Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

“Yeah?”

“I imagine he’ll have a computer with an Internet connection.”

“He may well have Wi-Fi, but if he has a computer, it’s probably a laptop—and that will be in Tokyo. So I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Alice’s face crumpled with disappointment. “How should we get there? Taxi, subway…”

Gabriel looked up. On the wall above their table, amid a hodgepodge of photographs of celebrities posing with the café owner, he saw an old city map pinned to a corkboard. “We’re not far from Grand Central,” he said, pointing to the map.

Grand Central…Alice remembered that extraordinary train station, which Seymour had shown her during one of their trips to New York. Her colleague had taken her to eat oysters and shrimp at the Oyster Bar, a fantastic seafood restaurant situated in a large vaulted room underground. Recalling that visit, she suddenly had an idea. She looked at the map. Gabriel was right—Grand Central Station was only a few blocks from where they sat.

“Let’s go!” she said, sliding out of her seat.

“What, already? Don’t you want dessert? You should see their cheesecake!”

“You’re getting on my nerves, Keyne.”

They went into the station through the entrance at the corner of Park Avenue and Forty-Second Street, finding themselves in the vast main hall with its rows of ticket windows and machines.

In the center, above the circular information kiosk, was the famous four-faced clock in brass and opal glass, used by lovers as a meeting place for more than a hundred years.

They weren’t here as tourists, of course, but Alice couldn’t help admiring the station. It’s nothing like the Gare du Nord or Saint-Lazare, that’s for sure, she thought, looking around. An autumnal light, soft and peaceful, poured through the large side window, painting the lobby in shades of gold and ocher.

On the immense vaulted ceiling, 125 feet high, thousands of painted stars gave the impression that you were looking up into a clear night sky. It was from here that Cary Grant fled to Chicago in North by Northwest, here that Robert De Niro met Meryl Streep in Falling in Love.

“Follow me,” she said, loud enough to be heard above the roar of voices around them.

She fought her way through the crowd, with Gabriel following, then climbed the steps that led to the eastern balcony of the main concourse. From here, they had a commanding view of the entire hall, which seemed even more monumental.

It was in this majestic, almost open-air setting that a major firm had installed one of its stores. Alice weaved between the pale-wood tables displaying the brand’s flagship products: cell phones, MP3 players, computers, tablets. Although secured with anti-theft devices, much of this equipment was freely available to use. The store’s visitors—most of them tourists—came here to check their e-mail, go online, or listen to music on state-of-the-art headphones.

They had to act fast; there were police and security guards everywhere. Alice managed to avoid being collared by any of the army of employees wearing blue T-shirts who patrolled the space, and approached one of the display tables.

She handed her satchel to Gabriel. “Grab the coaster,” she told him.

While he did this, she touched a key on the keyboard of a MacBook Pro that looked similar to the one she had at home in France. With a click, she activated a program that used the computer’s built-in camera, grabbed the coaster from Gabriel, held it up to the screen, and took several photographs of the fingerprint. Using the computer’s retouching software, she manipulated the contrast and brightness levels until she had the clearest image possible. Then she connected to her e-mail in-box.

“Can you go buy our subway tickets?” she asked Gabriel.

Waiting until he had disappeared toward the ticket machines, she began writing an e-mail to Seymour, her fingertips flying over the keyboard.

To: Seymour Lombart

Subject: Help

From: Alice Schafer

Seymour,

I need your help more than ever. I’ll try to call you sometime in the next hour, but before then you really have to speed up your investigation.

1. Have you gotten access to the security cameras in the parking garage and the airports?

2. Have you found my car? Traced my cell phone? Checked the latest activity in my bank account?

3. What have you found out about Gabriel Keyne?

4. I’m attaching a photograph of a fingerprint. Could you get it analyzed ASAP?

I’m counting on you.

All best,

Alice

11Little Egypt

Astoria, Queens

Noon

THE SQUARE OUTSIDE the station was a blaze of fall sunlight. Alice and Gabriel left this bright esplanade and disappeared into the crowd of customers at the market that had been set up under the elevated railway. The two fugitives had caught a train from Grand Central to Lexington Avenue, then taken the local line to Astoria Boulevard. The trip took only about twenty minutes, but the difference in their surroundings was incredible. Small brick buildings had replaced the steel-and-glass skyscrapers, while the hectic energy of Manhattan had given way to an almost village-like calm.

The air was thick with the exquisite odors of olive oil, crushed garlic, and fresh mint. The stalls were filled with grilled squid and octopus, moussaka and souvlaki, baklava, grape leaves, and spanakopita. These appetizing specialties left no room for doubt—this part of Astoria was New York’s Greek neighborhood.

“Do you know the address, at least?” Alice asked, seeing Gabriel hesitate over which direction to take.

“I’ve only been here once or twice,” he said defensively. “All I remember is that the apartment’s windows overlooked Steinway Street.”

“Perfect street name for a musician.” Alice smiled.

They asked the way from an old man who was selling skewers of beef and bay leaves grilled in a firepit.

Following his directions, they walked down a long street edged with trees and semidetached houses reminiscent of certain areas of London. They turned onto a lively, cosmopolitan shopping street packed with Greek caterers, vegetarian delis, kebab stalls, Japanese restaurants, and Korean groceries—a genuine melting pot of gastronomy concentrated within a few blocks.

As they walked farther down Steinway Street, the borders shifted again. This time they were on the other side of