A short laugh. “Worse. I think you need to convince me, Morgane.”
Nothing for it but to tell the whole story. “Alors, five years ago, I worked in his gallery, lifted a series of Chagall lithographs from him. Long story. After I got out of prison, my son was diagnosed with leukemia. Then Luebet called me a week ago, told me we’re good now but he needs help. A job. He couldn’t do it, but I could. Like I’d refuse?” The cold floor against her legs chilled her.
“This photo in your wallet,” the voice said, “your son?”
A sob rose in her throat. “Please don’t touch him … he’s sick, please.”
More rustling paper. “There’s a Swiss Clinic bill …?”
“My son needs a bone marrow transplant.” Her throat caught. “I need money. I’ll do anything.”
“How did you plan to transport the painting?”
“But our man got there too late, there was no painting.”
“Answer the question.”
“My cargo freight contact at Orly.”
A cough. “So, mother of the year, why threaten the private detective?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play innocent.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The key turned in the door.
“That’s Flèche,” Morgane whispered. “An amateur. He went off half-cocked last night. Wouldn’t listen, uncontrollable … I don’t know what he’s done.”
“Hope you’re telling the truth,” the voice hissed in her ear, “for your son’s sake.”
“Who the hell are you?” Flèche’s words hung in the air. “Look, put the gun down, we’ll talk about the painting. We don’t have it, but I’ve got a lead … just calm down.”
“What lead?”
“Plenty in the pot for everyone,” he said. “The bitch will lead us to the fixer.”
A short laugh. The door closed. Morgane heard footsteps. The rustle of fabric. Flèche kept a knife strapped to his calf under his jeans. If only she could get out of the way … but she couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.
“Why’s the fixer important?”
“The old geezer hid the painting,” Flèche said. “The bitch told me everything. We stuck her head under water like they did to the old geezer.…”
Morgane struggled but her wrists didn’t budge. “Idiot,” she said. “You won’t find the painting that way.”
As she’d feared, Flèche had rushed in headlong and now half the world would know. He’d brought attention and trouble to the door. If only she could cut her losses. Run.
“She’s right,” the voice said. Morgane realized now it was a woman’s voice. Low, rasping, a foreign accent. “So that was you. Are you going to do that again?”
“I’m on that Leduc until she coughs up, or else …” Flèche said.
Morgane heard the hiss of a match lighting. A swift inhale. Could taste the plume of smoke Flèche exhaled. Idiot.
“Or else what?” the woman asked in that curious accent.
“I’ll make her talk.”
“Wrong answer. Pity, Flèche. Stupid nickname—for an arrow, you’re dull as a post.”
“Tant pis,” Flèche said, his footsteps moving past her. That smell of cigarettes that clung to his clothes. “You want a bigger cut, why do you deserve it?”
She had to warn this woman. Even though she’d attacked Morgane, bound her and threatened her, Morgane trusted her more than this idiot who’d get her killed.
“He’s got a knife strapped to his leg,” she said.
“That’s too bad, Flèche. I don’t like uncooperative types.”
Morgane heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver cartridge clicking into place. An intake of breath.
“And no need to look for the fixer anymore,” the woman said. “Here I am.”
“What the …?”
The rest was drowned in the crack of a gunshot. Morgane tried to make herself small. Sounds of shattering glass and a loud thump on the floor next to her. What felt like a man’s arm—Flèche’s—hitting her shoulder. Morgane shivered in terror. Then an oozing, warm wetness on her sleeve. That metallic smell. Her fingers came back sticky with blood.
She tried to scream but it froze in her throat. Nothing came out.
Her body tensed, expecting the gunshot. Expecting to die. But she couldn’t force her mouth open to plead for her life. Could only sputter a few words. “My son … needs me … I beg you.…”
Only the chill draft from an open door answered her.
Wednesday
DOUBTS CLOGGED AIMéE’S mind like the leaves stuck in the quai’s rain-swollen gutters. Dombasle’s informant antiquaire orchestrating a buy of a Modigliani at the flea market—it all seemed too easy.
Or maybe she was paranoid.
But it reminded her of the apricot tart her grandmother left to cool on the windowsill one long-ago summer afternoon—a flock of crows had swooped down and left not even a crumb. Was there a swarm of scavengers picking each other off for the prize?
She needed a plan, quick and dirty. Grabbed her cell phone.
Oleg answered on the first ring.
“Mademoiselle Leduc, you’ve thought of something? Want to talk?”
Still rude. He’d kept her number on his caller ID.
“Call off the Serbs and I’m more than ready.”
A snort. “I don’t understand.”
Damp air laced with the fresh scent of rain hovered on the quai. Aimée shook the water off her Vespa cover, took out her keys, and shouldered her bag. The sporadic showers made one feel damp all the time, her grand-mère used to complain. Nothing ever dried.
“Didn’t you send the goon last night to plunge my head in a bucket, like he tortured your stepfather?”
A swift intake of breath. “What?”
“Lucky my godfather’s a flic and—”
“Nothing to do with me,” Oleg interrupted. “You’re wrong.”
A bus whooshed by, spraying water from the puddles. She stepped back but not in time. Droplets shimmered on her leather leggings. “Act like that,” she said, irritated, wiping herself off with a café napkin from her bag. “No information then.”
“Either you have the Modigliani or you don’t,” he said.