“Monsieur, may I get you something to drink?” the pot-bellied bartender asked.
“Yes. I’d like a glass of your best Rhône wine. I’ve developed a taste for it since I’ve been in the region.”
A few minutes later the genial bartender brought him the Rhône. “If I may say so, Monsieur, you look very sad. Would it be caused by an affair of the heart?”
Only the French would think someone was sad because of romance. Even so, he found himself saying, “Yes, I had to leave a lady I’ve fallen in love with, and I don’t know when I’ll see her again.”
“Ahh, oui, Monsieur. That is a reason for sadness. The wine will help and so will time. Affairs of the heart can never be ignored. Excuse me, but the man at the end of the bar is signaling me,” he said, turning away from Jordan.
Maybe her parents can tell me why she left California so suddenly after her husband’s death. It’s really odd that she didn’t even tell them she was leaving or where she’s currently living.
As his thoughts turned to Pierre, he realized he’d neglected to email the chief for the last couple of days. He slid off the barstool and walked over to a booth that had just become vacant, took his phone out of his sling bag and began typing.
Chief, I’m sorry to be so long in getting back to you, but the trail on Pierre went cold after I located three of the stolen paintings. Evidently the rest of the paintings were sold, and I had no luck finding him or his family. It was kind of like looking for a needle in a haystack. I don’t know what you’ve found out, but I’m ready to let the case go and close the file. From what I understand, even if we locate some more or all of the paintings, it would almost be impossible to get them returned to the United States. I spoke with the Marseille Chief of Police and he told me that French authorities are very reluctant to do anything in cases like this. The gallery owner who bought the painting in St. Victor la Coste is an artist himself with little financial means. If he had to return the painting to the insurance company in California that paid the Laguna Beach art gallery for its loss, it would be a huge hardship on him, and might cause him irreparable financial harm, even bankruptcy. Even if we could locate the others, we’d probably have the same result.
The United States can’t force the galleries to return the paintings because of international treaties that exist between the two countries. And without Pierre, I think we’re finished. I’m leaving Marseille in a few minutes for Paris and then back to Los Angeles. I’ll be in the office on Tuesday. Let me know what you’ve found out on your end.
By the way, I’m attaching a photo to this email of the woman I spoke to you about, Elena Johnson. Would you see if you can find something out about her? I’d appreciate it. I’ll talk to you when I get back.
He sat there for a long time, thinking about the last few days. Jordan felt his cell phone vibrate, indicating there was an incoming phone call. He didn’t feel like talking, so he waited for voicemail to pick it up and then listened to it.
It was Chief Lewis. “It’s the middle of the night, but I got up to go to the bathroom and saw that I had a message. Jordan, you did a very good job. I’m sorry you couldn’t find Pierre’s family, because we’ve had no luck on this end as well. We’ve run into a brick wall.
“Although we’ve talked to several chefs who know him, and speak of him as being highly gifted, none of them knows who he works for or how to get in touch with him. I think it would be a waste of our time and resources to pursue this case any further. Even if we find him, we have no hard evidence that he’s the one who committed the crime. Have a safe trip home, get some rest, and I’ll talk to you Tuesday. By the way, your captain called and evidently there was a million dollar theft at a Pre-Columbian gallery on Melrose Avenue. He’s glad you’re coming back, and said to tell you that the case needs your immediate attention and expertise.”
Jordan heard his flight being called and put the phone back in his sling bag. He boarded the plane and was pleased to find that his seat was in the front row of the cabin on both flights, so he could stretch out his legs. He got a book out of his sling bag and put the bag in the compartment above his seat, thinking he’d much rather have Elena next to him, talking to him during the long flight. Books were good companions, but Elena would have been much better.
Well, evidently Chief Lewis isn’t going to do anything else on this case. I may be finished with Pierre and the Younts, but I am definitely not finished with Elena. I need to call her parents and go see them as soon as possible.
