Murder Below Montparnasse

Thursday Evening


RENÉ WIPED HIS damp temples with his handkerchief and took a deep breath. Then another. He’d spent hours circumnavigating the firewall, disabling his safeguards, the alarm triggers he’d installed. But thank God for the thumb-drive containing his backup and the cloned token to override part of the system. Then recoding the disabler with Saj’s help. Tradelert’s mainframe, as designed, only allowed modification in twenty-four-hour cycles and the clock was ticking.

Now it all came down to these few seconds to stop them.

But if Tradelert had re-keyed the code, had time to install new passwords, it wouldn’t work. He prayed they hadn’t. Prayed they had kept the system up to show off and impress the investors who were due today, California time.

“I can keep the connection and the back doors open for two more minutes,” Saj said. “Ready, René?”

Now or never.

René entered the last code. Hit the keys. Nothing.

Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

“Connection’s gone, Saj!”

“Keep your sombrero on.” René heard the furious clicking of keys. “One minute thirty seconds,” Saj said. “Should reestablish connection within fifteen seconds.” When nothing happened, he muttered, “Relay’s temperamental. Weather issues cause havoc with the satellite transmission.”

Please God, René thought. He was hunched over, his eyeballs glued to the screen, his fingers poised.

“Connection. Go, René.”

René’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He hit send.

“Done.”

“We’re still up. Connected. It’s out of our hands now.”





Wednesday Evening


LENIN IN LOVE. All the more reason for the Russian oligarch to want the painting—either to legitimize his museum or hold it over the old guard and threaten exposure.

Ten minutes later, Aimée found the bar’s address behind bustling rue de la Gaîtié, studded with theaters and concert halls famous for Piaf and Georges Brassens. She’d followed rue d’Odessa past the old bains toward Place Joséphine Baker. It was indeed a leather bar. And she wasn’t dressed for it.

Her cousin Sebastien had frequented this bar before he’d gotten clean. Run-down, she remembered, haunt of dealers and stray Bretons fresh from the train at Montparnasse, mistaking the faded leftover Breton sign for a home away from home. Looking for a buckwheat crêpe and finding the underbelly of Montparnasse.

Now a simple black door. Discreet. New owners and new clientele evidenced by the calendar of soirées—a menu of domination, and S-M. Tonight: femmes et fétiches.

Great.

A woman in a leather thong and little else, pink butterfly clips holding her blonde hair up, gave her the eye. Svetla sat at the far end of the bar. Her short hair slicked back, wearing a leather biker jacket and low jeans over bony hips, revealing a flat stomach and pierced navel. Dark shadowed eyes on the prowl. Primed for a night off.

Svetla’s look played well in a lace-and-leather bar in Paris.

But Aimée needed to lure Svetla back to the Hôtel Plaza Athénée and bend the diva’s ear if she wanted to learn the oligarch’s plan. And hurry out before Svetla saw her.

“Didn’t know you swung this way, Aimée.” Cécile, a friend of Michou’s, René’s transvestite neighbor, was blocking her exit. Cécile wore lace bloomers held in place by strategically placed suspenders. A big pout on her rouge-noir lips. “You never told me.”

Of all the people to run into.

“I’m meeting someone, Cécile.”

“Let’s make it a party,” Cécile said, leaning closer to her on the bar. Smoke spiraled from her cigarette into Aimée’s eyes.

“It’s not like that.” She wished she could make Cécile disappear.

“And pigs fly.”

“Alors, she’s a Russian bodyguard.”

“Ooh, like them rough do you?”

Svetla was watching them, the edges of her mouth turned down.

“My friend gets jealous.” She waved to Svetla.

“I would too, Aimée. I’m mad you never let on,” said Cécile, but Aimée had already hurried past her.

“Svetla, I can’t stay here. I know her.”

“I noticed. Your girlfriend?”

“No way, but a little complicated.” She winked. Think. Think. She needed to lure Svetla out. “But that party—if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss it.”

“Miss what party?”

“Zut! Didn’t you get my message? My friend’s soirée. Invitation only.…”

“Let’s have a drink first,” Svetla said, unconvinced.

“And miss a Parisian leather party? Models, les bobos chics.…”

“First I’ve heard.”

