She was the poisoner. How clever of her, to also poison herself, but with such a small dose that she would be sick for a time but would survive. Or perhaps she hadn’t intended to sip the wine at all, but his father had insisted and she accidentally took a larger swallow than she’d intended. That part didn’t matter; what mattered was that, ultimately, she had succeeded in killing his father.
He couldn’t believe how she had fooled him, fooled them all. Her paperwork had been perfect, as far as it went. Now that it was too late, he saw with perfect clarity how it had worked. Salvatore had been lulled into carelessness by her apparent indifference to his advances, and Rodrigo, too, had allowed himself to relax after Salvatore’s first few meetings with her were so ordinary. If she had appeared eager for his father’s company, he would have been much more vigorous in demanding answers, but she had played them all perfectly.
She was obviously a professional, no doubt paid by one of his rivals. As a professional, she had other identities to use when she disappeared afterward, or perhaps she simply used her own real name, since Denise Morel was an alias. She had definitely been on that plane to London-his men had seen her there-therefore, one of the passengers listed was her. He simply had to discover which one, and follow the path from there. The task before him now-or rather, before his people who would be doing the actual work-was daunting, but he had a starting point He would have them investigate every person on that plane, and he would find her.
No matter how long it took, he would find her. And then he would make her suffer far more than his poor father had suffered. Before he finished with her, she would not only tell him everything she knew about who had hired her, she would also die cursing her own mother for giving birth to her. This he swore on the memory of his father.
Lucas Swain moved silently about the flat that Liliane Mansfield, aka Denise Morel, had abandoned.
Oh, her clothes were still here, or most of them, anyway. Food still in the cupboard, a bowl and spoon in the sink. It looked as if she’d gone to work, or was just out shopping, but he knew better. He knew a professional job when he saw one. There wasn’t a fingerprint in the place, not even on the spoon left in the sink. The wipe-down was perfect.
Judging from the file he’d read on her, the clothes she’d left behind weren’t her type, anyway. The clothes belonged to Denise Morel, and now that Denise had served her purpose, Lily had shed her like a snake shedding its skin. Salvatore Nervi was dead; there was no reason for Denise to exist any longer.
What puzzled him was why she’d hung around for so long. Nervi had evidently been dead for a week or longer, but the landlord reported Mile. Morel had taken a taxi this very morning. No, he did not know to where, but she was carrying a small bag. A weekend trip, perhaps.
Hours. He’d missed her by mere hours.
The landlord hadn’t let him into the flat, of course; Swain’d had to sneak in, then quietly spring the lock on Lily’s flat. The landlord had obligingly told him which flat it was, saving Swain from having to break in during the night and look at the records, which would have wasted time.
As it was, this was wasted time anyway. She wasn’t here, and she wasn’t coming back.
There was a bowl of fruit on the table. He selected an apple, polished it on his shirt, and bit into it Damn, he was hungry, and if she’d wanted the apple, she’d have taken it with her. Curious, he opened the icebox to see what else she had in the way of food, and closed the door again in disappointment. Chick food: fruit, some fresh produce, and what was either cottage cheese or yogurt that was way too old. Why didn’t women who lived alone ever have real food around? He’d kill for a pizza, loaded with pepperoni. Or a grilled steak, with a huge baked potato dripping with butter and sour cream. Now, that was food.
While he pondered what his next step should be in locating his quarry, he ate another apple.
According to her file, Lily was very comfortable in France and spoke the language like a native. She supposedly had a talent for accents, too. She had spent some time in Italy and traveled all over the civilized world, but when she settled down for a rest, it was in either France or Great Britain, where she felt most at home. Logic would say she had got the hell out of Dodge, meaning she was no longer in France. That left Great Britain as the most likely place to start looking.
Of course, since she was very good at her job, she might have considered the same logic and gone someplace else entirely, such as Japan. He grimaced. He hated it when he out-thought himself. Well, he might as well play it by the numbers and start with the most likely place first; even a blind hog sometimes found an acorn.
There were three common ways to cross the Channel: ferry, train, and airplane. He picked air, because it was the fastest, and she’d be wanting to put some space between her and the Nervi organization. London wasn’t the only G.B. destination she could have chosen, of course, but it was the closest, and she’d want to give any pursuers the shortest length of time possible in which to organize an interception. Information could be relayed instantly, but moving human beings around still took time. That made London the logical destination, which left him with two major airports to cover, Heathrow and Gatwick. He opted for Heathrow first, because it was the busiest and most crowded.
He took a seat in the cozy little parlor-no recliners, damn it-and pulled out his trusty secure cell phone. After punching in a long series of numbers, he pressed the send button and waited to connect. A brisk British voice said, “Murray here.”
“Swain. I need some info. A woman named Denise Morel may or may not have-”