“No, nothing. She had suggested a completely different hotel to me, but I booked my own travel, so I don’t even think she knew where I was staying.” I was still bothered by her no-show yesterday, knowing I had valuable artwork. I thought about mentioning that Tai was also looking into her but didn’t. I was pretty sure Tai’s sources would run more to gossip than facts when it came to Beatrice. Then I thought of my boss at the museum. “David knew of her reputation. Maybe he’d have some insight . . .”
Then, I stopped. Admitting to David Weller that this piece was stolen out from underneath me, or should I say, while Nate was underneath me, was both embarrassing and demoralizing. Everything about David said Venerable Father Figure, and he’d been such an important source of strength for me over the last decade. Plus, this wasn’t any piece of art; it was something special to me. “Mike, do we have to tell David right away? Is there any way you could give me twenty-four hours to try to get the sketches back?”
In my mind, I’d waltz into Nate’s conference, toss my hair around a bit, and suggest an afternoon rendezvous in order to get his hotel key. While Nate finished up his keynote telling the world about his plans to make artificial limbs on 3D printers and give them “brains” all at a low cost for the good of humanity, I’d rifle through his sweater vest collection and steal the portfolio back. He’d be cold, lonely, and stunned when he returned to his room. And I’d be long gone, having saved the day.
“That’s going to be tough. For insurance purposes, we have to document a timeline. You at least have to call the police, tell them what happened, and have them question the hotel staff, look at security footage. That will give us a paper trail.” Mike was on my side. Plus, if I managed to recover the sketches, it was a lot less hassle for him. “Why these sketches, Joan? What was special about it?”
“Honestly, not much,” I answered. Lenepveu was a midlevel painter who had long fallen out of fashion. I doubt there were more than a hundred people worldwide that even knew they existed. But they were special to me, so maybe they were special to someone else. “But I can tell you this: the value’s not in the work; the value’s in the subject. Joan of Arc means a lot of different things to a lot of different types of people. She inspires a religious fervor and has a cultlike following. Military historians revere her, so maybe there’s something there. And for the French, she is the symbol of their true national identity. It would be hard to pinpoint any other motive for stealing such a piece, except Joan of Arc’s appeal to a variety of people.”
“Okay, I’ll look into that angle from here, any recent activity in works of art concerning Joan of Arc. Maybe there’s a pattern.”
“On a scale of one to ten in terms of art courier stupidity, how bad is this, Mike?”
“It’s a seven. Max. At least you didn’t leave a Degas dancer in the cab. I had one courier do that. And, other than the art theft, this Nate sounds like quite a catch.” Mike added, “Okay, Joan, I can give you twenty-four hours before I inform David Weller. But don’t do anything stupid. It’s not up to you to recover the sketchbook. That’s what insurance is for.”
Yes, for the artwork, but not for my reputation.
The Paris police treated my situation like an everyday event, on par with criminal mischief or using an English word when a French one would suffice. Inspector Didier Angier, a tall, thin man in a dark blue suit, took my information. He signaled to Claude that he’d need to interview the staff and review the hotel security tape, and then turned to me and said, “Art goes missing every day here in Paris. C’est vrai. This is not life-or-death. It may turn up, but I wouldn’t count on it, at least, not anytime soon. A piece like this could take a decade to surface. But I will go talk to Monsieur Redmond at some point.”
That’s when it hit me. The cover story, my cover story, was a huge liability. I had lied from the second I met Nate. If he was the thief, he knew that and could exploit it. He could turn my stupid contrived happy-go-lucky dental hygienist from Southern California against me. At face value, I created a false identity, flirted with him on the plane, plied him with food and wine at the restaurant, lured him to my hotel room (My sheets are so soft . . .), and now was accusing him of art theft.
If he wasn’t the thief, the fact that I had created a cover story, left the artwork unattended, drank heavily, and then invited a stranger back to my room made me look guilty of conspiracy. Like I was trying to frame Nate and sell the sketches myself. This could be a real mess with French authorities, never mind the museum.
One thing I knew, I had to get to Nate and question him myself before Inspector Angier.
The InterContinental in Paris is a big, grand hotel built in the mid-1800s in the Opéra district. Recently renovated, it gleamed with gilt, silk, and dozens of brilliant chandeliers throughout. On this weekend in late April, it bustled with tourists, many from Asia drawn to the prime shopping location near le Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.
A flash of memory came over me as I took in the historic lobby, done in a soft green, cream, and gold color scheme, rich with gilded chandeliers, potted palms, and enough toile upholstery to satisfy any Francophile. Back in my student days, it was the time-honored place to meet one’s parents who may be in town, and I’d spent a few afternoons having tea at the hotel’s restaurant La Verrière with Polly’s mother and Breezy’s parents. We devoured those tea trays while the mothers watched enviously, remarking on our “active metabolisms.”
I made a beeline for the conference rooms. A small sign in the lobby alerted me to the Association of Advancement of Artificial Intelligence conference in the Mozart Room. Obviously, I had no conference credentials, but I was hoping security was lax. It was early afternoon, and I figured the panels would be letting out, with hundreds of men in sweater vests milling about. Back in my jeans, leather jacket, and cashmere, blending in was not really an option with this United Nations of scientists and engineers. So instead, I was going for the time-honored Girlfriend Locked Out of Hotel Room gambit. I figured I could talk my way in past any badge monitors to track down Nate. If he was even here and not halfway back to Los Angeles with my sketchbook.
But I didn’t need to talk my way in. As I walked down the long hallway toward Mozart, I spotted Nate holding court in a circle of fellow PhDs and one bespoke guy I presumed to be a venture capitalist, standing out in an eggplant V-neck sweater and gray blazer. I scanned the circle of men and focused on my man.
As Nate spoke, others nodded. He looked so engaged and intense; how could this guy have possibly been the one to rifle through my closet while I slept a few feet away? Then I thought about the soft hairs on his chest and felt my cheeks blush. I could never have a career in intelligence. Clothes, body parts—where was my focus? Just then, Nate looked up and saw me. His expression fell somewhere in between curiosity and terror. “Hi, Nate. Sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you?”
All eyes turned on me, the fish out of water among the mathematically gifted. One guy in crepe-soled shoes had clearly never been this close to a female before and started making small snorting noises. I tried to look away but couldn’t. Nate recovered. “Joan. Sure. Yes, let’s step over here.” He took my elbow and steered me away from his adoring audience, much to their admiration.
We made our way around the corner in silence and found a pair of chairs in the wide hallway for our conversation. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said cautiously as we sat down, more of a question than an exclamation of excitement.
“I’m surprised to be here.” Why beat around the bush. I was determined to be the tough guy. “Did you take something from my room last night?”
“What? No. I left the scarf at the front desk. Is that what you mean?”
“No. Something went missing from my roller bag. In my closet. It was there last night when I went to dinner and gone when I woke up.”
“Are you accusing me of stealing money from you?” An edge seeped into his voice.