“Exclusive, Svetla,” Aimée said. “I used my connections and wangled you an invite. Special, only for you.”

“You mean like models, designers, Karl Lagerfeld—like that?”

“Bien sûr. Last time, Karl held the party. Maybe tonight too.”

“Where?”

Svetla’s affected disinterest didn’t hide her excitement. Aimée had hooked her. Now to reel her in. And fast, without giving her time to think it through.

“They call with the address twenty minutes before—it’s a flash party. But you need to change. First we’ll stop at the Athénée, then go from there.”

“I don’t understand this.”

“There’s a dress code.” Aimée let out a low laugh. “I want to make sure the bouncer will let us in.” She had to chance it. “Or you’re not interested? Shall I invite someone else instead?”

Svetla slapped down twenty francs. The notes stuck to the wet drink rings on the bar. Cécile blew Aimée a kiss as they left.

DIDN’T BODYGUARDS ROOM on the same floor as their employer—or next door? According to that hotel detective, they did. Round-the-clock protection duty. In the taxi, Svetla had revealed that the diva and the oligarch had stayed in tonight. Perfect.

Aimée glanced down the hotel hallway, deserted except for a thick blue carpet and bronze wall sconces.

“The party goes all night. Sure you’re off duty?”

“On call,” Svetla said.

Even better. Svetla opened the door to a suite with a dressing room the size of a studio apartment, blue velvet floor-length drapes framing the window.

“Nice,” Aimée said, scanning the room for a travel itinerary, Svetla’s agenda—anything that might indicate the diva’s room number or her plans.

“Why don’t we party here first?” Svetla said, tossing her leather jacket on the giant bed.

From behind she felt Svetla’s muscular arms around her. A hot kiss on her neck. Aimée noticed Svetla’s cell phone poking out from her jacket pocket on the bed.

“Think I’m easy?” Aimée arched her back.

“I can hope.” Svetla’s tongue licked her ear.

Aimée twisted away. “First I’ll raid the minibar for champagne. Find you party clothes for later.” She glanced at the marble bathroom with the huge tub. “Why don’t you lather up and I’ll join you.”

“Promise?”

“Seduction’s an art. Don’t rush. Let’s do it à la Française. We’re good at that.”

“World famous.” Svetla grinned and began peeling off her jeans.

Aimée tried not to avert her eyes. Hoped she didn’t blush to high heaven. An amazingly toned body. Svetla’s muscles rippled.

“You’re shy,” Svetla said. “I never would have thought it.”

If she only knew.

“Make the water hot for me.” Aimée cringed inside, but Svetla bought it. For now. Minutes. She had minutes.

She ran to the minibar, grabbed a bottle of champagne, and then reached into Svetla’s jacket pocket. The cell phone was gone. Only silver-foiled breath mints came back in her hand. She scanned the room again, noting the chair, the desk, the telephone. But fancy hotels often had phones in the bathroom.

“Chilled and perfect,” Aimée said, walking in. She popped the cork and set the champagne on the edge of the tub, beside Svetla’s phone. Apparently it never left her side.

“Get in.”

Aimée grinned. “I still have everything on. Champagne glasses?”

“Grab a tooth mug by the sink.”

She poured, careful to spill on Svetla’s phone. “Zut … desolée. Let me dry it.”

Aimée reached for a towel from over the tub. “Hear that?”

But Svetla grabbed her and stuck Aimée’s hand on her soapy nipple.

“They’re calling me with the party location,” Aimée said, a tremble in her shoulders. “Oops, let me dry this off. I’ll be right back.”

Before Svetla could get out of the marble tub, she’d closed the door, tied the handle with her scarf, and knotted it to the gilt chair and braced it before the door. If Svetla pulled, the pressure would jam the door tighter against it. Then she tugged the small dresser and wedged it in place.

Aimée hoped that Svetla would take a while to figure out how to unscrew the gold-plated door hinge. Figured it would hold her for fifteen minutes. Unless the scarf tore—she doubted Hermès had intended it for this kind of work. She grabbed the belt from Svetla’s jeans and fastened it around the doorknob. Yelling and pounding came from inside.

“Bitch! I’m calling hotel security!” Aimée heard the whacks of what sounded like a hair dryer against the wood. Good thing four-star hotels supplied strong wood doors.

