by Leslie Meier
“We were just leaving,” said Bill. “I guess you had some excitement at the hotel.”
“You saw? The flics, they arrested a man.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, clearly upset.
“But it was nothing to do with you, right?” asked Lucy.
“Not this time, but you never know, not when you are un étranger, like me. They see brown skin, and it means you’re not French, so you’re guilty.”
“Come on, Malik,” said Lucy. “It’s time to come clean. We know you and Adil searched our apartment, and you tried to break into Elizabeth’s place, too. What were you looking for?”
“Never!” he exclaimed, his dark eyes darting nervously from one to the other.
“There’s a video. You’re on tape,” said Bill.
“The police questioned us,” he said, surprising Lucy. “But we had alibis. We were with Adil’s grandfather. He told them so.” It was obvious he was reciting an agreed upon story, and realizing he didn’t sound very convincing, he added, “And the video images were not clear.” He paused, and this time his voice had the ring of truth. “But it was not so good at work. We were put on probation.”
Lucy’s emotions were in turmoil. On one hand, she felt guilty about getting the boys in trouble, but on the other, she was positive they had tossed the apartment. Even worse, they’d tried to break into Elizabeth’s place. “Look, I think you and Adil are good guys, but you’re involved in something dangerous,” she said. “I know Sylvie had a lot of money. . . .”
He was suddenly on it, like a drug-sniffing dog scenting a stash of coke. “You found it?”
“In her room. We gave it to the police.”
He sat down hard, his head in his hands. “I’m so screwed.”
“Whose money was it?” asked Lucy.
“Adil’s grandfather’s, well, not his, exactly. It’s for the royalists, to restore the monarchy in Egypt. They are raising lots of money, and he asked us to hold it, to hide it for the group. His father was King Farouk’s advisor. He remembers the king giving him chocolates.” Malik shrugged. “A fat, old, rich man gave a little boy a piece of candy all those years ago, and he doesn’t forget. He does all sorts of illegal stuff and makes his grandson get involved, and me, the friend of his grandson, I cannot betray them. It is a matter of honor. I have to help, and so I will end up in jail.”
“You could go to the police, tell them what you know in exchange for immunity,” said Lucy.
“You’re a French citizen, right?” asked Bill. “You have rights.”
Malik laughed, scoffing at Bill’s naïveté. “I’m a legal citizen. I have a French passport, oui. But there’s lots of things they can charge me with, and that’s before they even get to the money. I don’t get treated the same, because I’m not white and not Catholic.”
“Most French people aren’t religious,” said Lucy, confused.
“C’est vrai. They don’t go to church on Sunday, and they don’t even believe in their white God with the long beard, but the babies are all christened, the marriages are in church, and the funerals are very traditional. You’ll see, if you go tomorrow. Sylvie will be buried at the Cimetière Montparnasse. The priest will be there in his robes, and his words will promise eternal life and salvation. For that putain.”
Lucy was shocked at his vehemence, at the venom in his tone, as he spit out the word putain, calling the woman she thought was his friend a whore. “Tell me you had nothing to do with her death,” she said, practically pleading.
“Me? No. I had nothing to do with it.” He stared at his hands, large hands. “I don’t think the police will believe me. I think I will, like in your gangster movies, take the fall.”
“Son, you need a lawyer,” said Bill.
Malik grimaced. “They’ll give me a lawyer, a lawyer who will make sure I’m the one who gets locked up.”
“Look, is there some way we can help?” asked Bill.
“Les Américains always want to help. It’s not World War II,” said Malik, standing up. “I have to get back to work. I’m on thin ice as it is. Au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” repeated Lucy, wondering if she really ever would see Malik again.
“That was weird,” said Bill, taking Lucy by the arm and resuming their stroll. “Do you think we should tell Lapointe?”
“No,” said Lucy, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake, but unwilling to betray Malik. She knew he had lied to her, but she couldn’t help feeling protective of this young man who was in such a difficult situation. Poor Malik was caught between two cultures, neither of which was exactly warm and fuzzy. She only hoped she wouldn’t regret her decision. “You’re not a rat, see,” she said, imitating James Cagney. “And neither am I, see?”
