by Cara Black
A yell pierced the night air. The lights went out in the atelier. Her shoulders stiffened. “Front door, Sebastian,” she said. “Hurry.”
From his tool kit, Sebastian pulled out his lock-picking set. She shone her penlight at the door. “Merde,” he said, “three dead bolts.”
By the time he picked the last dead bolt, five minutes later, she could forget the element of surprise.
Once inside, she parted the floor-length velvet drapery. The atelier was dark except for the moonlight filtering through the glass roof, tracing the outlines of stacked canvases and paintbrushes littering the floor.
Her foot hit a can, knocking it over: splashing sounds, and she caught the whiff of turpentine.
Sebastian hit the switch. Light flooded the atelier, illuminating a canvas with bold, dusky orange and burnt umber strokes on an easel. Behind stacks of canvases, Agustino sat straddling a chair, his head slumped, facing away.
“Agustino?”
No answer.
Running around the canvases, she noted his half-open vacant eyes. Had he suffered a stroke? Her heels skidded on the slippery floor. She grabbed at the easel, catching herself before she landed in the dark puddle on the floor. That smell … copper mixed with dry paint. Righting herself, it took a moment before she registered the wide red slash across his neck, his severed carotid artery. And the slow dripping from his blood-soaked shirt to the puddle.
She stepped back in horror.
“Mon Dieu!” Sebastian’s screwdriver clanged on the floor. He pointed to a pair of blood-spattered Adidas poking from an oilcloth.
The princess? She gasped in horror. Forcing herself to move her shaking hands, she parted the oilcloth to reveal a slumped figure against the wall. Blood clotted the matted hair, protruding bone, and pinkish gristle of what had once been a young man’s jawbone.
“But who … ?” The copper-tinged smell of blood overpowered her. The bile rose up in her stomach.
Sebastian’s booted toe pushed the papers scattered from a wallet on the floor. “Jorge Gustati. Nineteen, I’d say, according to these juvenile parole papers. Agustino’s nephew.”
Of course. Agustino had tried to protect him. Failed. She looked around, willing her nausea down. Fought the sadness, the fear. Canvases, paints, and boards filled every corner of the atelier. No cupboards, no closets. No sign of duct tape or rope to hold the princess. Let alone space.
And then she saw an open antique chest. But it contained a scatter of paintbrushes. Nothing else.
She kicked it, frustrated, jarring the chest to the side, turned around, and noticed Agustino’s paint-spattered palette. The slight bulge underneath it. She shoved it aside. Underneath lay a navy blue passport of the République française embossed with gold on the cover, inside blank. A blank carte d’identité.
The Imprimerie Nationale heist. Her pulse raced. That’s what Agustino had wanted to tell her. The Basques had been waiting inside to pick up the stashed documents. But she and Sebastian had disturbed Agustino during the pickup. Had Agustino put up a fight and … ?
The thupt of a helicopter came from overhead. A sharp whine emanated from the rotor blades over the glass roof as strong gusts blew leaves in through the open door. Merde! The EPIGN were right on top of them.
Not for long, if she could help it.
“Hit the lights, Sebastian.”
Sebastian’s tool set dropped, spattering the paint-clotted brushes. She grabbed it. “Quick. The back door. Move.”
The salauds! They’d tracked her and let her do the dirty work. But it hadn’t saved Agustino. Or the kid.
And she still hadn’t found the murderer.
Sickened, she made her feet move, feeling her way along the frames of the damp canvases, and found the back door. She heard Sebastian’s shoulder ram the frame, the wood splintering. Then they were in a dark, wet walkway that ran along the building. Trailing ivy from the high walls caught on her shoulders and hair.
“Isn’t this when we run like hell?” Sebastian panted.
“First we hop inside your van, keeping the lights off until we find the first covered parking garage,” she said. “Then we run like hell.”
Wednesday Night
MORBIER’S HEAVY EYELIDS closed. The throbbing pain ebbed; he drifted and was back on a Wednesday evening years ago. Late, he was late. Hurrying down the Marais alley, hearing piano chords coming from an open window, followed by the teacher’s voice: “Heels against the wall. Breathe. Now arms outstretched and pliez. Excellent. Encore, mesdemoiselles, again on the count of three.”
