“Pleased to meet you.” The deputy’s eyes darted around, probably marking the nearest exits.
“Likewise,” Spense said.
“Pleasure. Sounds like you’ve had a rough night.” Caity proffered a warm smile.
God he loved her smile.
Pierre Brousseau didn’t reply, and a tense silence ensued. Spense thought about breaking it with the obvious question, but this was the inspector’s show. If he wanted them to know his relationship to the deputy, he’d tell them.
“Oh, very well. If you must know,” the inspector started.
Spense turned his palms up. “If we must know what?”
“Deputy Brousseau is my brother.”
Spense felt a pang of empathy for the inspector. Spense understood a thing or two about troublesome brothers. And that might explain how Pierre kept his job despite his bad habits. And why the inspector would vouch for him about not taking a bribe.
“Pierre, Agent Spenser and Dr. Cassidy are interested in the Parker-Preston situation.”
Pierre gulped. “But they’re FBI. Why is the FBI on the case?”
“We’re not, officially,” Caity assured him. “We’re merely interested parties who happen to . . .”
“We’re aces at catching the bad guys,” Spense said. “And we’re willing to help, but you need to quit screwing around.” He checked his watch. “Because I really don’t have time. So how about you tell us what happened while Rose Parker was in your custody last night—before the coming to and finding her gone and falling down the hill episode, I mean.”
Pierre’s hands trembled a moment, but then he curled them into fists, and the trembling stopped. “My English is not so good as my brother’s, but I can explain everything.”
Something of a catch phrase around here.
“That’s what she said.” Spense winked at Caity. “But I’ve yet to hear anything resembling a satisfactory explanation for the strange happenings in and around Papeete. So if you can account for your own part in this mess, I’m all ears.”
“You must think me incredibly, er, er, stupide. I’m sorry I don’t know the word in English.”
“Stupid,” the inspector supplied.
“Oui.” Pierre’s shoulders lifted in self-defense. “And so I am. What I did was stupid.” Pierre opened and closed his fists. “I have no excuse, but perhaps you will understand better when you hear the full circumstances.”
“What exactly did you do?” Spense narrowed his eyes.
“I let Rose Parker out of the cell.”
“For a drink?” Caity asked.
“Oui. And for a game of cards, but, you see, I did not believe her to be dangerous.” He touched the square bandage on his forehead self-consciously. “Or a risk to flee.”
“She’s accused of the attempted murder of her husband,” the inspector said, and raised his hands to heaven. “And she fled the scene of the crime in a motorboat.”
“But the husband wasn’t hurt.”
“He has a bruised rib, and he would’ve surely drowned if Agent Spenser hadn’t been there to pull him out of the ocean.” Brousseau lifted his hands higher.
“But he didn’t drown. And you must understand, Jacques.” Pierre turned plaintive eyes on his brother. “I thought she was harmless.”
“I understand you got drunk and let a dangerous prisoner escape. I understand you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Mais non. I do not believe Rose would hurt me.”
“She hit you over the head with a bottle of scotch.” The inspector’s arms dropped to his side.
“Mais non. I did this to myself. I hit my head on the corner of the table . . . I think. It’s a little hazy, I admit. I do not know how the bottle came to be broken.”
Caity tilted her chin. “Why did you say Rose wouldn’t hurt you? Sounds like you know her.”
“I am—I was a friend of her father’s. Well, perhaps not a friend so much as . . . yes . . . we were friends. Though he’s passed now, less than one year ago, I believe.”
Spense let out a whistle. “You know the father, too, Inspector? How much more have you held back?”
“I know of the father, but I was not his friend,” Inspector Brousseau said. “I hold nothing back from you . . . from now on. As I said, you declined my initial request for help, so why would you expect me to give you all the details? Let’s move on from this paranoia, shall we?”
“Not paranoia. You’ve been very cagey. But as long as you agree to be open with us from here on out, we want to help.”
Caity glanced at Pierre. “You were going to tell us why you think Rose Parker is harmless.”