Feeling a bit at loose ends, they continued on to the Palais Garnier, where they took the tour and Lucy gazed for a long time at the Chagall mural on the ceiling, which depicted colorful abstract figures swirling in an endless dance. Slightly dizzy, she let Bill lead her to a bistro for lunch, where they finished off a bottle of vin rouge. Slightly giddy, they spent the afternoon on a bateau-mouche, cruising the Seine.
When the boat docked, they knew they’d put it off as long as they could and now they were going to have to tell Ted about his friend Richard. They stopped at a café for a quick brandy and, thus fortified, climbed the stairs to the apartment with heavy hearts.
But when they entered, they found the group members were all in high spirits.
“Guess what?” demanded Bob, who was practically giddy with excitement. “We got our passports!”
Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met. “Really? You’ve got our passports?”
“Right here,” said Bob, handing them over with a flourish. “We can make our flight on Sunday. We’re going home!”
“That’s great,” said Lucy, running her fingers over the smooth leatherette booklet with the gold seal of the United States of America. Such a little thing, maybe four by six inches, she thought, and you handed it over at immigration checkpoints as if it were an airplane ticket. But it had the power to open national borders when you had it; without it you were really and truly stuck. She opened it and glanced at the unflattering photo, checking that she had the correct document, then closed it and tucked it in the zip pocket of her purse to keep it safe.
“A toast!” suggested Ted, raising his glass. “Vive l’Amérique!”
“Vive l’Amérique!” she repeated, accepting a glass of champagne and joining the others in the toast. This was not the time, she decided, to deliver bad news. And if she had suspicions about Adil and Malik, if she wasn’t entirely convinced of their innocence, it didn’t matter. For once, she was willing to admit that she didn’t understand what was going on and it would be better to leave matters in the capable hands of the police. She was going home!
Chapter Twenty
Sid had just popped the cork on the second bottle of champagne when Ted commented that he’d been trying to reach Richard ever since they got the good news, but all his calls had gone to voice mail.
“That’s unusual for him, isn’t it?” said Pam, accepting a refill. “Maybe he forgot to charge his phone.”
“Not Richard. He always stays connected. He doesn’t want to miss a story. I think ink runs in his veins. He’s a real old-fashioned reporter.”
Lucy’s and Bill’s eyes met, Bill gave her a nod, and Lucy took the plunge. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news, Ted. Richard was arrested this morning at the Cavendish.”
Suddenly everyone was silent. It was as if the champagne had gone flat.
Finally, Ted spoke. “That’s impossible.”
“We were there. We saw the police take him away in handcuffs,” said Lucy. “I’m sorry.”
“But why?” asked Pam.
“The hotel did an internal investigation into the black market ring and discovered that Richard was running it,” said Bill.
There was a long stunned silence as the group processed the news.
Finally, Sue spok
e. “So he was partners with Chef Larry?” she asked.
“Something like that,” said Lucy.
“Come to think of it, he never seemed short of cash,” said Pam.
“That seafood dinner must’ve cost a thousand euros, easy,” said Ted.
“He didn’t even blink at the bill,” said Pam. “I feel so guilty. I ate the lobster and the shrimp as if I was entitled to it, and it was all paid for with dirty money.”
“Richard was a generous host,” said Bill, “when he was spending other people’s money.”
“He was certainly a smooth operator,” said Sue. “I had no idea that he even knew Chef Larry. They sure had me fooled. I really thought we were getting all that champagne and wine at legitimate wholesale prices.”
“Stop it!” yelled Ted in a quavering voice. His face was red, and his hands were trembling. “Richard’s my friend, and he’s in trouble.”
“Sorry,” murmured Bill.
“I’m out of here,” declared Ted, heading for the door, with Pam dashing after him.
“He needs some time,” said Rachel. “This is like a death. He has to come to terms with it. He has to work through a lot of disturbing information. The fact that Richard wasn’t honest with him makes even their friendship suspect. Imagine the sense of betrayal.”
