Jason’s only a little younger than me—late twenties or so—but I think he gets that whole joie de vivre thing better than I do. He’s a hard worker, don’t get me wrong. But he also plays hard, and flits from one activity to the next with an easy metamorphosis I admire. I didn’t know what to make of his sudden inexplicable interest, but he had helped me feel better. And he was right. Holding onto Vadim’s last catch wouldn’t bring him back. It would only hold me back.
The apartment stairs lead to a short breezeway, open on both ends. There’s one apartment on each corner, and mine’s the first on the left. I unlocked the door and stepped in. My place is tiny, but less cluttered than the shop. In a complete reversal of the stereotypical antiques dealer, I am not a pack rat. Give me open space and tidy end tables and I’m a happy camper. Wood floors, throw rugs, small table and chairs in the dining nook. A kitchen that used to be a closet, as near as I can tell—only one person can stand in it at a time, and if the oven’s open, nobody can. One window in the main room, another in the bedroom, and finally, a bathroom that’s bigger than the kitchen, but not by much.
I have pretty basic needs, possibly due to growing up in foster care. But that’s a whole other story, and I’m well-adjusted enough to know I can’t blame all my idiosyncrasies on my parentless childhood. Some, but not all. The bottom line is I don’t need a lot of junk to be happy. I do need a certain amount of cash, though. Lily’s custody battle over Geordi wasn’t only with her ex, Nick. It was with his entire family. And I do mean Family—as in organized, with a capital F. The Sicilian Mob. Which Lily swears she didn’t know until after they were married, though how either of us were naïve enough to believe Nick was just “a” Dioguardi, and not one of the Dioguardis, is beyond me.
Worse, since Geordi’s the first son of an only son, Nick’s family weren’t about to let him go, even if Lily found the one judge in Paris brave enough to side with her. It took serious guts for her to leave, and if I had any say in it, neither she nor Geordi would ever go back.
So, if the Oily Brothers’ money could facilitate that, who was I to quibble?
****
The next day was Sunday, and not only is my shop closed, most of the other shops in my area are as well. I figured the Rousseaux could wait another day before I told them of the shipment. For one thing, it would lend credibility to my claim of needing to find it first. For another, as noted, I wasn’t exactly anxious to call them.
But first thing Monday, I dragged myself out of bed, showered, and drove to the warehouse I rent at the docks, near the Bassin d’Arenc. I use it to store unsorted catches or big items I can’t cram into the shop. Or, let’s be honest, things I don’t want out in plain sight.
Ordinarily I’d walk—it’s only twenty blocks—but I had to move Vadim’s stuff to the shop before calling the Rousseaux. Unfortunately, my car’s a Peapod prototype, and about the size of a mini-Mini Cooper. It was a gift from a grateful client, and tops out at forty-five kilometers per hour, so no autobahn for me. But it’s electric, costs around two cents a kilometer for gas, and is perfect for getting around town.
Not so perfect for hauling stuff.
I could’ve asked Claude and Jacques to meet me with a truck. Since the catch was currently in three large shipping crates, this would save tons of time and effort. But though I’d decided to unload the stuff, showing these guys where I kept my stock—or what I still had on hand—might not be the smartest idea. Besides, I was curious about the contents. Vadim had never told me what he’d found, and in our line of work, it could be anything from thousands-of-years-old “junk” to priceless relics. I was guessing at least some of the latter, or why would the Rousseaux care?
In order to find out, I’d have to move everything to smaller boxes, cart it to the store, go back to the warehouse, rinse, repeat. Part of me wondered if I should just hand it over as-is and be done.
I suppressed yet another twinge at the memory of yesterday’s interview. Especially Jacques, sitting still and spider-like across from me. I had a feeling he didn’t miss much and wondered what I might have unconsciously revealed while Claude distracted me.