“I know the father, George Parker, many years. I’ve never met the daughters. Last night, Rose did not recognize me, and I did not admit to knowing her. I’m acquainted with her and her sister only from a distance.”
“There’s a sister?” Spense pulled a pad and pencil out.
“A twin.”
“Name?”
“Her name is Lilly. Lilly and Rose Parker, lovely like the flowers. George adored them. He spoke of them often. But he protected them, too. Never let me, or anyone else as far as I know, near them. I’ve seen them playing in the ocean, walking with their father, taking meals at local restaurants, and so on. In all those years, I’ve never observed any member of the family to be violent.”
“Touching, Pierre. But it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. I am very tired of the excuses, and I’m embarrassed for you that you believe Agent Spenser and Dr. Cassidy will believe your actions were reasonable, justified even.”
“I excuse nothing. I’m only trying to give you the context. I should never have let her out. I shouldn’t have been drinking on the job. But sometimes I do.” He lifted one eyebrow. “I’m off the wagon, mon frère. But I am ready for rehabilitation.”
The look on the inspector’s face made Spense’s gut twist. It seemed he’d truly believed, or perhaps hoped might be the better word, in his brother’s sobriety. And now that dashed hope might cost both of them their jobs.
“When I saw that my prisoner was one of the Parker sisters, my heart was touched. She lost her father.”
“And the fact that Rose is a beautiful woman had nothing to do with you opening up that cell and sitting down to play cards with her?” the inspector asked.
Pierre, who did not seem to be able to meet his brother’s gaze looked squarely at Spense. “Of course, it was a factor. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But even so, a different beauty would have stayed locked up tight. I trusted Rose, because I trusted her father.”
“How did you meet the father?” Spense asked.
“Here.”
“In Papeete, I understand. But how?”
“No. I mean here. At the station. George Parker was detained on several occasions. Usually it was for public intoxication. But he was an affable drunk—like me, I suppose. He and I both had our struggles with the drink. It’s how I came to be friendly with him.”
“The man was congenial. I’ll vouch for that,” the inspector said sotto voce, as if reluctant to agree with anything his brother said.
“He was a drunk, but not a fool. He was quite clever and bighearted. The first time he was brought in, I’d had a sad time of it. Our sister was in the hospital after a boating accident, and I was worried. George entertained me all night with stories of his adventures, and one tale in particular helped keep my mind off my troubles. He spun a fantastic story about one of Tahiti’s most famous citizens. You’ve heard of Monsieur Paul Gauguin.”
Caity whipped the pencil and pad from Spense’s hand and scribbled Gauguin, then handed it back to him.
“That story circulated around town and eventually took on a life of its own,” the inspector said. “Plenty of locals believe it, and oh how they love to repeat it.”
“You were saying George made you feel better when you were worried for your sister,” Caity addressed Pierre.
Spense made a mental note to get back to Gauguin, but Cai
ty was right. They were getting far off the track.
“Yes. And the next morning, when George was released from jail, I saw his local address was near my home. I invited him to dine with me the following evening, and he agreed. We had wine and small plates. He inquired after my sister. When he saw my saxophone, he promised to come again and to bring his John Coltrane CD with him. And that is how George Parker and I became friends. And that is why I did not fear to let Rose out of her cell for a game of cards. It was stupid but I was influenced by my fondness for her father.”
“And the scotch,” his brother grumbled.
“Do the Parkers reside on the island?” Spense had assumed, until a few minutes ago, that the bride and groom had traveled here for their wedding.
“Not full-time, no. But George brought his daughters to Papeete many summers. They usually stayed a few weeks. Over the years, he wound up in my cell on occasion, but it was never for anything too awful.”
“Besides the public intoxication, what other not-too-awful things are we talking about?”
“A picked pocket, once. And then there was the gold.”
Caity borrowed the pad and pencil again. “What gold?”
“Gauguin’s gold. Ah, perhaps I didn’t finish that part of the story.”
