“No, actually you look as good as ever. You’re holding up better than Denzel—in his latest movies, anyway. Somehow you persevere. I don’t know how, but you do. But I can tell that you’re twisted up inside. Eat, relax, then we’ll go to Nice and check out some sports cars. It will be like a holiday. Maybe we’ll even catch a killer. Finish your wine, Alex.”
“Right,” I said, “and then I have to buy some chocolate for Jannie. A suitcase full. I made another promise.”
“Didn’t you promise to catch the Wolf?” Sandy asked.
“Yeah, that too.”
Chapter 105
NEXT STOP, a luxury-car dealership in Nice. I felt as if I were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
The owner of Riviera Motors, the “concessionnaire exclusif Jaguar, Aston Martin, Lotus,” appeared to like drama, too, at least in a design sense. To that effect, a long row of gleaming black cars was displayed in the showroom. The cars were clearly visible from the street through monumental bay windows. The shiny black machines cut a startling contrast to a spotless white floor.
“What do you think?” Sandy asked as we climbed out of our rented Peugeot, which we had parked across the street from the dealership.
“I think I need a new car,” I said to her. “And I know the Wolf likes fancy sports cars.”
We went inside and stopped at the reception desk in front. Behind it was an elegant reception person, well tanned with a bleached and ironed ponytail. She was checking Sandy and me out: Both over six feet; ebony and ivory. Who are these people?
“We’re here to see Monsieur Garnier,” Sandy said to the woman in French.
“You have an appointment with Monsieur, madame?”
“We do indeed. Interpol and the FBI, respectively—and respectfully, I might add. Monsieur Garnier is expecting us, I believe. We’re here on important business.”
While we waited, I continued to take in the place. The expensive cars were precisely parked in a herringbone pattern, interspersed with voluminous potted plants. In an adjacent service atelier, mechanics in matching Jaguar-green jumpsuits worked with pristine tools.
The manager of the car dealership appeared after a couple of minutes’ wait. He was dressed in a fashionable gray suit, but not too flashy, just clearly expensive and right.
“You’ve come about a couple of Aston Martins, a Jaguar, a Lotus?” he asked.
“Something like that, monsieur,” Sandy told him. “Let’s go up to your office. We wouldn’t want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom.”
The manager smiled. “Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof.”
“We’ll see about that,” I told him in French. “Or maybe a better way of putting it: let’s try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation.”
Chapter 106
THE MANAGER SUDDENLY BECAME extremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice. Monsieur Garnier told us it was “off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road to Monaco. You can’t miss it. And you won’t miss the Aglionby estate.”
“To Catch a Thief,” Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.
“Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up there,” Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.
“Also, we’re here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience,” I said, “not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick.”
“This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted here,” Sandy said. But I knew she was focused—always. That’s why we got along so well.
The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights, no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel; dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.
“You think this is a fool’s errand, Alex?” Sandy asked.
“It’s what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow.”
I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?
Then we saw the estate we were looking for—and Sandy drove past. “Got you, you bastard,” she said. “Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?”