Aimée found no window in the bathroom. Cursed under her breath. She peeked out the door. Saw the woman’s back. Tiptoed to the small kitchen and the back door, opened it to the dripping-wet balcony.
One floor down. She grabbed the metal balcony bars, let her legs dangle in the late morning air. Next door she saw Yuri’s lighted atelier through a tall window. She took a deep breath and dropped, landing in wet grass. Mud and grass caked her boot heels.
Great.
A walkway led through the small courtyard. She scanned the back building windows for neighbors. Lace panels covered many of the closed windows. Too cold and wet for hanging laundry. Satisfied no one was looking out, she passed through an old gate and scaled a cracked stone wall to land on mud. Again.
A damp, trampled rosemary bush lay in her path. The fragrance enveloped her.
Her view at the garden’s rear gave onto Yuri’s kitchen. She could crouch down undetected—but for how long? Arriving blue uniforms filled the atelier. At any moment they’d start taping off the apartment, spread into the garden.
Something wet and fragrant brushed her cheek. A broken sprig of rosemary stuck from the wall. Rosemary for remembrance, and she had so much to remember. Stalling, she picked up the rosemary and examined it. Wound around the stem was a bit of yellow grass. Straw? No, more like hay. She had a sudden intuition it was the murderer who had trampled this rosemary, perhaps coming over the wall the same way she just had. She stuck the hay-tangled sprig in her pocket.
Right now only one thing was clear: She had to find this painting Yuri was tortured for that somehow led to her mother. Saj was in the clear for the accident now, or would be once Serge filed his report. Yet Aimée couldn’t be sure he was safe until she knew who the Serb who’d tracked him down to the hospital had been. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the dead Serb and the missing painting were linked. Besides, even if they weren’t, she was caught up in this case now—she’d missed the old man’s call, and now he was dead. His five thousand francs sat in her bag. She couldn’t shake her feeling of guilt, not to mention her regret at losing her one link to her mother.
The neighbor’s window opened. A finger pointed. “She’s over there.…”
Aimée took off and didn’t hear the rest.
Monday Afternoon, Silicon Valley
“WE’VE BUILT THE mainframe. Your job’s maintenance so we can go back in and tweak it. Anything you need, René.” Andy slapped him on the back, then followed up with a hug. So California men like to hug?
As if reading his mind, Andy laughed. “We’re not kissers, like you froggies. But we’re totally jazzed to have you as our CTO. Just remember, we need that back door for routine maintenance.” He hugged René again. “Anything you need, dude.”
Excited, René nodded. Dudes, cowboys—alors, this was the Wild West.
Andy peace-signed his way out.
Andy the long-haired CFO and Rob the investor angel were two of the most brilliant people René had ever met. Within five minutes of meeting them, he’d known there was no one like them in France. The company had algorithms a year ahead of any he’d seen. Their one problem was keeping people from getting in. His job: to make their security top-notch.
René cranked up his ergonomic chair at his new desk in what had been the car dealership’s assistant’s office. The room emanated fresh paint and glue from newly laid carpet. A leftover Buick Skylark calendar adorned the wall.
With his chief tech officer position came the company laptop, two desktop terminals, and keys to the former coffee room, which now housed the bank of computers. The beating heart of their stock-trading search-engine start-up. His start-up, too—he owned shares.
René glowed inside. Their genius concept was perfectly timed to crest the oncoming wave of stock trading. He kept wanting to pinch himself.
A few more algorithms, and he’d complete the security firewall. A real beauty. He savored a challenge.
He rubbed his hands together at the keyboard. Splat! Warm liquid dripped from his cuff-linked sleeve. He’d knocked the cup of what they called “coffee” over.
Merde.
By the time he reached the restroom, he’d figured out part of the code for the next algorithm in his head. But the big problem right now was the sink’s high faucet—out of his reach. Had they built this for giants?
Non, just big Americans. He’d need a stool to reach it so he could wash off his stained, dripping sleeve. Hunting for anything to stand on, he ended up in the back storeroom. The cooling system whirred.
“He’s perfect. The mainframe security’s almost there.”
René stopped in his tracks. Someone was speaking of his work. Pride filled his chest. The voice spoke at intervals. Like a cell phone conversation.
“He’s brilliant but we won’t.…” Loud whirring drowned the rest. René’s gaze caught on a Pepsi crate. “He’s set up.…” More whirring. “… front running.” With all the background noise, he couldn’t recognize the voice. “The dwarf’s got no idea.”
René’s hands paused on the crate. What did that mean?
He walked through the storeroom, following the sound of a door shutting. EXIT. He opened the door, blinked into blinding sunlight to find the parking lot. He couldn’t see over the hoods but heard an engine start up. By the time he reached the middle of the lot, the car was gone.
Had he misunderstood with all the noise? Or his bad English? But the thumping in his chest didn’t go away.
Courtesy of the Pepsi crate, he cleaned up at the sink. He mulled over what he’d just heard while scrubbing out the stain. Wished he understood English better, and that his other Charvet handmade shirt wasn’t in the motel on the street of fleas.