CHAPTER 38
After Jordan left, Elena cleaned the kitchen, straightened up the house, watered the plants, showered, and dressed for work.
Well, fortunately it’s time for me to go back to work. Maybe it’ll help ease the pain in my heart. I wonder if I should have told Jordan everything. Maybe he would have understood and decided to stay and live here in Provence with me.
He’ll probably learn everything about me from my parents. I never should have given him their number. I wasn’t thinking clearly. No one can forgive me for what I did, and particularly a policeman. It’s probably just as well. I’ll have wonderful memories of our short time together for the rest of my life.
When she finished, she walked down the lane to Henri’s Bakery. It was a busy day and it helped keep her mind off of Jordan. When the lunch crowd was gone and it was time for her to leave, she felt lost, at loose ends.
As she was leaving Henri’s, she remembered that the wonderful days she’d spent with the man she’d fallen deeply in love with had begun because of an Alfred Mitchell painting on display in the gallery in the village. Although she vaguely remembered the painting, she decided to visit the gallery and look at it again. Jordan had said it was one of the best paintings by Mitchell he’d ever seen.
She hoped the walk would clear her head and she was curious about the Mitchell painting. A few minutes later she spotted it in the window of the Galerie Reynaud. Jordan was right; it was a little jewel. On an impulse, she decided to buy it as a remembrance of Jordan. She opened the door of the gallery, setting off a little bell. Monsieur Reynaud came into the gallery from the back room, wiping his hands on the smock he wore.
“Monsieur, may I take a look at the painting in the window?”
She examined it and understood what Jordan had been talking about. If he hadn’t told her about the frame, she wouldn’t have noticed that it seemed much newer than the painting. It looked exactly like the one on the painting at the Younts’ home.
“Monsieur, what are you asking for this painting?”
“Ahh, Mademoiselle, it is an excellent piece by a well-known early California Impressionist, Alfred Mitchell. I am asking 4,500 Euros. I am sure I could get more than that for it, but the tourist season is over and I need some cash to buy some painting supplies. In fact, starting next week I will be closed on Sundays until spring. It’s fortunate that I was here today.”
“I’m glad you were open. I want to buy the painting. I assume I can pay for it by check?”
“Indeed! My pleasure. You look familiar. Do you live locally?”
“My name is Elena Johnson. I am the luncheon chef at Henri’s Bakery. I don’t think I’ve seen you there.”
“Ahh, Mademoiselle, the pleasure is mine. Your reputation precedes you. Everyone is talking about the wonderful lunches at Henri’s. I don’t like crowds, but I love to eat! Excuse me. Let me wrap this for you. Would you like me to put it in a bag?”
“Yes, please. I would appreciate it if you could put it in one with handles. Merci beaucoup.”
A few minutes later she walked out of the gallery, the remembrance of her time with Jordan in her hand. When she got to the cottage, she hung the painting on the wall behind the couch. Elena spent the rest of the evening looking at it. The painting was beautiful, but it was no substitute for Jordan. She knew she’d wonder for the rest of her life if she’d made the right decision in not telling him about her past.
I can’t go back to the United States. I just hope I
haven’t destroyed another man who loved me. What’s wrong with me?
Elena tossed and turned all night in bed, trying to answer her own questions. She woke up the next morning determined to put the past behind her. She hoped cooking would help her forget what might have been.
Suddenly she thought of what she’d discovered on the laptop: the formula for the anti-aging drug; the formula for Freedom; and the formula for the combination pill. Between the discovery of the little girls and Jordan leaving, she’d almost forgotten about it. She decided she’d think what to do about it later.
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA SEPTEMBER, 2010
CHAPTER 39
Jordan landed at Los Angeles International Airport about 3:00 in the afternoon. After easily clearing U.S. Immigration and Customs, he got on the 405 Freeway south, exiting at Seal Beach Boulevard.
His oceanfront home in Sunset Beach was a much larger house than he needed. Jordan knew he couldn’t really justify having a house this big, but it had been a good investment.
