He’d slung his leather jacket on the sofa earlier and he grabbed it now, putting it on as he made his way to the door. Claude would find out just how furious he was. He paused in front of the bookshelf. He went cold. Something was off about the stack of books that he’d placed in front of the box holding his handgun and switchblade—and information on the theft. He’d stacked the books in alphabetical order by author, but several were now out of place.
Only Sera had been in the apartment. Had she looked? He moved the books aside and took out the box. It appeared untouched, all the materials as he’d left them. He removed the switchblade and tucked it into his jacket. If she’d said anything, given up any information, he would have to protect himself. He replaced the box and the books, re-stacking them in the proper order. He’d go see her later and find out what she knew. But not now.
Marc left his black Peugeot around the corner and down the block from the apartment. It was one of several he owned and rented out, and the only one unoccupied. He kept it that way, though on paper it was just another apartment without a steady tenant. He saw no one as he let himself into the building. He hadn’t been here in some time. The concierge’s door was closed and looked as if it had been undisturbed. A drying puddle of soda buzzed with flies and the door to the garbage disposal gaped open, filling the air with the stench of rotting food and refuse. Even on his first visit some years prior, when the building had been little more than a brothel, it hadn’t looked this neglected.
He took the stairs to the fifth floor apartment. The first time, he’d taken them at a mad dash, flinging open the door to find his uncle’s latest plaything sobbing into her hands, a robe flung haphazardly around her thin form. His uncle’s body had been sprawled across the sheets. He’d died of a heart attack, right in the middle of fucking that young thing. Hard to forget that scene. Marc turned the key in the lock. And here he was, carrying on his uncle’s business—all of it. Aside from the faint hum of the small refrigerator in the postage-stamp kitchen, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He walked into the main room and saw the sketches on the old dining room table, sandwiched between two sheets of heavy plastic. An ashtray half-filled with cigarette butts sat by a worn set of armchairs, next to crumpled fast food wrappers. Aside from the sketches, that was the only indication that Claude and Michel had even been in the apartment at all.
Marc lifted the plastic off of the sketches. No—the sketch. The paper had been crumpled around the edges, but it was intact. He carefully lifted the paper, but the second sketch hadn’t been tucked underneath. He replaced the plastic and dug for his phone, punching in Claude Girard’s number. It rang and rang before clicking to voicemail. He paced to the window, looking down at the street where the lamps had just come on. Of course, there was no one, and Claude and Michel were long gone. He tried the number once more, but there was no answer.
His profits had been halved. Either they had the second sketch, or it had been recovered by the museum. It couldn’t be traced to him unless Claude and Michel were apprehended. He thought back to Claude’s phone call. Michel’s panic had been genuine. Had they lost it? He pondered the possibilities while he secured the remaining sketch, sliding it into the black shoulder bag he’d brought with him.
After a cursory examination of the rest of the apartment, which had been just the way it had been before, he left. His uncle had given him a piece of advice one night as they’d returned from an evening party. They’d been carousing with one of his associates, a businessman and gangster with whom his uncle had close ties.
“Always get rid of the witnesses if something goes wrong,” his uncle had said, letting out a belch as they’d driven home. “Else you’ll end up like that fellow, what was his name, who got 20 years.”
He’d learned a great deal that evening. Far more than he’d ever expected. One of the gangster’s up-and-coming associates had been a heavy-set and gregarious man. Someone he knew still, and the one who’d had a hand in this trouble.
Marc got into his car and headed back to the city centre. Once he returned to his apartment, he made a phone call. Tonight his connections were going to come in handy.
A cheerful young woman answered. “Bonsoir. How may I direct your call?”
“Monsieur Royale, s’il vous plaît.” Royale never took his own calls these days. He supposed that being the head of a criminal enterprise kept Royale too busy to answer the phone.
“And who shall I say is calling?”
“Marc Perron.” He found himself on hold; the line silent except for the occasional beep.
“Perron. Ça va?” Royale’s gruff voice came over the line. He coughed several times and Marc held the phone away from his ear until it ceased.
“Fine, thank you.” Marc and Royale engaged in a few minutes of small talk. He inquired after Royale’s business, his latest trophy wife, and the last PSG match until Royale gave him his opportunity.
“You didn’t just call me up on a Saturday evening to chat,” Royale said. “Do you have another sculpture to sell me? The wife wants something to balance the display in her reading room.” It was a subtle reminder that requests would not come free.
“I have a favour to ask,” Marc replied, “but there’s too much detail to go into over the phone.”
“Lady trouble?” Royale quipped.
“Missing persons,” Marc replied.
“I know someone that could assist you,” Royale remarked. “I can introduce you in a couple of days—I’ll be in Paris tomorrow and can arrange it.”
“He’s good?”
Royale guffawed. “He’s an artist.”
Chapter 5
Sunday.