Ballet lessons.
A chorus of little girls’ voices. “Un, deux, trois.… ”
Jean-Claude, his former partner, embroiled in a stakeout, had begged him to fetch Aimée from ballet. Feed her dinner. But what did he know about taking care of little girls?
Morbier remembered the row of pink and white tutus reflected in the mirrors, the patter of leather-soled slippers in Madame Olympe’s ballet studio. Later, of course, the ballet recitals that he and Jean-Claude attended without fail, sticking out among the bourgeois mothers and fathers in the audience. But it hadn’t mattered to Aimée then.
Or so he thought. Until that evening when, with her tutu stuck among the leeks in his shopping bag, she took his hand.
“I picked out my birthday present,” she said.
“About time, too. I’m on duty this weekend and it’s next week, so.… ”
She’d smiled. “Only you can give me the present. Papa won’t.”
“Not that puppy business again.… ” He pulled his hand away. “Your papa’s told you.… ”
She tugged his arm, pulled him down as if the narrow high shadowed walls could hear, and whispered in his ear. “All I want for my birthday is Maman to come to my recital. You know, like the other ballerinas.”
Struck dumb, he wondered for a moment if he should he tell her. But Jean-Claude had avoided all mention of Aimée’s American mother Sidonie from the day she abandoned them. He treated Sidonie as if she hadn’t existed. His pain shut him up like an oyster.
“I know we’re not supposed to talk about Maman. But it’s different if you talk to her, non? Can’t she come to the recital? Papa won’t know. We’ll keep it secret. I promise I won’t talk to her.”
“But that’s … I don’t where she is.”
“You’re a bad liar, Morbier.”
He’d felt his cheeks redden. “So you’re a good liar?”
“I don’t get all red in the face.”
He’d clutched the shopping bag handle tighter, took her hand.
“Bon, I’ll remember that,” he said. “Hurry, the fromagerie’s closing.”
That night she refused to eat the dinner he’d spent an hour cooking. He knew nothing about little girls. For the tenth time that evening, he wished he’d told Jean-Claude he’d be busy.
“Hunger strike, eh?” he said, at his wit’s end. “Think of all the children starving in China. Children who have no dinner.”
“But they have a maman.” She sat in the corner, pouting.
“It’s a crime to waste food, you understand,” he said, feeling helpless. “During the war, we caught pigeons to eat.”
“I wouldn’t eat a pigeon even it was war; they’re rats with wings.”
He’d raised his hand to slap her, something he’d never done, and caught himself. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Her little shoulders heaved, her fist clenched over her mouth, determined not to cry.
He sighed, sat down, and poured himself a glass of red. “It’s like the boulangerie and fromagerie. One sells bread, the other cheese, you need them both, but you don’t buy them in the same shop.”
“I know that.” She removed her fist. Her lip trembled. “So?”
“Bon. A ballet recital and who attends, well, it’s not the same thing. Yet the ballerinas need the audience and the audience needs … alors, wants to see the ballerinas.” He took another sip of red. “Eating dinner makes you strong so you can perform.�
� ” Where had he been going with this? How could he make her understand?
“Like you said.” She wiped her eyes. “The audience wants to see the ballerinas. I know Maman wants to see me. So even though she must have been very bad and promised Papa not to meet me again, it’s not meeting, is it?”
Smart. Why had he forgotten that? She’d figured this all out. The church bell from Saint Antoine pealed outside the window. “I can’t do it, Aimée,” he said at last. “Can’t break my promise. You don’t want to hurt your papa, do you?”
“Never.” Her eyes serious. “That’s why I don’t talk about Maman. But you won’t break your promise. You’re different.
Because you’re just letting her know. And if she comes, you’re giving me the best birthday present ever. The only one I want.”
The clock chimed the hour. “Your papa’s due soon. He’s going to wonder why his little princess didn’t eat her dinner.”
