neighborhood near the consulate.
They stopped at the super’s flat and got a key. The old man was inordinately glad to see her, apologizing profusely for the fact that someone might have copied his keys and stolen access to her flat from him.
Grant noted that Beauclair spoke excellent Deutsch and conversed easily with the man as she reassured him he’d done nothing wrong. She looked to Grant for backup.
“The report said the lock showed signs of tampering,” Grant told him. “The man was a professional. No one’s holding you responsible, Herr Horst.”
Marie thanked Grant with a perfunctory nod and a smile, shook the super’s hand and headed upstairs. No hesitation, he noted. She didn’t seem afraid to return to the kidnap scene.
“Where’d you learn German?” Grant asked as they climbed the stairs.
“A retired teacher, a neighbor and friend. She was fluent in several languages and began teaching me early on. She said it might help me land a job when I grew up, and she was right. I had an ear for it, my memory made it easy, and we both enjoyed it.”
“Lucky you. I lived over here for several years and still had to suffer through language school to get it right.”
“Defense Language Institute at the Presidio?”
“Yeah. You ever been there?” he asked.
“Nope, just heard about it. I haven’t traveled much yet, even over here. I planned to. That’s one of the primary reasons I volunteered for the position, but they’ve kept me too busy since I arrived.”
She stood back as he unlocked the door for her and went in first to check things out.
He liked that she was prudent enough to let him do that. However, she didn’t seem at all leery about entering the apartment. Brave of her, or else she was a damn good actress.
Lights worked, so the utilities were still on. Investigators had obviously finished with the place. A few boxes were stacked in the middle of the room. Someone had packed her personal items but hadn’t shipped them yet. It didn’t appear that she had very much.
He continued into the bedroom, and there were a few more boxes. The bathroom was empty of her toiletries and towels and shone from a recent cleaning.
“All clear,” he said, then realized as he turned that she was standing right behind him. She looked like a lost little waif, so tiny in his sweats and socks, hands clasped in front of her.
Her expression had altered considerably, and he figured this wide-eyed trepidation was her real reaction to the place. “It’s okay,” he said, gently touching her shoulder. “There’s no one here but us.”
“Thank goodness.” Her words were breathy, almost a whisper, as if she uttered them reluctantly.
“Hey, why don’t you call your family and talk to them? Mercier will have notified them by now that you’re safe, but maybe you’d like to tell them yourself. A familiar voice might make you feel better.”
She bit her bottom lip and avoided his questioning gaze. “Maybe later. After a shower.”
She stepped past him, approached the boxes and peeled the packing tape off one. “Towel,” she muttered, withdrew one and draped it over her shoulder. He watched as she opened another container and fished out a pair of jeans and a pullover. And undies. Beige lace. Brief.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’ll, uh, just leave you to take your shower.”
“Thanks…Grant,” she replied, using his given name for the first time. Why that seemed significant puzzled him. She wasn’t flirting, more as if she was earnestly reaching out, needing a friend.
He could understand why she felt friendless. Her people hadn’t sent anyone to save her. Her family couldn’t ransom her. He wondered if she had a significant other who was just sitting on his butt back there in the States, waiting for a miracle or word of her death.
Well, that wasn’t his problem, Grant thought. He would take good care of her as long as she was in his custody, of course, and until he saw her off, he’d be her friend if she needed one. No risk there.
There had been a time when he did consider making friends a risk. For one thing, they had always moved away or he had. A lasting relationship of any kind had been his greatest wish when he was young, but he soon learned that short-term was his best bet. No gut-wrenching goodbyes to suffer.
Whenever he did get involved with people, he felt responsible for them, compelled to look after them, fix what was wrong with them, ease their way in life however he could. And then they would have to move on, or he would, leaving behind a feeling of distress on his part that they were going off on their own and might be unable to cope. Yeah, it was definitely better not to let himself care all that much.
Because he soon realized that was a cold attitude to live with, he had adopted a smiling, good-ol’-boy warmth that put people at ease. That way, they’d be less aware that he kept a safe emotional distance. He’d had to do that with the people under his command or he would have gone crazy.
He did much better with this civilian job. Working alone sure had its advantages. In this particular case, he was relieved that his association with Marie Beauclair would be temporary.
Grant went into the living room and clicked on the television to cover the sound of her shower. He didn’t want to imagine her wet and naked. It just didn’t feel right to do that. But he couldn’t seem to help it.
Given what she had endured, his response filled him with guilt. He concentrated on pity, a much safer reaction to her and a lot more appropriate. Poor little thing.
Twenty minutes into a boring old movie, Grant began to get worried. The shower was still running. The water should be stone-cold by this time.
Was she in there, crying? Had she gone to sleep? Drowned herself? He’d better check.
“Ms. Beauclair?” He knocked several times. “You okay?” He knocked again. “Marie? Answer me right now or I’m coming in.”
Nothing.
Grant tried the handle. Locked. Well, there was no window in the bathroom, so he knew she hadn’t climbed out. Either she had passed out or was unable to speak for some reason. He backed up and ran against the door. And promptly bounced off. Dammit, he’d break his shoulder. He shouted again. No answer.
Chapter 3
Grant reached in his pocket and pulled out his pick tools. It took a minute or so to slip the mechanism on the bathroom door and unlock it. The room was filled with steam, but a quick scan showed it was empty.
She had thumbed the lock and pulled it shut to buy some time. But how had she gotten past him?
Grant turned off the water and went back into the bedroom. He raked back the draperies and cursed. The window at the back of the building was open. The thin line of a rappelling rope anchored to the bed frame snaked out one edge of the window and dangled nearly to the ground. Probably kept as a means of fire escape. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
He ran a hand through his