I pulled into a parking space near my unit, and my cell rang, the cheery notes of Beethoven’s Für Élise telling me Lily was calling for our weekly chat. For a second, I thought about answering. Lily might be Geordi’s mother, but I have to say, he’s pretty much the light of my life. Certainly, the best male relationship I’ve had, even counting Jason and Vadim. Who wouldn’t love a guy who brings you dead bugs he’s found in someone else’s yard, then offers to split the last éclair because you’re his “favoritest tata ever”? He’s a smart kid, too. I’m his only auntie, and the flattery still works.
I sent the call to voicemail. It almost killed me, but it’d be hard enough opening the crates, knowing how excited Vadim was when he landed this catch. You can’t get much fresher than an unexcavated site. If I spent even a half hour catching up with Lily and Geordi, I’d chicken out. And I had to know what was in those crates, or I’d never be able to let them, or Vadim, go.
I screwed up my courage, got out of the car, and unlocked the unit’s roll door. Yep. Three large crates.
Very large.
I went back to the Peapod, opened the hatch, and extracted the paltry pile of produce boxes I’d scrounged from my favorite markets. I’d have to empty them again at the store for subsequent trips, or else go beg more boxes. This was ridiculous. But necessary.
Must let go. Must move on.
****
As is so often the case, once I got going, it wasn’t so bad. Opening the first crate was tough, and I won’t say I didn’t cry at all. Vadim was a good partner, and a better friend. At least he’d died doing what he loved—sailing the Mediterranean, with a drink in his hand and two beautiful women at his side. He was a devout atheist, but if there’s any kind of afterlife, I’d like to think he’s still sailing and drinking, and looking for the next big catch.
I found a roll of paper towels on a shelf and blew my nose, then metaphorically rolled up my non-existent sleeves and dug in.
The more valuable items were wrapped in acid-free paper and sealed in airtight containers, which I didn’t bother to open, because Vadim had helpfully labeled them. His clear, bold printing noted statuary and relics, both Pagan and Christian, from the ancient Phrygian city of Colossae, near what is now Denizli, in southwestern Turkey. The general period was the first century, so any Christian items were very early. While this fascinated me intellectually, and I did have some experience with artifacts from Turkey, it was mainly because Vadim brought them to me. My own interests lie more in the Egyptians, one of the reasons we’d complemented each other professionally. But it meant I had little personal experience with anything of this kind.
It took several trips to move the best items, and a few more for the midlevel stuff, plus getting more boxes. By the time I got to the third crate, the sun was well past its zenith, but I’d reached the dregs. Items down here were either unwrapped, loose in the packing straw, or else carelessly covered with rough cloth to prevent scratching.
This crate wasn’t as full as the others, and it looked like I was on my final trip. Thank God. I’d had a quick lunch—veggies, hummus, cheese, and bread—but otherwise worked straight through. Lily’d called twice more, but I didn’t pick up. I’d call her back over dinner, when we’d have time to chat, and I could tell her of my sudden windfall.
I plopped my last empty box on the warehouse floor, then hung over the side of the crate to excavate the bottom. I found a few more canvas bundles and pulled them out, setting them in the box, then went back once more.
I thought I’d gotten everything, until my fingers brushed against something hard, wrapped in cloth, and oddly warm to the touch. I grabbed it and heaved myself out of the crate, then examined the bundle. It felt like a rock, heavy and solid. Most of the items in this crate were broken pottery shards, from vases and the like. Hard, maybe, but not heavy. Careful not to touch the i
tem’s surface, in case it was valuable after all, I turned it over and shook the covering loose.
Sure enough, it was a rock. Plain, gray, ordinary. About half the size of an American football, shaped like an irregular pyramid, with jagged edges and flat-but-rough surfaces. The only unusual thing about it was its warmth. Like Claude Rousseau. Which is maybe why, against my better judgment, I reached out and touched the very tip of the rock’s pyramid.
And then it shrieked at me, the agony of centuries piercing my ears till I thought my skull would burst, electric shocks searing through my fingers, hand, arm, ripping through my whole body, gripping my lungs and squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I flung the rock away, covering my ears and dropping to the floor, shaking, gasping for air, while still it screamed, on and on and on and on, until I lay huddled on the concrete, red fire burning in my head, blackness filling my soul.
Then everything went silent.