Sera hated Sunday. If she could skip right through Sunday in the time it took to blink, she wouldn’t be here, standing at Royale’s door, gathering up the nerve to knock. Her eyes watered from the haze of smoke in the corridor and she rubbed her eyes. Her hand tightened on the envelope of cash. She knocked.
“Entrez!”
Royale stood in front of his desk, lighting a cigarette. His bulk filled the office and she found herself too close for comfort. She hovered by the door. The rank smell of body odor burned her sinuses; his cologne didn’t cover the sour aroma.
“Mademoiselle.” He leered at her and she backed up until she stood in the doorway. “I thought you might have been Jean with my brandy.”
She held out the envelope, wanting to get back to the club and the band’s next set. He took it, his thick fingers brushing her hand. She shuddered. He thumbed through the bills before tossing the envelope onto his desk. He made a notation in a small leather-bound notebook pulled from the pocket of his bilious green suit. He tucked it back inside his jacket.
“Close the door, mademoiselle, and sit down.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. She pushed the door shut but for a crack and took a seat, perching gingerly on the edge. “Do you know how much you still owe me?”
Sera did the calculation quickly. She’d given him €300. “€9,500.”
“Next week I expect €500 from you,” he informed her. “Not a centime less.”
“But—” She couldn’t possibly give him that much and still manage to pay her rent. She tried to think of a way to appeal to Royale’s gentler side, but he didn’t let her continue.
“If it’s too difficult for you, we could always make other arrangements.” He reached out, catching her chin in his damp fingers. She jerked back before he could get any closer, but that left her pinned by the arms of the chair. “€500 by next week or we will be making other arrangements, mademoiselle.”
He loomed over her, his hand sliding under her hair to grasp her neck. His tie, with several crumbs clinging tenaciously to its gregarious pattern, hovered in front of her eyes. He tightened his grip and her eyes watered.
“I’ll try.” She could barely breathe for the smell. He forced her head down into his crotch, holding her as she tried to struggle free.
“Comprenez-vous, mademoiselle?” He released her
and she pushed away, trying not to gag. The smell surrounded her, crawled over her skin, insinuated itself into her every pore.
“Oui, monsieur.” Sera clapped a hand over her mouth. She wouldn’t be sick. Not here.
“You may go.” Satisfied he’d made his point, Royale stepped back. “I’ll see you next week, mademoiselle. Don’t forget.”
Sera staggered from the office, nausea overpowering her. She rushed down the corridor and flung open the back door, gulping in the night air of the filthy alleyway. She breathed hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. If she could take back the last few months, she’d try any other way to get the money. Anything but this. She should have left her mother to deal with her problems on her own. The thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, even as she knew she could never be that callous. She bent and vomited the remains of her dinner onto the damp pavement. She gagged and vomited again before slowly straightening. The nausea began to subside. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She could get through it.
“Sera? Are you all right?” Benoît stood in the open doorway. He’d come to find her, which meant it was almost time for their second set.
“I’ll be fine.” She brushed off Benoît’s look of concern. “Something I ate disagreed with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely. We need to get ready.”
Benoît followed her to the bar.
“Edouard, could I get a whiskey, please, and a glass of water?”
Edouard gave her a startled look but did as she asked. Sera downed the whiskey in a long swallow before taking a sip of the water. The nasty taste in her mouth faded and the alcohol warmed her insides.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Benoît asked again. He was always so attentive; she wished he wasn't gay, or that Marc might be more like him.
“I am now,” she assured him. “Just give me a minute in my dressing room and then we can start.” She needed to fix her hair and reapply her makeup. Her lipstick had left a small streak on her hand. It looked like blood.
After the second set, Sera retreated to her dressing room, sinking back into her chair and closing her eyes. The music kept her from thinking about her debt, but she wasn’t singing now. She mentally calculated her earnings for the week. She would be short €200 to pay Royale. She’d have to make that money. Tonight, if she could.
At a knock on the door, she sat up. “Come in,” she called.
Marc pushed open the door, closing it against the noise and chatter in the club. The muted spicy scent of his cologne made her breathe in deeply. He bent and brushed the hair back from her face and she was surprised at his look of concern. Even his kiss was gentle. He set a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey on the vanity in front of her.
“Edouard asked me to bring you this. He said you were ill.”
“When did you get here?”
“During your first set. You didn’t notice?”
“No.” She always noticed him. She tried to think of where he might have been sitting, but drew a blank.
“You must not be feeling well.”
Sera took a sip of the whiskey. It burned her throat on the way down, but it warmed her. Edouard had given her the top shelf brand. She hoped Royale didn’t keep close tabs on the liquor levels.
“I’m feeling better than I was.”
“You didn’t seem quite yourself on stage. What’s going on?”
She glanced up at him. “How do you mean?”
“You looked distracted.”
She hesitated. It was bad enough that she had to borrow money from Royale to pay off her mother’s gambling debts. She didn’t want anyone else’s pity or disdain, especially his. “Nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Marc nodded, leaning back against the vanity. “I ran into our Sophie the other day,” he remarked. “She was very affectionate.”