“Does he stick with Richard or turn against him?” mused Bill.
“That’s the question,” said Bob. “I see families grappling with it all the time in my legal practice when a beloved family member runs afoul of the law. The ones who do the best are the ones who decide to love the sinner but hate the sin.”
“But the sinner committed the sin,” said Lucy.
“We’re all flawed,” said Rachel in a gentle voice. “We have to accept that and forgive those who make mistakes. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Easy to say but hard to do,” said Sid.
Forgiveness became even harder the next morning, when the lead story in the International New York Times broke the news that one of the paper’s own reporters had been arrested and charged with the murder of Laurence Bruneau, a noted chef and pâtissier. The motive, police charged, was a dispute resulting from the pair’s involvement in a black market operation at several high-end hotels, including the Cavendish, an operation that stole liquor and expensive foods, such as truffles and caviar, and sold them through a phony wholesale company.
Ted read a paragraph or two, then tossed the paper on the floor. “Trash,” he declared. “This isn’t journalism. They’re just reporting the prosecution’s side of the story!”
“You never really know another person,” said Lucy, but Ted was having none of it.
“Maybe you believe this stuff, but I’m sticking by my friend,” said Ted, heading for his room and slamming the door behind him.
“Denial,” whispered Rachel. “It’s the first stage of grief.”
“But not the last,” said Lucy, wishing there was some way to prepare herself for the overwhelming sadness she knew she would feel at Sylvie’s funeral, scheduled for later that morning. If only there was a product like sunblock for grief: if you plastered on SPF 50, the grief would bounce right off, instead of burning through your defenses and rekindling long-buried sorrows. Whenever she attended a funeral, Lucy found herself grieving once again for her parents, gone for years now, and dear friends who had met untimely deaths, and she prayed for the health and safety of those she loved.
Paris was a gray city, but nowhere was it grayer on this rainy Saturday than the Cimetière Montparnasse, where the narrow cobbled pathways were lined with bulky tombs and looming statuary, dotted with a few trees, their leaves dripping. According to Lucy’s guidebook, a lot of famous people were buried there, including sexy rock star Serge Gainsbourg, and famous authors and lovers Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. Their tombs were marked with lipstick kisses and gifts of cigarettes, which Lucy felt was a desecration. She decided she preferred the spacious, neat, and grassy cemetery perched high on a hill overlooking the harbor in Tinker’s Cove, where tributes were limited to geraniums planted on Memorial Day and tasteful baskets of evergreens placed on graves at Christmas.
Lucy and Bill found the somber group gathered for Sylvie’s burial and spotted Elizabeth among them, standing with Serge and a number of other hotel employees. Malik and Adil were also there, she noticed, standing rather uneasily on the edge of the group, as if they were no longer accepted by the others. She raised a hand in a small wave, but neither responded, both apparently wrapped up in their own thoughts.
Lucy and Bill were not able to stand next to Elizabeth without jostling and disturbing other mourners, so they took places at the foot of the grave. Elizabeth pointedly avoided looking at them. She was hanging on to Serge’s arm and gazing fixedly at the open grave, where Sylvie’s rain-spattered coffin was balanced above the void. Lucy wondered what her daughter was thinking. There but for the grace of God go I? Or perhaps she was regretting that she hadn’t been closer to Sylvie. Or maybe she was simply thinking about paint colors for the apartment.
Monsieur and Madame Seydoux were standing on the opposite side of the grave, accompanied by a nun, who was saying the rosary. It was impossible to know if they were receiving any comfort from the recitation. Their faces were grim, and they seemed terribly tired, defeated by this most cruel and unfair twist of fate. The priest had had the foresight to cover his skullcap with a clear plastic protector, and the sight of it, and the cheap plastic poncho covering his vestments, struck Lucy as wildly incongruous.
She was working hard to stifle a nervous giggle when he began to intone the words of the funeral service, and she tried to focus on the French words of the burial service, but she was distracted by a sudden flurry of movement. To her horror, she saw that Adil and Malik had suddenly sprung into action and had grabbed Elizabeth by the arms and were dragging her away from the gathered mourners and through the cemetery, toward a cobbled roadway, where a white van waited, its motor running.