Chapter Two
“Then he forsook God which made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation.”
~The Bible, Deuteronomy 32:15
My heart thundered as it raced to restore oxygen to my brain and limbs. Slowly, I sat up and eyed the rock where it had landed a few feet away, next to the empty crate. It still looked totally uninteresting. It was also not screaming anymore. I took a shaky breath and tried to clear my head.
Had it screamed at all? Maybe a boat got too close to the docks, and what I’d heard was a warning blast from the harbor tower. And…I was weak from hunger, which would explain the whole “vibrate until you pass out” thing.
Yeah, that made sense. It was a rock. Rocks do not scream.
I crawled over and put out my hand. No heat came off it, and when I got up the nerve to touch it, it felt cool and hard. Nothing—not a peep—came from it, and I relaxed.
A little.
Still, I wondered how it got in the crate. Like most kids his age, Geordi’s addicted to “edutainment” type TV shows, especially those sporting some version of the game, Which of These Items Doesn’t Belong? Next to the bugs, he’s never happier than when telling his onscreen “friends” that the fish does not, in fact, belong with the shoes, coat, pants, and shirt.
That’s what this was like. Gold statues? Check. Ancient Phrygian vases? Check. Boring old rock with possible vocal prowess? Bing-go.
I grabbed the cloth and re-covered it. The fact that it was wrapped meant its inclusion was deliberate. And it was the same cloth Vadim used on all the other pieces, so it was likely him that included it. But why?
My cell phone buzzed, this time with a text from Lily: Call me!!!
I glanced at the clock, then out at the sinking sun. Damn. I’d wanted to hand the goods over to the Rousseaux before closing up shop for the day. Not that I’d ever opened. Another perk of sole proprietorship—the sign in my window reads “Approximate Hours,” and I mean it. But I didn’t want all this inventory sitting in the shop overnight, tempting Fate. Or, more likely, thieves. Plus, the longer I waited, the more time I had to change my mind.
Careful not to break the more expensive items, I set the rock in the last box and carried it to my car, closed the hatch, then locked up the storage unit. I got in the driver’s seat, took out Claude’s card, and dialed while backing out of the parking space. I was sure they’d want to meet right away, and I wasn’t disappointed.
“Mais, c’est merveilleux!” Claude said when I told him I’d lucked out and “found” the shipment they wanted. I could almost hear him drooling across the line. “We will leave at once.”
“Perfect. And, er, it’ll be cash only.”
Occasionally, I accept wire transfers to a Swiss bank account, which I opened in mine and Lily’s names a few months ago, after she filed for divorce from Nick. It sounds clichéd, but they’re easy to get, and very…convenient, especially when hiding money from one’s Mafia in-laws. I did it for Lily and Geordi, but it simplifies my, um, finances, also. In this case, however, I thought the Rousseaux, like the Dioguardis, might not be the best electronic business partners.
I half expected Claude to balk, since this was a very big price tag, but he said, “Bien sûr. That will not be a problem.”
“Great. I’ll be at the store in five minutes.”
I hung up and pushed away another stab of unease. Jason was right. I needed to let go and begin the healing process. And when had I ever been this picky in the past? A few of my clients have questionable business practices—hell, I have them—but it’s never bothered me before. Why now, when I didn’t actually know anything bad about the Rousseaux?
Maybe the experience with the rock put me on edge. I didn’t really believe I’d imagined it, and the false reassurance I got from pretending otherwise had worn off, partly because a low humming noise now came from the back of my car, faint, but noticeable, and having nothing to do with the engine. Which is in the front, in any case.
I reached the Rue de Lyon and made a snap decision. Instead of turning right toward the shop, I went left and aimed for my apartment. Vadim had included that rock in this shipment against all rational explanation. It was important to him, which made it important to me. Besides, those kiddie shows can’t all be wrong: when an item doesn’t belong, you take it out of the equation. I may be mixing my metaphors, but you get the drift.