Sera gave a short laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“She was reluctant to leave me. A little more time and you’ll be taking dictation and cleaning my flat.”
Sera ran a hand through her hair, feeling the twinge of a nervous headache. “Wishful thinking.” She couldn’t show him she was worried.
“Not in the least. If anything, I’m underestimating my chances. She’s a delightful kisser for one so young.”
Sera rested her head against the back of the chair. “Did you overwhelm her, or did she actually kiss you back?”
Marc smiled and crossed his arms. “It certainly wasn’t one-sided. She’s more innocent than my usual type, but that won’t make much difference in the end.” Sera realized that he was watching her, and grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Remember another almost innocent, ma chère?”
She flinched. “They’re not your type, as you’ve said.”
“They are sometimes.”
“When?”
Marc leaned closer and ran his fingers over her shoulder and down the arm of her black dress. “I was thinking of you, ma chère. Remember?”
Her throat closed and she felt a sharp pain in her chest. She forced herself to reply naturally, though her voice was faint. “Hard to forget.”
“You make it sound dreadful. We had so much. We could still.” He straightened and it seemed he would leave. He stopped behind her chair and hooked a finger under the collar of her dress, drawing it away from her skin. He glanced down her back and then met her gaze in the mirror. “The other night wasn’t enough, ma chere.”
“It will have to be.” Sera took another sip of the whiskey. She watched in the mirror as Marc bent to kiss the skin he’d exposed. His touch was featherlight, sending a frisson of desire through her.
“Perhaps I should take you home tonight, tie you up.”
Sera turned to stare up at him. “Don’t you dare.”
Marc laughed and stroked her cheek. “I’m just teasing you, ma chère. But I might do it anyway if you keep snooping through my things.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well. My bookshelf was out of order when I returned home.”
“I bumped a stack when I was leaving.” She gave him a puzzled glance, wondering if he’d see through her lie.
“Was that all?” His fingers slid under her chin and tilted her head so he could see her face. His expression was terse, unlike his earlier flirtation. She held her breath. “Whatever you saw, forget about it.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Good girl.”
Sera sank back, resting her head against him for a moment. He stroked her hair.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” he asked. “It’s getting late.”
It would be so easy to say yes, but she wouldn’t set herself up for another fall. “It was one night. No more.”
“As you will, though I am disappointed.” He tweaked a lock of her hair. “Bonne nuit.”
“Bonne nuit, Marc.”
Only several regulars and two sets of couples lingered in the club when Sera returned. She wouldn’t make any of that €200 tonight. She heard her name. Jeremy sat at a table on the far side of the stage, nursing a bourbon. His tie was loose and he’d shed his jacket. He smiled at her. He hadn’t been there earlier, but she brightened to see him now. Maybe her evening wouldn’t be a complete disappointment. She mouthed ‘I’ll be right there’ and gave him a wave as she headed up to the bar.
“Another?” Edouard asked.
“Just water this time.” Sera gave Edouard a grateful smile.
“Your color is better.” He set a bottle of Vittel down on the bar in front of her. It was chilled and beads of moisture ran down the bottle, pooling on the wood. She cracked it open. He turned away and put a trio of clean brandy snifters back in their spot on the shelf.
“Have you seen Sophie?” he asked.
“Not since Friday. You should call her.” She fished in her purse for the napkin with Sophie’s number, crumpled but still legible. She smoothed it in her hand.
“And say what?�
��
Sera shrugged. “Offer to show her some museums. Invite her for coffee. You’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“Oui, but Paula was always the one deciding where we should go. And, before her...” he shrugged. “I didn’t get out as much.” He took the scrap of napkin from Sera and scribbled Sophie’s number down on the back of a cardboard drink coaster, tucking it into his pocket.
Sera had an idea. Something to ease Edouard and Sophie together.
“Are you working Tuesday?” She wasn’t, as a band from New Orleans had been booked for the evening as a part of their French tour.
“Yes. Why?”
“Switch shifts.”
“Who would I get to cover me at such short notice?”
“Don’t tell me no one would.”
Edouard pulled out his phone and flicked through the contacts, frowning. “Perhaps Alain would switch. He said he hates working Wednesdays.”
“Good. Call him. I was thinking of having a dinner party. You could have an afternoon date with Sophie, and then come for dinner.”
“Just the three of us?”
“No, of course not. That’d be no fun. I’ll invite the usual crowd. And then afterwards you could escort her home, and...” she trailed off and Edouard’s cheeks went a light pinkish hue.
“You’re devious.”
Sera laughed. “Hardly. Every girl likes to be walked to her door. Then she can kiss her man goodnight, or invite him up for a coffee. And maybe more.”
“What time on Tuesday then?”
“About seven. And bring a couple of baguettes. Everyone will bring something, so I don’t have to cook too much.”
“No wine?”
Sera smiled. “Someone else can bring the wine. You’ll be too busy.”
The Paris Game Page 6