“Do that and you lose your job, Svetla.” Aimée flicked on the ringer switch. Two missed calls from Marina. “What’s Marina’s room number?”

“You’ll die, bitch.”

“Try to act helpful.”

“Marina calls and checks on me,” she yelled. “If I don’t answer—”

“Then I’ll tell her she needs a new bodyguard. What did Tatyana tell Marina about the painting?”

“Painting? I don’t know.”

Liar. Svetla had sat beside them in the bar, in the limo—she’d heard everything. “Forget a bonus from your employer if you don’t warn her. Tatyana’s a fraud. Isn’t your job to anticipate and avoid issues?”

“Tatyana’s a wannabe, an amateur,” Svetla yelled. “Marina’s bored. Laughs behind her back.” More loud banging on the door.

“What about the painting?” Keep her talking.

Aimée scooped up Svetla’s jeans and jacket, unplugged the room phone, and threw it all in the dressing room with the rest of her clothes. She locked the door and put the key in her pocket. That should give her a few more minutes.

Scraping metallic noises came from the bathroom as Svetla worked the hinges. Tweezers from her manicure set? Merde. She should have taken Svetla’s toiletry bag.

“Tell me about the painting,” Aimée said.

“Painting for paper museum?” A laugh. “Good luck.”

She wondered what that meant. “Paper museum? Explain. One more chance to tell me, Svetla,” she said.

“I kick your butt first,” Svetla yelled. The door rattled.

No doubt she would. In Svetla’s jeans pocket, she’d found two hotel key cards. But no room numbers.

Aimée let herself out and hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the handle. Even with Svetla’s racket, no staff would dare open it. One of the key cards opened Svetla’s room. The other must be for Marina’s.

She hit Marina’s number. On the tenth ring, the diva’s slurred voice answered. “Da?”

“Madame Bereskova, Svetla gave me her phone. It’s important.”

“What you mean? Who is this?”

“What’s your room number? Svetla’s gone and you’re in trouble.”

“You the Parisienne shopping girl?”

“Mais oui. What’s your room number?”

“I don’t know … Dmitri know.”

“Where’s Dmitri?”

“What trouble?”

Aimée’s ballet slippers sank in the plush carpeted hallway as she tried the key card in the door across the hall. No luck. Her stomach clenched. Three doors down, the key card lit up the green light and buzzed her in.

Vases of lilies, a fruit basket, and several champagne bottles littered the suite. Some full, most empty. Marina, her smeared mascara and black sequin top clashing with her pink flannel pajama pants, sat cross-legged on the bed. She flipped channels with the remote.

“Drink Bollinger? Then we go shopping, da?”

“All the boutiques are closed, Marina,” Aimée said.

“Dmitri make them open. He can. Opened Harrods once like for Queen.”

“The way he’s buying a Modigliani of Lenin for his museum?”

Marina drank a flute of champagne. Handed Aimée one. “Lenin, schmenin,” she said, clinking Aimée’s flute with her own.

“Tatyana’s lying to you.”

“So?” Her voice sounded bored.

Aimée took a sip to humor Marina. The toasty fizz slid down her throat. Not bad. “No one’s telling the truth, are they?” She’d neutralized Svetla, but she couldn’t count on it for long.

“Truth is flexible, Dmitri says,” Marina slurred. Eyes unfocused. Drunk. “Dmitri knows. His mother died after trying to have abortion of him. His father crushed in a steel accident when Dmitri is four. Self-made, that’s what you say?”

And ruthless. But she didn’t care to hear Marina’s drunken rant.

“Alors, Marina, don’t tell me you trust—”

“Dmitri’s good man,” Marina interrupted. “Some men, they trade wife for new younger skinnier wife. Not Dmitri. Not like the others. No stick-thin bimbo for him.”

For now, Aimée thought. Marina protested too much.

“We come from same village, worked in same factory,” she said. “Dmitri say Tatyana no good.”

“Dmitri’s right. Tatyana’s using you, trying to make business.”

Marina waved her bejeweled hand toward the closed door of an adjoining suite. “Dmitri make business. Not me.” Marina poured Aimée more pale-gold Bollinger fizz. “I no answer her calls now. Keep me company and we go shopping tomorrow?”

