Page 2 of Nothing Watching

“Please!” she said, hearing the note of frustrated panic in her own voice. “Please just get away from me!”

The man’s expression changed. His eyes narrowed, and his lips parted in a half-smile that contained no warmth. It was a cold, vicious expression. Iris felt a chill run through her body as she realized that she had made a mistake. This man was not harmless. He was dangerous.

She backed a step away. Then, turning in the direction of the U-Bahn, she began to run.

But a moment later, she heard footsteps behind her, and with a breathless cry, a surge of white-hot panic, she knew that he was running too.

And faster.

CHAPTER ONE

Now that the door had been opened, FBI agent Juliette Hart was finding it impossible to close it again, or ignore the tantalizing gleam of light from inside. It felt as if she’d been suppressing, for years, the overriding need to find out more about her father’s death and to explore the traumatic memories that she’d suppressed for so long.

Hunched over her laptop, working as best she could with the limited resources available to her in the public domain, she was making a to-do list, in a journal on the desk in her home office, about what she’d need to do to research this old tragedy.

She’d already asked the German police if she could take a look at their case file, but they had refused. She was not a member of their police force, and the case was long closed. If this went forward, it would now be up to her and without the help of their records.

“One: Be ready to face it all again,” she said aloud, writing the words down and underlining them firmly. Memories of her father flashed back. The way he’d laughed loudly at his own bad jokes, his absorption with the small details of the world’s natural beauty, the hugs he’d given her. It was going to be painful, but she thought she was prepared.

Perhaps it was being back in Europe that was motivating her. She’d spent her entire childhood here, moving between countries according to her diplomat father’s postings. Then, after his shocking death, that stabbing in the hotel room in Munich, Germany, she’d somehow managed to complete her final exams at Oxford University. She hadn’t gotten the grades she was hoping for but everyone understood why.

Her mother, distraught and traumatized, had moved to the States, and that was where Juliette had found herself. She’d obtained a job in New York, working as an assistant for a psychology practice, and later, as a career counselor. After a year there, feeling restless and unfulfilled, she’d begun volunteering at a crime counseling unit set up by the local police. She’d then joined them part time, and had then become a full time police officer. She’d found so much more comfort and inspiration from the police than she’d had from her previously chosen dream of being a career psychologist.

It had been her boss at the time, in the local police department, who’d told her that she should apply to join the FBI.

“You’re good,” he’d said. “You’re among the best I’ve seen. I know you’re young, but I think you should give it a try. I’ll be sad to lose you here but I think you’ll be a massive asset to them.”

So she’d applied and to her shock, she’d been accepted at the FBI Academy. She found out afterward that she’d been the lowest qualified applicant they’d accepted. If it hadn’t been for a few other, more experienced, recruits dropping out just before acceptance date then she’d have been declined.

By the time graduation took place, she was top of the class. Joint first academically, and in the top five athletically. She’d been offered a job with the Los Angeles FBI, and four years later, Manhattan had needed her.

In a way, Juliette felt she had channeled her entire focus into her FBI career. There had been no time and no opportunity for anything else. And maybe, also, she’d been hiding away from the pain.

For years it had seemed too extreme, too immense, to be challenged. Now, finally, she was feeling as if she was ready to open up and trust again. And that, at the same time, was making her feel ready to look at that unspeakable tragedy and ask the questions that she probably should have asked more than a decade ago.

Two: Look at the logistics. Someone killed him. How did they get to him?She scribbled the words, frowning in thought. “I guess the first way would be to look at the layout of the hotel,” she murmured to herself as she searched online to find out what she could access in that hotel, which was in central Munich.

Hotel Layout,she wrote.Entry and exit points. Did a stranger get in?

It was early morning, although the sun was already up, and she was sitting in the tiny living room of her Paris apartment. She loved the muted sounds of the city outside—her apartment was between the city center and the airport and she’d gotten seriously lucky with its location. In a tree-lined street, with a few historic buildings nearby, it made her feel a part of the city every time she looked out the window or walked out her apartment door. Seeing the golden croissants and sumptuously iced confectionery in the bakery across the road was good for her spirit and appetite, even though Juliette knew that giving in to temptation too often would be disastrous for her waistline.

There. The page had refreshed. That was good. But, frowning down at it, Juliette saw the news it was bringing her was bad.

The hotel was no longer under the same ownership, she read, her mind automatically translating the German text without a need to press the English button at the top of the site’s homepage. Five years ago, it had been bought out by a bigger group, who’d renovated it completely. The website listed the changes, which had included demolishing the wing where she and her father had stayed and turning it into a series of conference suites. So now, there was no way of examining the building’s layout, or seeing if there were any alternative entry points that a killer might have used. Logistically, it wasn’t going to be possible to explore this crime any further.

But that led to the next logical step.

Three: Hotel Employees,she wrote.Was one of them bribed to let someone in? Or forced to?

Even though Juliette knew that it had been a long time ago, and that the hotel staff had been interviewed by the police, perhaps someone knew something that they hadn’t told the police at the time.

People could remember details after the fact, or else might have been “encouraged” or even intimidated to keep quiet at the time. She knew all too well what kind of planning an assassination took.

And this had been an assassination. That was her view. Her father had been a diplomat, a person of importance and influence politically, and someone had taken him out.

It had been hushed up as much as possible. Tourism would have been severely impacted otherwise. After being questioned, she’d been sent to the airport, under police escort—for her safety, they’d said—and had arrived at Heathrow Airport in London just an hour later, feeling cold with shock, her mind not working, shut away inside herself so tightly that she hadn’t even been able to cry.

She still didn’t feel ready to cry, but she did feel ready to question.

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