“The story George Parker invented.” The inspector rolled his eyes.
“We assume he invented it,” Pierre corrected his brother. “We have no proof it’s not true.”
“Allegedly, he invented a story,” said the inspector.
“That the brilliant painter, Monsieur Paul Gauguin . . .” Pierre resumed . . . “hid a chest of gold coins somewhere in the Society Islands. At times, George claimed the gold was buried on Tahiti, other times he said it was on Hiva-Oa.”
“I thought the painter died in poverty,” Caity said.
“So it seemed, but Gauguin’s family included a former president of Peru, and it was rumored that Gauguin hoarded gold from that country. That he kept it hidden to prevent his estranged wife from getting her share. That he preferred to live . . . and to die . . . in poverty rather than to share the fortune with the witch as he called her.”
“I never heard any such rumor . . .” Caity flushed, and then smiled. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Because George invented it,” said the inspector.
“But very believable, since Gauguin was, as I recall, connected to the president of Peru. Bravo for George Parker.” Caity clapped softly. “I can see how the story could get going around town.”
“Exactly. He told the story at the bars, and then the people of the town embellished it. It circulates without him now.”
“So how did this story of Gauguin’s gold land him in jail?” Spense asked. Though he could venture a guess. He was getting the distinct feeling this George Parker was a bona fide con man.
“George often peddled maps to the treasure—Gauguin’s gold. Nothing too terrible about that, we thought.” He glanced at his brother.
The Inspector shrugged. “As long as Mr. Parker stated up front that it was a legend, my thinking was that it was legal enough. Buyer beware, I think you say. We tended to look the other way.”
“Harmless fun for the tourist to search for the gold.” Pierre nodded.
“But occasionally, we did get a complaint from an unhappy customer. We’d bring George in for the night and remind him to be clear with the tourists that Gauguin’s gold wasn’t a sure thing. That it might be pure fantasy,” the inspector said.
“No hard feelings on his part,” Pierre continued. “He’d come by for dinner the next day, bring a bottle of wine. His family never stayed more than a few weeks, but they returned to the island often.”
“Did they have business in Tahiti? Besides the treasure maps?”
“I cannot say.” He hesitated. “George mentioned a banker maybe. I think he did have an account in town. But as for any other business, I don’t think so.”
“So George Parker was a charmer who sold fake treasure maps to tourists and made up fantastic stories about Paul Gauguin. Sounds like a con artist to me,” Caity said.
“I believe he was a very capable one.” The deputy nodded, and then looked at them earnestly. “Like father like daughter, oui?”
Chapter 11
Wednesday
Police Station
Papeete
Tahiti Nui
“Speak of the daughter . . .” Inspector Brousseau said. “I have her right outside.”
Pierre leaped to his feet. “You’ve found Rose?”
“Non. If we’d found her wouldn’t I have said so right away? It’s the other daughter, Lilly, who’s waiting outside.”
Caitlin, who’d been gathering up her things, dropped her bag with a thud. Spense turned his palms up. Per the clock on the wall, they could still make it to the pâtisserie to meet their family on time if they left ten minutes ago.
She sighed, faking disappointment that the cake tasting would have to wait a little while longer.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like cake.
It was only that she’d been trying to picture Lilly since the moment she’d learned of her existence. Caitlin had a thousand questions about the twins. Were they identical? Did they share some kind of uncanny, almost psychic connection? Did Lilly know her sister carried a gun? Would Lilly turn out to be a valuable lead, a thorn in their side, or just a regular family member worried about her loved one?
“And she’s in a state,” Brousseau added. “It’s a good thing we have our American friends here to ease her mind.”
“How do you mean?” Pierre asked.
“Rose called her sister for assistance when she was arrested last night. When Lilly arrived this morning to see her, and found we didn’t have her, she became distressed. She seems to be under the impression that we’ve done something nefarious with Rose. Nothing I’ve said thus far has succeeded in disabusing her of this notion—though I explained that we are governed by French law not despotism. Suspects in our custody are as safe as they would be on American soil.”