One of his pleasures at the end of the day was to sit down with a glass of good wine and watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. On clear evenings he could easily make out Catalina Island, just twenty-six miles away. The sunsets were particularly spectacular in the fall, and he never tired of looking at them. It was as if a blazing red fireball was sinking over the horizon.
Jordan was exhausted when he got home and went directly to bed. He didn’t even bother to look at the mail his cleaning lady had left for him on the kitchen counter.
Wide awake at 4:00 a.m., he got up, made some coffee, wished he had a French croissant, and began to read his mail. His thoughts kept going back to Elena. He wondered if her parents would be able to meet with him later in the day.
Jordan was at his desk, going through files and papers when his phone rang at 7:30. It was Chief Lewis. “Good morning, Jordan. I hope you had a chance to rest up. I wanted to talk to you before everyone else tries to get your ear and tell you how important their case is and asks for your help.”
“Actually, Chief, I slept well last night, but it always takes a couple of days to catch up and there’s a lot going on here at the office.”
“Is there ever a time when there’s not a lot going on at a police station? Anyway, like I explained in my voicemail message, I’ve decided not to do any more on the Yount case. I think you should call your friends in Laguna Beach and thank them for the tip about the stolen Mitchell painting. Tell them our department can’t justify the expense of launching a further investigation into the theft and trying to find the person or persons who stole the paintings. Even if we located Pierre Yount, we still couldn’t arrest him for committing the burglary.
“I also want to talk to you about the woman you called Elena. I did a background search on her and learned that her given name is Maria Rodriguez Brooks. Her husband was Jeffrey Brooks.”
“Wait,” said Jordan, interrupting him. “I know that name. There was something in the papers about him.”
“Well, he would have been famous if he’d won the Nobel Prize like everyone said he was going to,” the chief said. “Supposedly he gave his beautiful Latina wife, Maria, an anti-aging hormone which was strictly against the policy of his employer, Moore Labs. He was fired. She worked there as well, and was also fired.
“Using his termination pay, they bought a motel in a remote desert area off of Interstate 10 outside of Blythe and fixed it up. No one knows what happened, but Jeffrey was shot and killed at close range with a gun which was never found. Nearby was a knife with Jeffrey’s fingerprints all over it.”
“Are you sure Elena and Maria are the same woman?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Jeffrey’s body was discovered by a trucker who routinely stopped at the motel for a cup of coffee. When he got there, Maria was gone. She cleaned out their bank account and left for Marseille. The police tracked her there, but the trail went cold. I believe you’ve located her. There’s a police bulletin on her put out by the detective investigating the death of Jeffrey Brooks. This Elena person is described as a person of interest. I’m not going to do anything with this knowledge, Jordan. If you want to tell the detective who was working the case that you’ve found her, that’s up to you.”
Jordan was quite for a long time. Well, that sure explains a lot. “Chief, I’d like everything you have on the case.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved in this, Jordan?”
“Knowing what I know of Elena/Maria, I can’t believe she killed her husband, unless it was in self-defense. She gave me the name of her parents and their phone number. Maybe they know something. I’m going to see this through.”
After hanging up the phone, Jordan reached for a new file that had been placed on his desk while he was gone. It was the file for the Pre-Columbian theft that Chief Lewis had mentioned in his voicemail message. It made Jordan wonder if Pierre had made a recent trip to South America. Will I think about him every time a file comes across my desk? Yeah, I probably will.
CHAPTER 40
Jordan’s day was filled with paperwork regarding his trip to Provence, talking to the hysterical Pre-Columbian gallery owner, interviewing the police officer who was the first one to respond to the silent alarm, and checking to see what was happening with the other cases he’d been working on before he left.
At 4:00 p.m., he picked up the phone and dialed the number Elena had given him. It was answered by a young man with a thick Mexican accent. “May I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Rodriguez?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ll get her. She just got home,” the young man said.
