MISCHA MADE IT to Paris a little after 7:00 in the evening. The sun was low in the west but hadn't yet set. For all intents and purposes, as she maneuvered through the streets, it was dusk, a hazy darkness.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGcfCtq1cTS
It might have been the biggest mistake of her life, not getting on that plane. But in the end, it came down to three names: Rihanna, Lindsay, and Nicole Richie. She was their only chance, and even if she couldn't bring Rihanna back, she could clear Rih's name along with hers. Sure, she could tell herself that she could try to figure everything out from the comfort of a South American restaurant, but the truth was the best place was right here in France. Where a nationwide manhunt for her was currently in progress.
She didn't really know where she was going. She knew she wanted to be on the Left Bank and close to the Seine. When Sebastian and Mischa had been in Paris years ago, they stayed at some hotel on the Rue Dauphine. Even if the hotel was still there, and she could remember its name, she'd never stay there now, having learned her lesson in Belroux. The French government could probably go back that far in their records and figure----as Drake did----that she might return to a familiar haunt.
She kept driving and turned, somewhat randomly, onto Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie, a narrow street on which she found a hotel bearing the emblem HOTEL COMEDIE. It looked fine to her. She found a public parking garage about three blocks away for the Audi.
She walked back. On a lamppost, pasted on top of several other makeshift advertisements for rock bands or movies, was a square poster with a picture of Mischa on it. There was one in on the window of a restaurant she passed, too. a newsstand displayed a copy of today's Le Monde, which also had a prominent photo of her above the fold.
She felt incredibly conspicuous. She pulled down the hat she was wearing and lowered her chin----the kind of thing someone not wanting to be seen would do. Was she better off pretending. She didn't have a care in the world? She had no idea. She was in a city of millions, but she felt as if she were wearing a sandwich board that said FUGITIVE.
There was that hint of a chill in the night air and the city was buzzing with diners at the outdoor cafes. She stopped at a boutique on the Rue de Buci that was open late and bought a black cocktail dress heels, a purse, panty hose, and simple jewelry. Down the street, she grabbed a baguette and a bottle of water. At both the boutique and the café, she kept up the theme she began in Belroux, playing the part of a Spaniard. The same reasoning applied now: She wanted someone's first memory of her to be that she was Spanish, not American, not English. The saleslady at the boutique was under the impression that she couldn't speak a word of French, much less English, though pointing and handing over cash were internationally recognized modes of communication.
She stuffed all her purchases into her gym bag. By the time she made it back to the Hotel Comedie, she had acquired a fresh coat of perspiration for her troubles. IN a span of three city blocks, she had seen her face staring back at her on posters and newspapers no less than eight times!
She walked into the hotel, trying not to look like No. 1 on France's Most Wanted list. A pimply teenage boy was sitting behind the desk. He took one look at her and said, "Hello," meaning he'd sized Mischa up as an American.
Instead of saying hello back, she said, "Buenas Tardes. Habla Usted Espanol?"
"Ah---si." He answered Mischa tentatively.
"You prefer----English?" she asked. "Ees ho-kay. I speak----leetle English."
She was proud of her acting ability, which enabled her to use broken English just as a Spaniard or Latin would if she didn't know the language well.
"You would like a room?" the boy asked.
"Si. Yes."
"Passport?" he said, sticking with the relevant noun and avoiding verbs where possible. Communication with a Foreigner 101.
"Quieres mi pasaporte?" Mischa fished in her bag, still patting herself on the back for her cleverness with the Spanish act.
Until, that is, she handed Pimple Face her passport.
Which identified her as Audrey Becker, American.
Shit. Just what she'd feared. Tired + strung out = total fuck ups.
"Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici? Il dit que vous êtes un Américain!" he bellowed, introducing a third language into the conversation. Should Mischa have responded in Russian?348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiNGUSPzpNR
"Yes, I'm American," she said, tossing in an embarrassed laugh. "I'm learning Spanish and trying to practice it as much as I can."348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWSuU7Psowz
Good thing for her that the Pimple Face wasn't the cerebral type. He spent approximately one second thinking about what Mischa had said before he realized that he didn't give a rat's ass. He seemed far more interested in the movie he was watching on his iPhone or whatever it was. She requested a high floor and he gave her a room on the sixth. She paid in cash. He processed her passport and had her fill out a form and handed her a key for room 606.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2J1YQ3tBE9
Good, I thought as she took the elevator up, exhaling relief. That was close. Not a bad recovery on her part, but what a stupid slipup. A Spaniard with a U.S. passport. Nice one, Mischa.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2i0WUfdgw9
Room 616 was decent. Red wallpaper with pictures of hot air balloons. A window overlooking the street. Thick blue carpet, a queen-size bed, a small but clean bathroom with a detachable spray nozzle in the shower.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjCq0FLS31B
She walked out of the room and strolled up and down the hall. There was a staircase on one end that led all the way to the ground floor, or maybe a basement. The other end of the hallway was a dead end.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjVcP7vS7oa
She went back into her room, stripped off her clothes, and took the hottest shower she'd ever taken in her life. She moaned with relief as she scrubbed off the sweat and grime and let hot water rush over her face and in her eyes and down her neck.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeZprt5UppX
Stupid, stupid, the Spanish thing. And no matter how well she may have recovered, she'd done the one thing, above all, that she hadn't wanted to do.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqILM6lRRTr
She'd made herself memorable to the clerk.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWXYYmqdeHi
She wasn't thinking clearly. Her brain was getting foggy. She needed to sleep---to really sleep---tonight.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrXGRalokfy
Colonel LaForge's eyes lifted from the documents Mischa Barton's lawyer had filed in court. He'd been studying them relentlessly, sure that they held the clue to where she would be hiding.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkRXfzEgmhe
But he looked up when his lieutenant, a woman named Cendrine, burst through the office door. "The Hotel Comedie," she said to LaForge. "She checked in an hour ago."348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBcrJI3UMle
LaForge shot out of his chair with an adrenaline rush. "Make sure every exit is blocked until we get there," he said.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWjDCZ05t7m
"Already done, sir."348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzQHKu0Q19C
LaForge came around the desk and broke into a jog. "Let's go," he said.348Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdpkdaTIG1Q
