It wasn’t Blackbird. It was Beatrice Landreau, the art agent and crook who had skipped town for the weekend, setting all the events of the last seventy-two hours in motion. The first thing I noticed was that her hands were empty. No black portfolio filled with sketches, no envelope. Beatrice, who had clearly aided and abetted Blackbird in his theft of the museum’s valuable artwork, had the nerve to stand before me in a rather chic trench coat and freshly groomed hair. I was hoping she’d be more wild-eyed with a touch of crazy so I could forgive her and write off her bad judgment as a desperate financial move. But when I saw that she was an attractive woman in her thirties sporting a Chloé tote I’d been eyeing, a wave of anger passed through me. She took the sketches and the bag I wanted! I channeled my mother, hissing a decibel level that was both threatening to those close at hand and inaudible to the crowd at large. “You have some nerve showing up here empty-handed. Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t orchestrate fraud and theft. I will call the police right now if you don’t produce the Panthéon Sketches,” I said, shaking my phone in her face.
Beatrice gave no ground. She was unapologetic: “I have proof of a wire transfer from my client to the museum for the price of the Panthéon Sketches. Sold legitimately. The piece is in good hands. That matter is settled. Your work as the courier for these works has been successfully concluded.”
Even her charmingly accented English bothered me, so I responded by dramatically swiping the paper out of her hands. It appeared to be a wire transfer, all right, from a business account to the museum account for the agreed-to price. The transfer was from an entity called Fortnight Studios, not Beckman himself. I handed it to Nate so that he could serve as a second set of eyes—had I missed anything? “Well, it’s not exactly settled and concluded, because we haven’t addressed the matter of you setting me up, stealing a valuable collection of drawings, and, let’s not forget, trying to run me over. So settled and concluded? Not really.”
“That’s seems like very harsh language. These claims are preposterous.”
“Not harsh, really. You’ve damaged my professional reputation, you endangered the museum’s, and now, it appears, that you’ve moved into engaging in emotional blackmail.” My usual reasoned restraint give way to an uncontrolled anger. It felt foreign and scary. But also exhilarating. She was not going to get the best of me.
Beatrice blinked. “It can all be explained. But not by me, by Monsieur Beckman. Please, he is waiting for you.”
“Is he here?” Nate said, whipping around. “Where is he?”
“No, he’s not here. I will take you to him.”
Nate piped up, “We’re not going anywhere with you. Or your buddy, Beckman.”
Beatrice would not be swayed. “There is a car waiting for you. Monsieur Beckman wishes you to get in. I’m to escort you to Monsieur Beckman’s compound in Rouen. I have been instructed to provide no explanation, as he would like to explain it all himself.”
I listened. I understood. And, honestly, I was relieved that it was Beckman, and this charade was almost over. I assumed I’d still lose my job for hiding the theft, but at least the Panthéon Sketches were safe. And, the museum would get its money, so insurance didn’t have to pay out because of some long-lost friend of my parents. But I was no less furious at being played by the likes of Beatrice, in her trench coat and attitude. Plus, the word “compound” had Branch Davidian overtones. “You think we’re idiots? Why would we get in a car with you?”
Beatrice looked me straight in the eyes for the first time. “Because he has your father’s notebooks. And he wants to give them back to you, personally.” She was taunting me with memory.
“How do we know he really has the notebooks? I mean, come on, Beatrice. From my limited experience with you, all I know is that you’re a lying crook.” That got her. “Why shouldn’t we call the police right now?”
“You’re not going to call the police. You don’t want the hassle.” Frenchie had a point there. “Look at this.” She handed me her phone.
“What’s this? Proof of the hundred calls I made to you this weekend that you failed to return?”
“No, a video of Peter Beckman and your father’s notebooks. Shot this morning after you didn’t show up at Impasse Ronsin, clearly the final meeting point. He would like to return the notebooks to their rightful owners.” She handed me her brand-new iPhone, and again I found myself annoyed by her reports of a dire financial situation. Apparently, lacking financial liquidity didn’t impede some Parisians from acquiring the very best and latest fashion accessories and technology.
I hit “play” and saw the face of an aging rocker, in his sixties and still handsome, all warmth and enthusiasm, as if he were hosting an episode of From the Vaults of VH1. It was Peter Beckman, rebel front man of the Ravens, now with neatly trimmed hair and wearing a fresh black T-shirt and a necklace with a little silver medal around his neck, a Saint Joan medal. He was sitting in a richly decorated room surrounded by black-and-white notebooks. He waved his hands over the pile. “Hi, Joan. Sorry about all this. Come to Rouen for a few days. Let me explain. Bring Nate! See you soon.” Then as an afterthought, he held up the purloined black portfolio and said, “This is a gem. Thank you for bringing the sketches to France.” I hit “play” again, to make sure I hadn’t dreamed what I had seen.
“This is a gem?” I shook my head. “Unbelievable. He makes it sound like the events of this past weekend never occurred and we’re just headed out for a holiday visit. How do I even know those are my father’s notebooks? Those could be props and this video just another invitation to the next stop along this goose chase. You can buy those black-and-whites anywhere.”
Beatrice responded, “I have seen them. Why not see them for yourself?” Again, she fingered her phone. “Here. Regarde.”
I swiped through a series of photos of interior pages of the notebooks. At least that’s what they appeared to be, but Beatrice wasn’t exactly a photographer of the highest order. “A little bit of focus would have helped your case, here.”
And yet, they looked authentic. How is it even possible that Beckman got his hands on a truckload of notebooks? I looked at Beatrice’s smug mug. I wanted to slap her. Or tackle her and steal the Chloé bag. Instead, I made a small, pathetic sound. My father’s notebooks were, were . . . alive.
Nate held my arm back firmly and asked a sensible question: “I find Beckman’s behavior careless, at best. Is this what he is like, completely blasé about the suffering his actions bring about in other people’s lives?”
Beatrice nodded. “Yes. He is full of light.” She motioned with her hand. “Shall we?”
There were a million reasons not to get into the black Mercedes sedan parked on a nearby side street: safety, sanity, and potential conflicts with international law. But Nate summed it up best: “At this point, we kind of have to, don’t we?”
We did.
Like everything else over the past few days, the attention to detail was impressive. At Beatrice’s insistence, we stopped at the hotel to collect our luggage and check out “in case we found ourselves in Rouen for a few days.” As if an afterthought, she added that Monsieur Beckman would be picking up the tab for our stay at the H?tel Jeu de Paume to offset “the inconvenience.” Then we were asked if we had any food allergies so Cook could adjust the dinner menu before we arrived, so apparently, death by accidental poisoning was off the menu. Finally, Beatrice presented each of us with rain boots and heavy socks in our correct shoe sizes because, she told us, walking about the grounds of Fortnight Studios was quite delightful, even in the rainy season. She actually used the word “delightful.” She then proceeded to give us a rundown of where we were headed, what to expect, and the timeline. Never did it register that this field trip to Rouen was out of the ordinary. Clearly, this was not the first time she had done work for Monsieur Beckman, as she insisted on calling him. I wondered: With this slick of an operation, what other ruses have these two pulled off?
As we drove, Nate fired off a series of logistical queries at Beatrice about the location of the compound, the exact distance from Paris, and the availability of Wi-Fi upon arrival. She gave vague answers to each question, basically responding to everything Nate asked with, “You shall see.”
As we reached the outskirts of Paris, the industrial area where Paris stops being magnificent and starts to look like any working-class city in Northern Europe, Beatrice instructed the driver to pull over at the corner, and sliding out of the front seat, she said, “This is my stop.”