Poor, sad woman.

“Remember the ELLE magazine fashion spread I told you about?” Aimée said. “Good news. My journalist friend wants to interview you. For you to come to the photo shoot.” For the first time this evening, she spoke the truth.

“Me? In the ELLE?” Marina’s eyes widened. She clapped her hands together like a child.

And then she had an idea. “ELLE wants to shoot on location—in the boutiques, and in Dmitri’s museum. Elegant and Parisienne, you know.”

Marina laughed. “We find museum, no problem.”

“But ELLE wants Dmitri’s museum.”

“Exist on paper.”

“So there is no real museum at all? That’s what you mean?”

“We rent aristocrat’s hôtel particulier. Like private museum, okay? Dmitri do it all the time.” Marina leaned over, pulled out an oversize Hermès bag and emptied it on the bed. Grabbed her checkbook. “I write check now.”

A front.

Marina downed her champagne. Giggled. “Me with you, fashionable Parisienne. I tell them cash check after tomorrow.” She wrote a figure with a lot of zeros on a check from a Swiss bank account. “Kitchen-sink banking, Dmitri call it. Everything go in and everything come out clean.”

Money laundering. The proof. She’d use this somehow. Aimée grinned back at Marina.

“Dmitri’s next door?” The tall double doors to another wing of the suite were closed.

“Meetings. Always meetings. About paintings and money.”

And his wife too drunk to impress clients. Or he got a bit on the side.

She needed to distract Marina. Get next door. “I bet Dmitri keeps pictures of your children. A proud papa, non? Why don’t you show me?”

Marina downed her champagne. “Children?” A sad downturn to her eyes. “Dmitri shoot blanks.”

Did that explain her unhappiness, her drinking, her watching too many American films? Or that he kept to his own suite? Aimée racked her brain.

“Try on the Lolita Lempicka you bought today,” Aimée said. “The one that matches your eyes.”

Marina wove an unsteady path to her open dressing room. “Please to help me accessorize.”

“Bien sûr, but let’s start with that.”

Aimée fingered the checkbook Marina had left on the bed, coughed as she tore a deposit slip from the back, and stuck it in her pocket.

While Marina rummaged through clothes in her dressing room, Aimée moved to the double doors. She took a breath and opened them, revealing a narrow hallway. Followed the smell of cigars to a room off to the right.

She paused at the open door. Heard the clink of glasses and voices. Should she chance going further?

“Show them and they’re in,” said a man’s voice. Aimée edged closer.

A laugh. “Pas de problème, Hervé,” said a man with a Russian accent. “I have it.”

Two men sat in leather armchairs holding Baccarat tumblers before a fire. The one she figured for Dmitri, on the thin side with short black hair and Slavic cheekbones, wore an unbuttoned pink dress shirt, no tie. A sheen of perspiration glinted on his forehead.

The heat or nerves? she wondered.

“You said that last time, Dmitri.”

Did he mean the Modigliani?

“As usual, we’ll organize the funds to be available tomorrow at four P.M. Pending your bringing our new friends on board. Quit worrying, Hervé.” Dmitri patted the other man’s knee, almost as if reassuring himself. “Do your part.”

Aimée could see Hervé’s profile—prominent nose, graying brown hair that reached the collar of his pinstripe suit jacket. Then he stood. He looked familiar.

Before she could edge closer, the muted sounds of a flushing toilet came from a door behind her. Then a door handle turning. Dmitri’s flunky? She had to get out. Now.

“What are you doing here?” said the chauffeur, emerging from the door and blocking her escape.

Every hair on her neck tingled.

“Madame Bereskova told me the bathroom’s here.”

“Why didn’t you knock?” he said, arms firm across his barrel chest. The unmistakable bulge of his sidearm showed beneath his jacket. The heat and the cloying cigar smoke got to her.

“Desolée, I’m confused,” she said, deliberately slurring her words and trying to edge past him.

“Who’s that?” asked Dmitri. He and Hervé stood in the doorway watching her. Aimée felt like a specimen under a microscope, an insect skewered on a pin for inspection.

Her nerves jangled and the champagne rose in her throat. She hiccuped. And again. She cupped her mouth. “Too much champagne.…” She giggled, pretended to stagger. “Madame Bereskova’s so generous, I didn’t drink that much … I must help her with.…” Hiccup. “Accessories for the ELLE photo shoot.”