“Stop! Arrêtez! Stop!” she screamed, taking off after them. This was her worst nightmare come true, and Lucy could hardly believe what she was seeing. She was struggling on the uneven paving, slipping on the wet stones in her leather pumps, weaving through the narrow spaces between the graves, her heart pounding. Bill overtook her, and Serge dashed ahead of him, gaining on the abductors. Elizabeth was screaming and struggling, trying to free herself, but her captors had almost reached the van when a whistle blew and it suddenly seemed that the cemetery was filled with black-clad commandos.
A shot was fired, and the sound startled Lucy. Her ankle bent under her, and she fell to the ground, banging her elbow painfully on a raised grave. Tears stung her eyes as she struggled to her feet, desperate to save Elizabeth, who was being shoved into the van. The rear door was slammed shut, and the engine roared as the wheels spun on the slimy stone paving, then lurched forward toward the gate. Adil and Malik took off in opposite directions, leaping over the graves as if they were hurdles. A sharp pain tore through her ankle, and Lucy grabbed a stone angel, bent sorrowfully over the grave of a child, for support.
Then there were more shots, and the van veered toward the stone wall, crashing against it. The commandos were everywhere, swarming through the cemetery in their bulletproof vests and helmets. Bill was beside her, supporting her, and they ran toward the van, only to be stopped by a commando armed with a nasty-looking machine gun. Lucy recognized him, with a shock, as the guy who had been following them, the guy she’d chewed out at the café. So the proc had been telling the truth, she realized. The group had actually been under police surveillance.
“That’s our daughter,” Lucy cried, watching as Elizabeth was helped from the rear of the van by another commando. A commando who was taking a rather extreme interest in Elizabeth, she thought, watching as he attempted to wrap his arm around her waist. Elizabeth shook him off, and Lucy could hear her daughter insisting that she was perfectly fine and didn’t need any help, thank you. Then she suddenly lost her footi
ng and was caught by the commando, who scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her parents. He set Elizabeth down on a raised grave, then raised his visor, and Lucy realized the man she thought was a French commando was actually Chris Kennedy.
But her attention was focused on Elizabeth. Lucy hugged her as tight as she could, and for once, Elizabeth didn’t pull away. She let her mother smooth her damp curls away from her face, she let her father pat her on her shoulder, and she let Lucy wipe her face with a crumpled old tissue. Then she had enough.
“Okay,” she demanded, glaring at Chris. “What the hell is going on?”
“What are you doing here?” asked Lucy.
“Who are you?” demanded Bill.
“Sorry, sir. I’m Secret Service agent Chris Kennedy, and I’m an old friend of Elizabeth’s.” He extended his hand, and Bill took it, giving it a firm shake.
“Secret Service?” asked Bill.
“Yes. I believe Elizabeth has a valuable coin in her possession, which, as a United States citizen, she is obliged to surrender.”
“That’s crazy,” said Elizabeth.
Lucy’s thoughts were beginning to sort themselves out. “Your good luck piece . . . ,” prompted Lucy.
“That old thing?” Elizabeth slipped her hand into the waistband of her skirt and produced a slim leather purse, which she unzipped. “It’s just some funny old coin,” she said, pulling out a large, somewhat grimy coin. “I found it in the bathroom when I was cleaning. It was behind a loose tile. I don’t think it’s worth anything.”
“It’s a Double Eagle,” said Chris. “They were taken out of circulation when the U.S. went off the gold standard, and it’s illegal to have one.”
“Weird,” said Elizabeth, extending her hand with the coin, ready to give it to Chris.
But before he could take it, a gray-haired man in a pin-striped gray suit knocked into Elizabeth, snarling at her. “Putain stupide!” he hissed, lunging for the coin, only to be neatly blocked by Serge, who delivered a sharp jab to the man’s windpipe, causing him to fall to the ground, gasping for air.