“And if I tell him, he’ll get sad.” Her lip quivered. “I always tell Papa the truth.”
Morbier shrugged. “They call this blackmail, you know. But I’ve never before gotten it from a nine-year-old.”
She took his hand, her fingers reaching his knuckles. Squeezed it and put her head on his shoulder. Light as a bird. What could he do?
“Will you eat your dinner?”
* * *
AT THE BALLET recital, Jean-Claude was oblivious to all but his princess’s pliés. Sidonie, if she came, stayed out of sight. But Aimée glowed during her final curtsy. The only hint of her that Morbier noticed came from the rear of the studio: a flash of black hat, the swish of air from the closing door.
After that, he told Aimée that she didn’t keep in contact. Later, that she’d left the country. The lies.
Until, years later, Jean-Claude’s death in the explosion demanded new lies to cover up the Ministry’s involvement. His role. Guilt overcame him.
He’d avoided Jean-Claude’s funeral, made a perfunctory appearance at the wake, unable to meet Aimée’s eyes. Her questioning. Avoided her for several years. Until she came to him for help and he couldn’t refuse. Or any time after that.
But he didn’t read Sidonie’s letters any more. Hadn’t answered them. Like a coward, he’d put them in the safety deposit box to be opened upon his death.
All the truths he couldn’t face telling Aimée while he was alive.
Wednesday Night
AIMÉE’S SHOULDERS HEAVED as Sebastian dialed the digicode on the keypad. A click. The Art Nouveau iridescent glass-framed door opened.
“Fourth floor.” He gestured to the metal-stemmed froth of leaves and tulip-shaped wire cage. An Art Nouveau elevator.
“It’s like going into the Métro,” Aimée said, catching her breath. “Or a museum.”
The accordion gates creaked closed and they jerked upward. “That’s what my client would like to make this. An homage to Guimard. Here in one of the few remaining preserved Guimard buildings.” The cage shuddered to a halt. “But he’s got three more apartments to buy before that happens.”
Sebastian took the key ring from his jeans pocket and inserted a long-necked, old-fashioned key. “Voilà.” He grinned. “Hideouts don’t get more classique than this.”
A well-preserved 1898 Art Nouveau apartment intact to the wood parquet floors, elongated water lilies on sage green wallpaper, swirling carved moldings, stained-glass panels of peacock feathers, and Tiffany lamp.
“Impressive.” She hurried to peer out the floor-to-ceiling paned window. “When does he return?”
“End of the month sometime,” said Sebastian, setting his tool box on newspaper. “The independently wealthy run on different calendars from you and me.”
The helicopter’s sweeping white searchlight illuminated the grass swath and greenery of the Fondation Le Corbusier annex not three blocks away.
“So he gave me the keys to finish restoring the frames,” Sebastian said. “Likes them to stay put. Worth more than the paintings.”
Sebastian gestured to two frames propped against the wall on clear plastic. Concoctions of smooth, curved maple wood. Exquisite. “I’ll walk on eggshells,” she said, worried she’d break something.
Sebastian had parked his van in Garage Moderne, a block behind on the next street. To make sure they weren’t followed, they entered the Métro and left by the other exit. No one would ever think to look here.
She needed clothes and her laptop. And to get the picture of Agustino’s slit throat, the puddle of his blood, out of her mind. Figure out what he hadn’t told her. How to find Txili.
“Help yourself to food, the computer,” Sebastian said. “Even Art Nouveau heated towel racks.”
“So he’s your architectural expert?”
“He’s taken me under his wing, taught me all I know.” Sebastian looked at his watch.
“No doubt he appreciates your fine craftsmanship,” she said. “Sorry to get you involved, Sebastian.”
He shrugged. “It’s what you do, Aimée.”
A twinge of guilt passed through her.
“But like René, you think I should leave this alone, take care of my life, my business, don’t you?” she said. “Afraid it’s a little difficult now.”
“Did I say that?” Sebastian shrugged again. “That’s how you’re wired. I even understood why you didn’t follow Uncle, you know, become a flic. But what I don’t understand.… ” He hesitated. “Giving up criminal work, that never made sense to me.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, surprised.
