. Rather than cheap and cheesy, the lashes came off exotic in contrast to the studious glasses. The red lips looked somehow French, and with a deeper dip in the top lip than she could claim.
“It doesn’t look like me. It doesn’t look like a wig. And with this body, I think I’d make a damn good living as an exotic dancer. Am I sleeping with Dubeck?”
“Mais non!” He pulled out his accent. “You are but another tool to him, no more than a measuring tape.”
“Okay. Do I detect a hint of Poirot in Dubeck’s voice?”
“A soupçon.”
Still fascinated, she turned this way and that. “He was Belgian.”
She missed Booth’s delighted grin. “He was, but it still works. Let’s hear yours.”
She’d practiced, privately. “I am at monsieur’s disposal, and beneath his notice. But I have dreams.”
Soft, low, a little breathy, with the accent subtle.
Better, he thought, than overdone.
“That’ll do it. Can you hold it?”
She stared, a little fiercely, at her new face in the mirror. “I can hold it.”
“When I speak to you in French, respond in French. In English, respond in English. You won’t have to say much, just follow my lead.”
“I know, we covered this.”
“Repetition carves it in. Take off the watch—she couldn’t afford it. Try those three bangles. You’ll carry this bag—it holds your tablet for notes, measuring tape, pencils, pens, a paper notebook, the business card case—his—and other tools.
“Look at me, don’t smile.”
When she did he snapped a photo. “You’ll want to familiarize yourself with the contents. Move things around if you want, as long as you know where you’ve put things. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay. I’m a little nervous. But I think it suits my personality.”
She sat, opened the bag to go through the contents, saw he’d organized them as she would. She tried out the tablet, attempted some notes in French.
While she waited, she got up to check out his makeup case, and found it awesome.
“Here’s your wallet,” he said when he came back in. “It’s got your ID, a credit card, some cash—euros and US.”
She opened it, stared. “I have a French driver’s license with a photo that looks like I do now.”
“It’s a quick job. It’s a just in case. The credit card’s only for show—another just in case. We should go. Don’t overplay it, stay in the background.”
“Looking like this?”
“Did you hear Mags’s rundown of her? It’s all about her and who’s important. She doesn’t care about you—you’re not important. She’ll see a young, blond Frenchwoman with a good bag and cheap shoes—”
“Like Clarice Starling.”
“Jesus, no wonder I’m crazy about you. Yeah, like Clarice. But you’re tall, you’re built, and you only speak when spoken to.”
“Oui, monsieur,” she murmured, casting down her heavily lashed eyes. “Je ne suis personne.”
“Exactement.” He kissed her hand, and led her out.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mags fisted her hands on her hips. “Nice work, pal. You look damn good as a blonde, sweetie. The red’s you, but you look damn good. Now break a leg.”
“I might in these heels.” She gripped Mags’s hand. “Hold good thoughts, will you? It’s my debut.”
“I’ve got you covered. Sebastien’s outside.”
He stood by a black limo in a gray suit, a chauffeur’s cap. He rolled his eyes at Miranda and said, “Ooh la la.”
She laughed, slid in. “A limo?”
“Bien sûr.” Booth—or, she realized, Dubeck—slid in beside her. “I am Dubeck. How else would I travel? Put on the accent, and keep it on. Get inside her and stay there.”
She took the little compact out of her bag, studied her new face in its mirror. And carved it into her brain.
The house was gorgeous, she couldn’t deny it. It stood massive and elegant in the heart of Georgetown with its three stories, bride-white trim against the palest of yellows. Its front gardens rejoiced in spring.
“Not walled or gated,” she commented with her soft accent. “I expected more security.”
“It’s there. The outbuilding to the left? That’s the security station. And it’ll be manned twenty-four/seven.”
Sebastien eased to a stop on the brick driveway in front of a white portico that protected the double front doors.
He opened the door for Booth, circled around, and did the same for Miranda.
In character, Miranda walked two steps behind Booth as he strode up to ring the bell.
It opened promptly. The middle-aged woman in a black uniform looked exceptionally fit. Booth imagined security blended with her housekeeper responsilities.
Dutifully, Miranda produced one of Dubeck’s business cards.
“Monsieur Dubeck,” she said. “He has an appointment with Madame Mountjoy.”
“Please come in.” The housekeeper invited them into a grand foyer with soaring ceilings. The floors gleamed under a perfectly faded Aubusson carpet. Antique mirrors were interspersed with art on the walls and complemented the furnishings of polished mahogany and quiet colors.
The air smelled a little too strongly of roses and gardenias.
“Please make yourselves comfortable in the parlor.”
She led the way into a large room with an Adam fireplace, three tall windows, more art, more quiet colors. “Mrs. Mountjoy will be right with you. May I offer you refreshments?”
“Coffee, strong and black.” Booth put a considering frown on his face as he wandered the room, assessing it.
Miranda kept her gaze down, nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you.” She stood where she was, hands folded, while the housekeeper left, and Booth continued to circle and study the room.
He started to speak in rapid French, shot her an impatient look, gave an equally impatient gesture. Miranda pulled her tablet from the bag and did her best to make notes while frantically interpreting in her head.
Tasteful, cautious, good art, dignified and respectful of the architecture of the house. Beautiful millwork. Original plaster walls.
As he finished, she heard the sound of heels—likely as high as her own—clicking rapidly.
