Blue Madagascar by Andrew Kaplan

Author:Andrew Kaplan [Kaplan, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-29T22:00:00+00:00

Jerry Matthews was late. Casey had been waiting nearly a half-hour in the outdoor restaurant on Kneginje Ljubice, filled with students and faculty from the nearby university. Despite an outdoor heater, the night was growing cold. She was getting a very bad feeling. Sitting alone at the table felt like inviting a bullet.

The waiter came over. She ordered a waffle with strawberry slatko and a bottle of Miloš water and tried to decide what to do. Every fiber of her being was telling her to forget Jerry Matthews and get out of Belgrade now. She kept looking around for anyone suspicious. Was that man with the newspaper at the bar watching her? How long had he been there – or was she becoming paranoid? And then there was the Honolulu emergency. What was that about? Why was Jerry Matthews late? Why hadn’t he called? If they’d gotten to him, would she even make it to the airport?

The waiter brought the bottled water and a waffle. She nibbled, but couldn’t swallow, checking her watch again. There was no point waiting, she decided. Jerry wasn’t coming. She was about to call the Beogradski Taxi number when a blue VW screeched to a stop in the street. A window rolled down. She flinched. This is it, she thought, expecting a gun barrel.

“Get in!” Jerry Matthews shouted through the open car window. She dropped a couple of 500-dinar notes on the table, grabbed the carry-on and jumped into the VW. Jerry Matthews gunned it down the street, his gaze bouncing around like Pachinko balls, checking the mirrors for tails.

"Todd Brighton’s dead,” he said, driving fast. “Also that piece of African pastry he was shacked up with. Both of them, plus four Syrian refugee kids they were sheltering. All dead.” Casey stared at him, stunned. “Oh, you didn’t know about the refugee kiddies, Princess? Me neither. Kept lots of secrets, our Toddy. Here’s yesterday’s Le Figaro,” Jerry Matthews said, handing her a French newspaper. “They’ve got a photo of Todd at some artsy-fartsy Paris gallery. Clever how you got onto him, Princess.”

“Why didn’t you put me onto him?”

“Didn’t know he could identify Fleetwood. Didn’t put two and two together. You did. Good work,” he said. Yeah, terrific. I killed six more people, she thought grimly.

“Something tells me there’s a lot I don’t know about you,” she said, holding on as he swerved in front of a car ahead of him.

“You could say that about everybody,” he said. “Me, I always figured Todd for just a weekend painter. Guess someone took his paint-splashing seriously.”

“When did this happen?” Casey asked, staring at a photo of Todd Brighton in the paper under the headline: “Todd Brighton, artiste moderne remarqué assassinée à Barbizon.” I did this. I killed them, she thought, feeling nauseous. This happened because I went to see him, like Bobby and Luis Avila.

“As soon as we heard, Dalton put me on the next flight,” Jerry Matthews said, stopping at a red light. They waited, cars and red electric trams crossing in front of them.

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