“This the one from this afternoon, Rodo?”

The chauffeur nodded.

“My wife’s stylist. Take care of her, will you?” Dmitri threw an embarrassed smile at the tall French man. “Women.”

Rodo took her arm in an iron grip. He opened Marina’s double doors.

“What you think?” Marina wobbled in strappy sandals, a beige strapless silk tent dress that hit her knees, and a purple hat.

“We need to work on the hat,” Aimée said and turned to Rodo. “Out. Or do you get paid to watch?”

“You don’t fool me,” he said, under his breath. “We talk later.”

Not on your life, Monsieur ex-KGB. He hadn’t bought her story for a minute. She jerked her thumb with more bravado than she felt to get him the hell out.

With a grunt he left. Aimée locked the communicating door. He’d tell his boss. And at any minute Svetla would break out.

Better work out an exit strategy.

“Where’s Pinky?” Marina’s eyes wavered, unfocused.

“Your dog?”

“Bellman take Pinky for walk, why not back?”

Aimée had to hurry before the bulging-eyed, gold-collared canine returned. She sat Marina down on the huge bed. Rubbed her shoulders. “I’ll coordinate accessories with what’s in your closet, okay?”

But Marina’s eyes closed. The next moment, she was snoring. Aimée had to act quickly.

Near the Hermès strewn on the bed, she found Marina’s high-end phone. A match to Svetla’s but sporting a chrome finish. She exchanged Svetla’s SIM card for Marina’s and put Svetla’s phone—now with Marina’s SIM card—in her bag. From Marina’s walk-in dressing room, she grabbed the first thing she saw—a black trenchcoat. She heard the connecting door’s knob turn. Svetla’s phone rang. Aimée switched it to vibrate. Her damp blouse clung to her neck.

Knocking sounded on the connecting door.

Merde.

She slipped off her ballet flats to get traction in the plush carpet, opened the door, looked both ways, then ran for her life. Panting, she avoided the elevator and found the exit sign several corridors over.

She couldn’t go out the front—not with the video surveillance, the chauffeur, and Dmitri on the lookout for her. By now one of them was surely calling the front desk to stop her.

Merde.

She had to find the service elevator or the back stairs. Thought back to the problems the hotel detective complained of on his night security patrol—how the laundry and linen services were behind the elevator banks by his break room instead of in the basement where they should have been—making security sweeps longer than usual.

Aimée was counting on that now.

On the ground floor, she kept to the wall, head down, until she found the door marked SERVICE. Inside, industrial-sized dryers hummed and steam escaped from a pressing machine. The woman running the press had her back turned. Sweat poured down Aimée’s back.

She turned to the right, kept going and made the next right. Stacked linen and staff uniforms hung in a wardrobe area.

She pulled off the trenchcoat and jeans and slipped on a white maid’s uniform, then tied an apron around her waist. She pulled on heeled boots from her bag, then stuck the bag with her clothes in a white sack at the bottom of the plastic laundry cart. Wheeled it ahead, her eyes darting for an exit sign. They must have a loading bay to receive supplies.

The woman at the pressing machine looked up. “Where you going with that?”

“I need air, it’s so hot,” Aimée said, fanning herself.

“Take a break but leave the cart down there,” the woman said. “I’ll get to it.…” The service phone lit up on the wall.

Looking for her already.

Aimée pushed the cart around the corner to her left, kept moving, not looking back and praying she’d find the exit. Thirty seconds later, she pushed the cart out the exit and bumped into a man smoking on a loading dock by the dumpsters. A waiter in a long white apron and a black vest.

“She wants you,” Aimée said, eyeing the dim lights of the alley and the street beyond.

“You must be new.” Light reflected on his shaved scalp. He gave her the up and down. “Who wants me?”

“The laundry Nazi,” she said.

“Why?”

“Your apron’s stained,” she grinned. “I don’t know. But she’s ranting.”

“Hold that.” He handed her his burning filter-tipped Gitane and winked. “She loves me. Back in a flash.”

Aimée pretended to take a hit. The minute the door closed, she tossed it, shouldered the laundry bag, and sprinted down the alley. She put every ounce of energy into reaching the next street before the former KGB—or whatever he was called—discovered her ruse in the laundry.