Caitlin understood French law enforcement to be quite sophisticated, but she didn’t blame Lilly for her concerns. “Still, I can understand how she’d be mistrustful until she’s provided with an explanation. I’m sure Pierre’s account will reassure her.”
Brousseau spoke into a radio, and a moment later an officer ushered Lilly Parker into the interview room.
She did not disappoint.
If you look out over the South Pacific Ocean in the morning, its color is deep, deep blue. Except near the shoreline where the white beach underlies it and the early sun shines down on it. There, it’s a spectacular shade of green. One that Caitlin had never seen anywhere else, until now—in Lilly Parker’s eyes, swimming with tears. Long wavy tresses, the color of sand, formed the perfect surround to a heart-shaped face. Lilly had a small straight nose and a dimple in her left cheek.
Beautiful.
And not identical to her sister.
Rose’s features were, however, quite similar to Lilly’s, though Caitlin hadn’t seen Rose’s eyes in the daytime. Last night they’d appeared jade-like. And wasn’t Rose’s dimple in the other cheek? She closed her eyes, and a flash of imagination conjured a brightly painted Gauguin, featuring Rose and Lilly surrounded by tropical flora. That would’ve made quite a portrait.
It didn’t exactly astound her that Pierre had succumbed to Rose’s charm.
The best word she could think of for the sisters was mesmerizing. She imagined that together they’d create quite a stir.
“I demand to see my sister, Rose, immediately.”
Caitlin strained forward to better hear the surprisingly meek voice that emerged from this dynamic looking young woman. If this was how Lilly spoke when she was in a state her normal voice must be a whisper.
“We demand the same,” said the inspector. “I’m afraid your sister fled, and she’s destroyed government property in the process. There’s a missing camera. She’s accused of s
hooting her husband. These are very serious crimes, and I can assure you we are doing our utmost to apprehend—that is—to locate her. Once we have her in our custody, we’ll notify you tout de suite.”
Lilly’s head turned left and right and back in a shake made more dramatic by its gentleness. “I demand to see my sister, now.”
“Mademoiselle, you are understandably distressed by recent events.” Brousseau went to her and guided her to a seat beside Caitlin.
Lilly placed her hand on the back of the chair but remained standing.
“Please, sit.” Caitlin nodded in Spense’s direction. “This is Atticus Spenser, a special agent with the FBI. I’m Caitlin Cassidy. I’m not an FBI agent. I’m a consultant. But I help on cases.”
“Dr. Cassidy is my partner and a hell of a criminal profiler,” Spense said, shooting Caitlin a look.
“Please sit,” Caitlin invited the young woman again.
Lilly slid into the seat slowly, as if doing her best to resist a magnetic chair while her pockets were loaded with pennies. “I saw the news report. I know who you are. I was going to call the embassy, but actually I prefer the FBI look into my sister’s disappearance.”
“She did not disappear.” Brousseau’s fingers moved near his mouth. If he had a mustache, he certainly would be twirling it. “She broke out of jail.”
“Not exactly.” Pierre pulled his shoulders back. “I let her out of her cell, and she walked out the front door. I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”
“It is quite the same thing under the circumstances,” his brother replied.
Lilly gripped the table. “This is nonsense. My sister wouldn’t hurt a spider much less a person. What proof do you have that she didn’t come to harm while in your custody?”
“Had she not ripped the camera from the ceiling, I’d be happy to provide proof,” Brousseau said.
“Very convenient for you. I say you broke your own camera to destroy the evidence.”
“Lilly.” Caitlin decided to intervene. “I haven’t seen any tapes of what happened in your sister’s holding cell, but I can tell you she did come into our hotel room last night, brandishing a pistol. Two uniformed men took her peacefully into custody and brought her to the police station. You know she arrived safely, because she called you. Deputy Brousseau will explain what happened after that.” She looked pointedly at Pierre. The man’s story was too humiliating not to be believed.
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