“Has your antiquaire sparked any interest?”
“My colleague intimated as much,” he said. “First I need to check the painting against our database of stolen art.”
She doubted he’d find it.
“Modigliani’s daughter inherited nothing,” he said. “Not a single painting.”
Aimée shook her head. So unfair, when her father’s work fetched millions today.
“A sad, broken woman.” He paused. “I met her once before she died. You’d never have known she’d run a Maquis network during the war.”
“Part of the Resistance?”
“In the South. Then a long affair and children with a married man who kept a double life. In the end, too much of the bottle, forgotten by her last lover. Her body was found days after she died. Tragic. Like her father.”
But what about the Serb? All kinds of questions rose in Aimée’s mind; the blood smeared on Yuri’s wall, his Levi’s jacket button—all evidence of a fight. Who was this phantom thief who supposedly stole the painting first and somehow murdered the Serb in Yuri’s house? The Serb’s “brother”? But then why would he pursue Saj? To tie up loose ends? Or, less likely, a flunky of Luebet’s? But that didn’t make sense, according to what Luebet wrote on the envelope.
Dombasle’s buy complicated things.
“I’m confused,” she said, “too many threads. You haven’t told me the plan.”
He explained over another round of Perroquets. “We’re organizing a buy. Setting the wheels in motion. All the more reason for you to attend the reception tonight. I’ll know more details. The drop schedule.”
She’d bartered her info for what … a Modigliani expert? That was it? And now she was a pawn in a buy? “This could work?”
“If the thief’s desperate, and thieves usually are, it works nine times out of ten. A hot piece for quick cash, that’s what they want.” He paused. “Worried?”
“I’m guessing you involved la Crim and the art cops at BRB.”
“You know I can’t say.”
“But you’re asking me to stick my neck out, wanting to use me as a patsy?”
Had word of her involvement in Morbier’s sting gotten around the préfecture? She couldn’t fathom Morbier compromising his case or talking when he’d promised “no leaks.” But she still wanted to kick him.
Dombasle looked down at his drink. “Let’s just say all law enforcement involved would appreciate your assistance. That do it for you?”
All frothing at the mouth, too.
She needed to think how to use this to her advantage. No matter what happened with the painting, she needed to make sure Saj was safe, and learn the truth about her mother. But showing Dombasle the Polaroid had at least gotten her on the inside of the formal investigation, or some layer of it. Like an onion, her father said of cases involving more than one jurisdictional branch, keep peeling and try not to cry.
She took the Polaroid back and stuck it in her pocket. “So in return I want the fixer.”
“Who?”
“When you find out, Raphael, let me know.”
She put down her card and threw twenty francs on the table. Stood, waved at Louis, and slipped onto the quai.
Wednesday
MORGANE RAN ACROSS the cobbles into the rainy courtyard. Shivering and wet, she glanced up at their curtained window. Untouched since she’d left.
Just as she feared, Flèche had gone out to locate the painting his way. Intimidation, his usual métier. Now she’d insist they do it her way or she’d let him loose.
“The new phone books arrived,” said the agoraphobe, peeking out from her ground-floor window. “Every tenant takes their own. Not my responsibility, as I told your husband on his way out.”
Always observant, this one. Morgane leaned down and picked up the heavy plastic-wrapped directory. “I’ll take it, merci.”
Water ran from the roof tiles, splashed in silver eruptions, missing the rusted drain. On the damp landing she shifted the directory under her arm to unlock the door, and a blow hit her in the middle of her back. The air was knocked out of her. She stumbled forward, the directory falling on her foot. But not before her wrists were grabbed behind her and a bag pulled over her head.
Stupid. Phone books wouldn’t be out for a few months. Such an old trick and she’d fallen for it. No doubt the attacker had bribed the agoraphobe.
Hands pressed her shoulders down and plunked her on the floor.
“You salaud,” she said, “this won’t get you anywhere, you.…”
No answer. Only the systematic sounds of drawers opening, the few pieces of furniture being turned upside down, taut mattress fabric ripping. Professional. Her neck stiffened.
“What the hell do you think you’ll find?”
“The unexpected,” a voice said. “Looks like you’re in the dark in more ways than one. No clue to the painting, n’est-ce pas?”
“Who are you?”
Objects rained on her lap. Something damp leaked on her leg. The familiar smell of Miss Dior flooded her nostrils. Whoever this was had emptied her bag. She heard papers rustling, the jingle of coins, keys … her wallet?
Clicking. “I thought so. Two calls to Luebet, your boss.”
“Who are you?”
“He can’t answer anymore,” the voice said. “They scooped what’s left of him from the Métro tracks.”
Panic filled her. “You mean you …? Listen, he gave me orders by phone.”
“Liar.”
“Told me if we didn’t find the painting, he wouldn’t pay.”
Sigh. “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”
Morgane’s chest heaved. “Shoot me now and you get what? The painting’s disappeared.”
“So you’re just a hired hand?”
“Luebet didn’t hire me for my looks.” Her thoughts raced. “You’re some rogue flic?”