Praying for a return on her taxi karma, she ran through the rain-slicked cobbled streets, the laundry bag thumping against her thigh. The muscles in her calves burned. She zigzagged onto rue Marbeuf and, her chest heaving, reached broad Avenue George V.

The first taxi stopped. “Late for work?” the driver asked.

“You could say that,” she said, catching her breath. “Rue du Louvre at Saint Honoré. Extra if we get there in ten minutes.”

He hit the meter and took off. She hunched down in the backseat, pulled the trench coat over the maid’s uniform embroidered with Hôtel Plaza Athénée on the pocket. Marina’s phone vibrated. Six calls. She needed to think.

Two blocks past the Champs Elysées, her own phone rang. Dombasle.

“The buy’s on. Where do I pick you up?” he said, horns blaring in the background.

“I’m in a taxi. Look.…”

“Meet me at Parc Montsouris. Café on the corner of Avenue Reille. Hurry.” He clicked off.

She debated, torn. She needed to get to the office. Enlist the help of Saj—and René, if he was still around. But she couldn’t chance missing the Modigliani.

“Change of plans, Monsieur,” she said, and gave him the address at Parc Montsouris. “Mind closing your ears?”

“Wear these, you mean?” He held up red fur earmuffs.

“Parfait.”

As the taxi sped over Pont Alexandre III, she called Saj. Outside the window, globed candelabra lights lined the bridge, misted in the fog. The Seine below, a dark gelatinous ribbon, caught furred glints of light.

“Before you say anything, Aimée, I found what Bereskova’s angling for at the trade show.”

Now?

“I dug around,” Saj said, excited. “His parent company manufactures guidance-system onboard electronics—”

“Hold on, Saj,” she interrupted, “you mean like in airplanes?”

“All aircraft, including missiles,” Saj said. “Specializing in carbon-composite materials technology needed to manufacture those wafer-thin components. He’s wining and dining, aiming to seal the manufacturing contract for the Moscow parent company.”

Now it made sense. “Not only wining and dining, Saj. He’s got an account set up for bribes and kickbacks.”

“You can prove that?”

“Shouldn’t be hard with this deposit slip in my hot little hand.” She dictated the Swiss bank account and routing numbers on Marina’s check. “Think Rasputin can help you?”

“He hates apparatchiks like Beresekova taking advantage of the system,” Saj said. “That’s the plus side. Whether he agrees.…”

“What about René’s relay and delay switch for that mainframe? Same principle, non?

“Worked this time, thank God,” Saj said.

She allowed herself an inner sigh of relief. Clutched her bag closer on the worn leather seat. Thought as she rubbed her sore calves.

“But if you and René work out how to delay the funds transfer, Dmitri Bereskova can’t pay his bribes.” She remembered Hervé now from the newspapers. “At least one of the culture ministers won’t get his nice cut.” A patter of raindrops beaded the taxi’s side windows. “Wouldn’t Rasputin like to expose the oligarch’s faux museum?”

“I’ll get René on it,” Saj said. “He’s closer to Rasputin than I am.”

But the SIM card from Marina’s phone had a limited life. Before Dmitri stopped service and canceled, she needed to save the call log and numbers.

“Any ideas how I can clone a SIM card in ten minutes?”

“Got the ESN and the MIN—the electronic serial number and the mobile identification number?”

“Right here.”

“You’re talking to the right person,” Saj said. “But it might take me a while. Say an hour?”

“Worth a shot. Meanwhile, I’ll copy down the numbers that come up most in the dialed log, just in case.” Budding tree branches shivered in the night wind on broad Avenue du Général Leclerc.

“What does all this have to do with the Modigliani?” Saj asked.

“Didn’t I explain?”

“That you’re chasing the people chasing the painting.…”

Until now. The buy was on. And she’d have to figure it out as it played.

“What else could I do?”

“You’re the detective,” Saj said. “Follow clues, question suspects, go over evidence.…”

She heard music in the background. Japanese. “What’s going on?”

“My acupuncturist made an office call. He does massage too. René needed a shiatsu treatment.”