My apartment building is tucked away off a side street, off another couple of side streets, in the Quartier Saint Louis. It’s an older, quiet neighborhood, and my building’s no exception. Jason’s probably the loudest tenant, and his main offense is listening to jazz until nine at night. Today as I ran upstairs, the lack of noise felt oppressive. Or maybe it was a rare attack of conscience. I’d agreed to sell the whole shipment, and the rock was clearly part of it. But the Rousseaux wouldn’t want a boring old rock, would they?
My conscience piped up, If they know it screams, they sure as hell will.
Yeah, that would do it.
I unlocked my door, then stepped into the dim interior. I needed to be fast, but I couldn’t just drop the rock on the floor. Luckily, I am a smart and savvy businesswoman, with a healthy suspicion of non-Swiss banks, who had a wall safe installed a while back.
Okay, I’m not that smart—I hid it behind a painting over the futon, because that’s the only interior wall. And I felt kind of stupid, hiding a rock in a concealed, fireproof safe. Like using a machete on mushrooms. But I had the safe, and the rock, so I went with it.
The rock still hummed—a slight disturbance, barely detectable in the atmosphere. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant. More persistent, and somehow urgent. It had started to feel warm again, and I had no desire to touch it and accidentally set off another round of screams. Careful to keep the wrapping intact, I placed it inside the safe with my stash of cash.
I make a comfortable living, both from the shop and my “extra-curricular” activities. The safe was small, but fairly full. I could tap into my resources and live the high life, like my clients do, but it’s not my style. Besides, I get a lot less attention from les autorités this way.
My cell buzzed with another text from Lily: Where r u? Which was weird, because she’s one of those texters who spell out every word, no matter what.
I’m not. I texted back, Call u l8r. Bg sale!!! Then I locked the apartment and ran downstairs, passing Jason on his way up. He still wore his clothes from Saturday, including the shades, and looked like he’d been up since then, too. His dark hair stood out at all angles from his head, and two days’ stubble gave him a feral look.
“Hi,” he said on a yawn. “Where’re you off to?”
“Shop—meeting the buyers for Vadim’s stuff.”
“Sounds nice.” He took off the sunglasses, then squinted blearily. “Have fun.”
I gave him a once over. “Looks like you had fun last night.”
“Yeah—you should’ve been there.” His gaze flicked to my mouth, eyes darkening, and I resisted the urge to fan myself.
Abruptly, he seemed to become aware of wha
t he was doing. An odd look crossed his face—regret?—and he turned and stumbled toward his door. Maybe he was just a little drunk. Yeah, that made more sense than that he would suddenly start flirting with me. I have to say, though, I’ve only ever seen him tipsy once or twice, and never drunk. Being a bartender, he knows how to keep his hands off the merchandise, so to speak.
I started to move past, but he turned and reached for my arm. “Wait—something came for you on Saturday, before I left. It’s a letter, for Lily.”
We have mailboxes on the ground floor, but anything too big or needing a signature is supposed to be brought to our doors. It’s a six-story building, though, with no elevator, and lately la poste has a tendency to make it up one flight to Jason’s door, then stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He says it gives him an excuse to be neighborly, and I have to admit, he knows every other tenant by name, age, and occupation, which is more than I can say.
“Oh—okay,” I said. “I’ll get it when I come back.”
“Sure.” He held my arm a moment, searching my face. I don’t know for what, or if he found anything, but for a fraction of a second, he looked stone-cold sober, and more than a little worried. I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but then he released my arm and looked all bleary and tipsy again, and I was sure I’d imagined it.
Then a new question popped into my head. “You mean from Lily, right?”
Jason looked up from fumbling his key at his lock and grinned. “Hyacinth. Last night was fun, but not that fun. Plain white envelope with To Lily Finch on it, care of your address. No return, but the postmark was Paris.”
Shit. No wonder Lily’d been calling me. Shit, shit, shit. “You’re sure it was Paris?”
“Positive.” He’d finally gotten his door open. “I can get it for you. Only take a sec.”
The sun was even lower now, and the Rousseaux probably wondered where the hell I was. “I’ve got to get to the shop before I blow this sale. Can you slide it under my door?”
Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1) Page 2