A moment later a woman with a soft Mexican accent spoke, “This is Mrs. Rodriguez. Who is this?”
Jordan began to speak, “Mrs. Rodriguez, my name is Jordan Kramer. You don’t know me. I’ve just returned from Provence, France, and I met a woman who told me she’s your daughter. She said to tell you she’s fine. I have her picture, too. Would it be possible for me to come and speak to you in person?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. He had a sick feeling she wouldn’t see him and he’d never know the truth about Elena. Finally, Mrs. Rodriguez spoke, choking back tears. “Mr. Kramer, if what you say is true; this is the happiest day of my life. When can you come? My husband will be home about 6:00. We live in Santa Ana. Let me give you the address.”
“Yes, I can be there at 6:00. I’ll see you then.” The chief had printed and blown up the photo from Jordan’s cellphone. Jordan stared at it for a few minutes before putting it into his bag.
He had two sling bags. One had the LAPD logo on it and the other one was the one he had taken to France with no logo. He chose the one with no logo, knowing that people who lived in certain areas of Santa Ana often had a deep-seated fear of the police, particularly when they lived in the barrio. He didn’t want the conversation with the Rodriguezes to stop before it even started.
Jordan left police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles and drove south towards Santa Ana. Traffic was heavy as usual. He found the address Elena’s mother had given him. It was a small, tired looking house, badly in need of repairs. Paint was peeling off the siding and there were bars on the windows. It reminded him of the Younts’ cottage, and he understood why Elena had felt the need to leave money.
As he made his way up the cracked weed-filled walkway to the house, the front door flew open and two young men hurried out. They wore low black shorts, tennis shoes, sunglasses, and had gang tattoos prominently displayed on their arms. Whoever they were, Jordan was glad they weren’t going to be present when he talked to Elena’s parents.
He pushed the doorbell, but there was no sound. Must be broken. Better knock in case it is. The door was immediately opened by a slender, middle-aged, Mexican man. Behind him was a stooped woman with grey hair surrounding her creased face. One look at her was all you needed to know that her life had been one of hard work and disappointment.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Jordan Kramer. You must be Mr. an
d Mrs. Rodriguez. May I come in?” He had the manila folder with the photograph of Elena/Maria in his hand.
“Yes, please come in,” the man said in a tone as soft as his wife’s had been on the phone. “I am Fabian Rodriguez and this is my wife, Elena Rodriguez.”
My God, she took her mother’s name when she left. Her mother has been with her the entire time and her mother never knew it.
He walked into the tiny living room. Babies were playing on the floor and there was clutter everywhere. Silver duct tape covered the holes in the worn upholstery on the couch and chairs. Jordan took the photograph of Elena/Maria out of the envelope and handed it to Elena.
“This is a picture of the woman I know as Elena. I’m certain it’s your daughter, Maria. She looks like you,” he said to Elena’s mother.
As she held the photograph of her daughter in her hand, her eyes filled with tears of happiness. Elena gave it to her husband. “Madre de Dios, she is alive. Every morning since she’s been gone I have gone to Mass and prayed to the Virgin Mary for her safety,” Elena said, asking Jordan to sit down. “Please, tell us everything.”
“Mr. Kramer, what has Maria told you?” Fabian asked, carefully putting the photo down on the table, as he sat down on a badly worn grey plaid chair.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. I wanted her to come back to the United States with me, but she refused. Please, can you tell me what this horrible secret is that she carries? She must have wanted you to tell me or she never would have given me your telephone number.”
“I will tell you what we know,” Maria’s mother began. “Maria married a scientist whose name was Jeffrey Brooks. They seemed happy for several years, but they left Moore Scientific Labs, where they both worked, very suddenly, and bought a motel out in the desert near Blythe. Maria told me Jeffrey had been working too hard and was suffering from burnout. We never went to the motel. Maria would call and tell us what they were doing to fix it up. She said Jeffrey had built a scientific laboratory in the basement where he was conducting experiments.
02_Coyote in Provence Page 19
