She wanted to let me know she was working through the pile of mail my mother had ignored for ten years and would let me know if there was anything that concerning or personal. I thanked her for getting on this task so quickly, asked her to scan anything that seemed suspicious, and wished her a happy weekend.
I hopped out of bed feeling a thousand times more clearheaded than yesterday. My plan was to inspect the clue again with the help of a map of Paris after some coffee. I threw on a white shirt, black jeans, boots. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Happy weekend? Yes, somehow, yes.
My phone buzzed. A text from Polly. Home early. Brunch? My Place? Bring hometown gossip.
Something in my gut told me that brunch with Polly might be the right call. It dawned on me that my instincts hadn’t been all that fired up over the last six months. Or six years. But apparently, they were back.
“No sugar, right?”
Nate handed me a mug of coffee from the hotel’s breakfast service. He had a plate of bread and jam with him that he set on the table next to the window. I turned from the charming view to see that he’d also changed his clothes from the night before. The sweater vest was back, and it looked good. I put the coffee down and reached out to touch him, which seemed to catch him off guard. I didn’t let go. “Did you go back to your hotel already this morning?”
Nate moved closer. “I did. I’m an early riser. Plus, I had some work to catch up on. I have a few meetings this afternoon, so I didn’t check out . . . but there’s a room available here tonight. I can book that, you know, depending on what happens today. The front-desk guy here is really getting to like me. I can tell.”
It was such a grown-up thing to do, make separate sleeping arrangements in the same hotel. I was compelled to caress his chest. “Did they drum you out of the International Society for the Takeover of the Human Race because of your failure to show up at the dinner last night?”
“Yes. I’m now left to the same fate as the rest of you sad sentient beings. Subjugation by the AI Overlords.”
“I’ll protect you. I know Pilates.” Was tempted to work my hands under the wool and a layer of cotton to skin when Nate announced with enthusiasm, “Hey, I think I know how Blackbird found you. At this hotel, I mean.”
“Really?” I pulled away, interested in the answer. “How?”
“Your good friend Polly. She didn’t actually name the hotel where you were staying in a blog post about your visit. But she ended her piece with “Tennis anyone?” which is a pretty short mental walk for Blackbird to a place whose name is literally Hotel Tennis Court.”
“That’s not cool. How did you find that out?”
“I Googled you. It popped up near the top. Along with your bio from the museum. Your wedding announcement in the New York Times and your divorce announcement from a site called CandyKane or something. Oh, and a photo of you in high school with the president of Iceland.”
“Sorry you didn’t Google me thirty-six hours ago, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I would have missed a great meal, a great dress, and some other great things.” Nate blushed. I’m not sure morning-after talk was a specialty, but he continued. “We all have a past. I feel better knowing your former mother-in-law sells real estate. That’s the most normal thing about you.”
“Like your Star Wars collection.” I worked on his buckle.
Nate laughed. “You Googled me, too?”
“So beyond Google. Got my high-priced, former FBI security team on it. Remember, you were the prime suspect for this crime twenty-four hours ago, but the chance of you collecting both Yoda figurines and nineteenth-century French art is pretty slim,” I said taking a sip of perfect coffee. “Do you think Blackbird actually reads Polly’s blog? Or was searching for me on Google and found it?”
“I don’t know. But if Blackbird read it, anyone else could have, too.”
“Right. Like Beatrice. Her silence is beyond suspicious. When did it post?” I brought up Polly’s website on my laptop. Despite her lapse in judgment, I loved the photo of me in my cape standing in front of the Rodin Museum from 1999. That girl had style, I thought. That girl had big plans. I needed to dig that cape out of storage when I got home.
“Thursday morning. A day before the sketches disappeared.”
“I like that you said disappeared and not stolen. I think I’m winning you over with my conspiracy theory.”
Nate looked over my shoulder at my screen. “You haven’t changed at all.”
You’re wrong, Nate. I’ve changed completely. “Maybe a bit. I’m seeing Polly for brunch. She knows Paris inside and out. Maybe she can help figure out the next location.”
“You trust her? Even with the information breach?”
I laughed at his choice of words. “She’s a blogger, not CIA. I’m sure she didn’t intend to . . .”
“Blow your cover?”
“Again, with the aggressive language.”
Nate wasn’t done with his theories. “Maybe Polly is Blackbird. She knew you had the sketches, paid off the maid to watch your room, and when you left, stole them. Probably sold them to a Joan of Arc enthusiast who has enshrined them in his man cave already. Right below his unicorn poster.”
“That is dismissive. Faith is powerful. Plus, I never told Polly specifically what the nature of my business was in Paris. She has no idea about the sketches.”
“Any old boyfriends out there?”
“What’s this about? Curiosity or jealousy?”
“Thinking of possible suspects who might want to get your attention.” He stepped away, giving me room to stand.
“Ah . . .” I closed my screen, stood, and turned to face him. “It’s a pathetically short list that includes my escort to the debutante ball, a friend’s brother who later came out, but boy, could he waltz. He holds no grudges. I seemed to specialize in pining after gay boys for a while. Then, there was a chef, a couple of college flings, and an Australian. That’s all you’re getting.” I started to gather up my devices and stash them in my bag. I debated changing for brunch with Polly but changed my mind. I’m sure I had nothing in my carry-on truly worthy of her, so I stuck to all black.
Nate watched me put on my jacket. “It’s not a bad idea to think back on old acquaintances. Maybe somebody will stand out as trouble.”
“Will do. I wish you could come to Polly’s. I think you’d like her.”
“I wish I could. But I really can’t miss this meeting today. It’s with a Swiss firm that Green Town is hoping to acquire. Plus, I need face time at this conference to send a message that we’re in good shape.”
A light bulb went off. “Maybe we can use Polly’s blog to send a message to Blackbird. We can plant something to see if we can get his attention.”
Nate stopped for a second. “Smart. You’re pretty good at this, Agent Blakely.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 13
“Sweeping” is the word I would use to describe just about everything in Polly’s Parisian apartment: the view across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower; the hemline of Polly’s cream-colored palazzo pants across her polished parquet floors; and the motion of her manicured right hand with the sapphire bauble as she gave me the two-dollar tour of her flat that was in painfully good taste. There was even a uniformed domestique in the kitchen with the broom. Yes, everything was sweeping at Polly’s place.