She pulled out her father’s police ID doctored with her photo. Shot him a measured smile and gestured to the tall reception podium.
“No fuss no muss, Monsieur. Please cooperate and show me the dinner reservations for this evening.”
He hesitated. Adjusted his tie. “Anything I should know?”
“Pre-security detail,” she said. “I’m sure you know what that means.”
President Chirac, while notorious for being a palace homebody, had a proclivity for spontaneous visits to restos of this caliber with his daughter. It drove his bodyguards and security detail nuts, but, according to one she knew, it was the best possible security—if no one at the restaurant knew he was coming, no assassin would either. Reservations would be made under a false name, but contingent on a green light from security, who’d make a quick sweep a few hours prior.
“Extra measures, Monsieur. I’m sure you understand, n’est-ce pas?”
The ma?tre d’ gave a knowing look, inclined his distinguished white head. So Chirac had dined here before.
“Bien s?r.” He turned the thick vellum pages toward her.
“We’re wondering about an old friend, an art dealer.”
“Monsieur Luebet, party of three, at nine P.M.”
“And his gallery, Monsieur?”
“Laforet on Montparnasse.”
Ma?tre d’s knew everyone. That was their job. Only three people—Yuri, the art dealer Luebet, and the concierge. Yuri hadn’t invited his stepson.
“Most helpful. Merci, Monsieur.”
He smiled and executed a little bow. “I’ll drop a word to the chef to have aiguillette de canard et foie gras, gelée de porto on the menu. His favorite.”
“You do that.”
A WORLD-CLASS FOUR-STAR dinner tallied for an art dealer expecting a fat commission on a Modigliani. Several scenarios spun in her head: Yuri, following the concierge’s suggestion, takes the painting to Luebet, with Damien driving the camionnette. Luebet, recognizing a true Modigliani, this unique lost treasure, strikes a deal with Yuri to handle the sale and perform a professional appraisal for authentication the next morning. Meanwhile Luebet, counting his poulets before they hatched, lines up potential buyers, interested museums, and makes a reservation to celebrate.
But if that had been the case, wouldn’t Yuri have lodged the painting with Luebet for safekeeping? She remembered his stricken look when he opened the pantry to discover it empty. And the fact that he was tortured—none of it made sense. But Luebet would know something.
Gunning her scooter, she reached the Boulevard du Montparnasse and found Luebet’s gallery closed. She tried the gallery number. Only voice mail. She left a message.
Who stole the painting? Who tortured Yuri? Not her job to find out, but she couldn’t put it out of her mind. Nor could she forget the Serb who’d found Saj’s name. But she had a business to run. She called to check in at the office.
“Any Indian attacks, Maxence?”
“Only a few sales calls, if you call those—”
“Attends, Maxence.” She didn’t feel good about a kid assuming René’s position and making sales pitches for their security. “I’ll handle those.”
“Bon. Iridium and Netex faxed the proposals back and accepted,” he said. “I was about to fax them contracts, but I’ll leave it for you.”
Two new contracts? He’d just faxed the proposals out this morning. The kid impressed her.
“All right, go ahead and prepare contracts. Use the template in my file and just fill in the parameters from the proposals. Anything else?”
“Virus scans have been run. I’m digging more in Xincus on Yuri Volodya. All quiet on the western front.”
“Good job. See you later.” She hung up.
Maxence had it under control. She tried to ignore her feeling of superfluousness and concentrate on the problems at hand—Yuri’s murder, this painting, and Saj.
She was still holding her phone when it rang again.
“Oui?”
“Mademoiselle Leduc, I’m Monsieur Luebet’s assistant,” said a smooth voice. “He’s unavailable today but I can schedule an appraisal tomorrow.”
Didn’t the inherited Matisse she’d lied about on her message merit more consideration? The longer she waited, the worse her chances of ever finding this painting. And then another scenario hit her—what if Luebet had arranged the robbery? Contracted it out to the Serb to steal the Modigliani so he could show up pink and innocent for the appraisal? But the Serb was dead, the painting gone. She could only spin theories until she spoke to Luebet.
“I’m afraid that’s too late,” she said. “Two dealers have already expressed interest in the Matisse.”
This should put fire under the receptionist to contact Luebet.
“Alors, Mademoiselle,” the receptionist said, her voice now rushed. “Let me see what I can do.”
“But if he’s not in Paris, I can’t wait,” she said. “A shame, I heard he’s the best.”
“As soon as his curating meeting finishes at the Musée Bourdelle …”
Aimée clicked off. Now she knew where to find Luebet. It was vital that she glean more about the Modigliani from him. She might even show him Piotr’s letters in exchange for information.