She could use one right now as well, but the taxi was approaching the gates of the Parc Montsouris. Dombasle’s red Fiat was parked on the curb. An uneasy feeling came over her.

“DON’T TELL ME,” Dombasle said. “You’re moonlighting as a maid? Or you’re an actress auditioning for a role?”

“I like to dress up, Raphael.” The smell of sodden chestnut leaves rose from the pavement.

“Undercover, that’s it,” he said.

“Where’s the buy?”

“Postponed.” He shook his head. “The antiquaire says tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you know that ten minutes ago?” Aimée said, frustrated. “Yet you insisted I come here.”

He shrugged.

“What’s going on?” The red taillights of the taxi disappeared in the mist. Too late to call it back.

“Come inside the café. Let me explain.”

Wet and tired, she agreed.

A glass of wine later, he was holding her hand. “Don’t get mad, but I wanted to see you. Hear you laugh.”

And waste her time.

“During an investigation?” One that seemed to be going nowhere fast, she wanted to add. First the Russian bodyguard, now Dombalse. Was she giving off some special scent tonight? Or should she blame it on the musk and ambergris in Chanel No. 5?

But she liked this semi-nerdy intello, unlike any flic she’d met. She couldn’t put a finger on why—the way he spoke about art, maybe. She sat back—wine now, on top of the champagne—at this corner table in the Montsouris café. The place was empty on this rainy night, apart from the owner reading L’Equipe, the sports and betting newspaper, behind the counter. Outside, on the narrow street, lamps illuminated the wet cobblestones like in a black-and-white Atget photograph.

After the rain stopped, Aimée and Dombasle walked uphill past the park shrouded in darkness, hearing the distant croak of frogs. She liked the way he asked her no questions and she told him no lies. How he kept her arm in his.

He gestured to rue Nansouty, a hilly, treelined lane of brick and timber and stone houses. Once the countryside, now exclusive and home to the wealthy. “That’s my place.”

A flic with a trust fund? “Art flics do all right,” she said.

“My grandfather was a mutilé de guerre, une gueule cassée.”

Aimée shivered. A “broken face”—the men disfigured in the trenches of the Sommes, in Ypres, half their faces blown away. When she was a child, the butcher’s father around the corner on Île Saint-Louis wore a mask to cover his half-face, a grotesque, scarred map.

“A philanthropist built the houses for wounded soldiers and their families after the war. I grew up here.” He grinned. “Last one of the original families. A unique mingling of walking war-wounded and artists. Everyone a bit crazy. My father and grandfather knew Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, Soutine, and Dalí. All neighbors down the street. My grandfather let Braque sketch him, during his Cubist phase. That’s why my father took up painting, he’d say, to find the beauty in pain. Pain lived in our house.”

Part of Aimée ached to tell him of Dmitri Bereskova’s paper museum. She knew she should, but held back. Not sure why.

“Huppert said you know about the fixer. Maybe if I ask with a ‘pretty please’ and sweeten it with.…”

His arms enveloped her. “With this?”

The wet wool of his coat against her cheek, a curl of his hair against her lashes. His lips on hers. She didn’t want him to stop.

Bright headlights pierced the mist. For a moment she felt paralyzed, like a deer caught on a country road. What was she doing here with Dombasle? The bright light shocked sense into her. The white sign on the roof signaled that it was free.

“Taxi!” she yelled, struggling out of his arms. Brakes squealed. “I’ve got to go,” Aimée said, and ran to the waiting taxi.

BACK AT HER apartment, the imprint of his kiss lingered. His warm lips, the way she hadn’t wanted to pull away. The canopy of leaves and vines leading to his rain-freshened doorstep on rue Nansouty. The peaceful sea of foliage in the park.

Confused, she curled under the duvet, her laptop at her side and Miles Davis at her feet. Had Dombasle turned the tables on her, seduction being part of his strategy?

So far, chasing the Modigliani and her mother had only led her to a dead end. What kind of detective would her father call her?

Something was staring her in the face, but what? Over and over, she asked herself what she was missing.

Start over, her father always said. Go back to the beginning, reexamine every detail. Reassemble the pieces of the big picture.

She fell asleep to the night sounds outside her mansard window—the Seine lapping against the stone bank and the tapping of the rain. Her dreams were a murky haze of running and never catching up.