Another common denominator was a specific bistro in Batignolles, the quiet, village-like neighborhood in Paris’s seventeenth arrondissement where Abelmar lived. He owned a sprawling penthouse that had undergone extensive renovations in the six years since he’d purchased it.
According to every one of the complaints, the founder of Pegasus often took his victims to Canard de Flaque, or Puddle Duck, his favorite local restaurant. He ate there three or four times a week when he was in Paris. Several of the women believed they’d been drugged at the bistro, then escorted to his nearby home, where they lost all memory and their nightmares began.
What don’t I know? Bree typed in a separate document. She often asked that question during an investigation. It helped her focus on where she wanted to look next.
She typed, The judges and what Abelmar has on them? Layout of A’s apartment?
Bree stopped, went to her secure in-house Bluestone e-mail account, and sent a message to Marianne Le Tour asking for any and all information on the three judges who’d done most of the sealing. She also asked for a copy of whatever plans Abelmar had filed with the city regarding the renovation of his apartment.
After Bree sent her e-mail, she returned to her list, only to have her stomach growl. She checked her watch. Five after eight. She should eat.
She thought of the cases she’d read and realized she knew just the spot for her second night out in the City of Light.
Chapter
12
Sherman Oaks, California
Crouching in the pitch-dark on the lip of a brush-choked and dusty urban canyon, Matthew Butler peered through his latest toy—a Leupold four-power infrared monocular that made anything with a heat signature show up in shades of yellow, orange, and red.
Butler had the device aimed across the canyon at the back of a four-thousand-square-foot Mission-style home set on half an acre of lush garden. There was a kidney-shaped pool with a little waterfall feeding it and a terrace beyond with double doors that opened into the kitchen.
He had the layout of the house downloaded on his phone, but he had already committed to memory the blueprint and a real estate agent’s video tour of the house. He believed he could walk the place blindfolded and not bump into a chair.
“Rear’s clear,” Butler murmured quietly, knowing the tiny Bluetooth mike taped to his throat would pick it up.
“Front clear,” he heard a woman say through the receiver taped to the upper edge of his jawbone.
“Left flank clear,” a man said.
“Right clear too,” a second male said.
“Target?”
“Hasn’t moved in four hours, Cap. Deep sleeper.”
Butler checked his watch: 2:47 a.m. “Sunrise in three hours,” he said. “It’s enough time.”
“I’m ready,” the woman said.
“Ready,” the men said.
“Launch,” said Butler, raising the monocular again. He scrambled over the side of the canyon onto a coyote trail he’d scouted and walked the day before, clipping any bramble or thorny vine that might trip him up.
In five minutes, he was up and over the lip of the far side of the canyon and crouched behind two fan palms about forty yards from the terrace doors.
“Go, Cort,” he said. “Go, JP.”
Figures appeared from the vegetation on both sides of the house, crouching and crab-walking toward the rear corners of the building, which were equipped with motion sensors and cameras. But these men—Dale Cortland and J. P. Vincente—carried thin rectangular shields coated with a mirror-like finish over their heads. The motion detectors might be triggered, but if they were, the cameras would pick up only a reflection of the lights, glares that shimmered and moved.
The pair reached junction boxes at the corners of the house and began disabling the cameras and overriding the security system.
“Clear,” Vincente said about ten minutes later.
“Same,” Cortland said.
Butler broke from behind the fan palms, said, “Go, Purdy. Go, Big DD.”
A small hooded figure ran in from the left—Alison Purdy, the burglar, was already working her magic on the door locks before Butler reached her side. A fourth figure, David “Big DD” Dawkins, came lumbering around the corner carrying a combat shotgun just as the door locks gave way. A huge African-American man who’d played defensive end for Baylor before joining the military, Dawkins was as skilled as any on Butler’s handpicked team, especially with a weapon in his hands. But his primary role in these situations was to use his sheer size, presence, and growl of a voice to intimidate the hell out of people.