“Why not get hired and paid for this, that’s all.”
Sebastian too? But he had a point.
“You’re not the only one who says that,” she said.
At this rate, she might have to.
Sebastian wiped the tulip-shaped table with his sleeve, set the duplicate key down. An odd look in his eye. “Would you be upset if.… ”
Another loan? “You’re expanding, need me to cosign?”
“… if Regula and I got married?”
She burst into laughter. “You?” She covered her mouth. “Sorry, I mean I thought you didn’t believe in that.”
“Regula’s traditional.” He stepped closer. “I mean it. Would it bother you?”
She hugged him tight. “Only if I can’t wear something outrageous in chiffon.”
Relief flooded his face.
“Why would you think it would bother me?”
“Tiens, I’m younger,” he said, “getting married first, and it’s Saint Catherine’s day tomorrow.”
“The patron saint feast of unmarried women, celebrated by wearing silly hats and parading to her statue? Do people still do that?”
“The couturiers keep it alive. Regula’s friend sews for Chanel. Every year, Lagerfeld gives his ‘midinette’ seamstresses a party.”
The thupt of the helicopter hovering in the distance. At the door she hugged him again. “I’ve got more to worry about than silly hats.”
* * *
BUT AFTER SEBASTIAN left, she sat down on the intricately inlaid wood floor, peering out the window. She clasped her knees, rocked back and forth, thinking of Melac’s words. Relationships don’t work that way. … Well, how did they work?
Did she go for bad boys, as Martine insisted, to avoid commitment? Afraid to settle down, and would end up an old maid wearing a silly hat?
The helicopter’s sweeping searchlight grazed the roof tiles opposite. Her breath caught. Seconds later it swept on.
She pushed that aside. Right now, proof from the Imprimerie Nationale heist—the blank passport recovered from Agustino’s— sat in her bag, and she had the murderer’s nom de guerre. Txili.
If only Agustino had revealed more. If only the terrible events hadn’t happened. But she couldn’t waste time wishing. Play with the hand you’re dealt, her grandfather had said once; that’s the only way you survive.
In view of the Euskadi Action’s impossible demands, the girl—the princess—would die. Like Agustin
o. She couldn’t let that happen.
She knew the pieces led to Xavierre’s murderer. Knew that in her bones.
In the adjoining salon, she found the owner’s high-end laptop. No problem to run a program to connect to her office network, monitor the surveillance, and ask René to hack into … no, she couldn’t involve him. She’d do it herself. She booted up the sleek laptop and, in two tries, figured out his password: GUIMARD. Looked up the Spanish princess and saw the Hola magazine articles.
Party girl all right.
She felt a pang seeing the paparazzi photo of the girl caught outside a Madrid club, early morning bleary-eyed, mascara-run raccoon eyes, looking fourteen instead of eighteen. Vulnerable, lost, pathetic. Sad. A kid with too much money and privilege.
And her problem now. Agustino had given her the name of Xavierre’s murderer, Txili, who was also the kidnapper. She had to find her. Him. And to vindicate Morbier.
With the EPIGN on her tail, how in the hell would she manage within three hours? How to find her if the EPIGN couldn’t? Should she even venture to leave this apartment?
In the stainless-steel state-of-the-art fridge, at odds with the deco apartment, she found half a baguette. Rock-hard. A frozen crème brûlée from Picard. She opted for the latter and heated it up. Sitting on the floor, she cracked the caramelized topping with a spoon and ate the crème brûlée, observing the crime-scene van pull up in front of the atelier. A unit was patrolling the grounds and area. The helicopter was gone now.
She wanted to kick something. She was stuck. Then her cell phone vibrated.
About to answer, she stopped, her finger on the ANSWER button. The EPIGN would dump Agustino’s cell phone, trace all the numbers he’d called. Hers.
Or what if ETA had taken Agustino’s cell phone?
She copied the number calling her. Picked up the thirties-style apartment phone, a black behemoth rotary-dial model with the old Passy prefix, and dialed.
“Commissariat de Passy, oui?” answered Thesset.
