But where had the straw come from? The last farm in Paris battling the wrecking ball lay not far from here, on Tombe Issoire, sheltering squatters and artists. She almost grasped the connection, felt it bubbling up then eluding her.
Write it down, her father had always said, even if it appears random. Then connect the dots later. Boring, tedious, and the way the investigations got done. Tiny details contributed evidence in the most banal way. “That’s why we’re called poulets, chickens in the farmyard pecking for a crumb,” he’d say, “a seed sprouting into a detail.” “Non, Papa,” she’d reply, “you’re called poulets because the préfecture’s built on the ancient chicken market.” “True, ma princesse,” he’d say, “but we still peck for details. Details nail your perp, make your case. Nothing else.”
At her scooter, she jotted down notes, put the bit of straw in her pocket and Saj’s clothes in her helmet compartment. She dialed Saj.
“Please listen, Saj. You’re staying with me and Miles Davis for a while. No argument.”
“Has something happened to my place?”
“It’s not safe,” she said, feeling inadequate. “I’ve got you a change of clothes.”
A sigh. “I’ll stay at René’s. It’s closer and he’s got more equipment. He gave me the key. I should water his plants.”
“Bon. The alarm installed yet?”
“As we speak. Any good news?”
“Straw mean anything to you?”
“Not off the top of my head … a Serbian farm?”
“More later. Keep the door locked and alarmed.”
Suddenly she had a flash of realization. Stupid, why hadn’t she put this together before? Oleg mentioned a buyer, admitted Tatyana hired the Serb. Tatyana bragged to Yuri about her old schoolmate who had married to a Russian oligarch. What if the oligarch’s wife was the buyer? A slim shot, but right now the only one to pursue. Time to speak with Tatyana, the brains behind this, to call off the Serb.
By the time she pulled up on her scooter at Villa Leone, her bad feeling mounted. Beyond the passage’s Moorish arched gateway was a stretch of irregular cobblestones, geraniums and ivy trailing the walls of old wooden ateliers. A rustic, faded charm lingered on Villa Leone in a run-down nineteenth-century way—forgotten ateliers and wash hung out under the dripping vines.
On the corner, a Peugeot started up. Moments later Oleg rushed out and jumped in the passenger seat. With a grinding of gears, the Peugeot headed toward rue d’Alésia. The same blonde at the wheel of the same car Oleg drove off in last night. Evidently, Tatyana wore the babushka in the family.
Aimée followed, leaving two cars between them. At the stoplight, she squinted to see into the car. Two heads bobbing, hands waving. Oleg stepped out and slammed the door at the Plaisance Métro, scowling. Looked like an argument.
Aimée kept behind the Peugeot, zipping through the yellow lights to keep up. Not fifteen minutes later, they crossed the Pont de l’Alma, over the tunnel where Princess Diana’s Mercedes crashed, and past the heaps of fresh flowers brought daily in her memory. Tatyana veered into Avenue Montaigne, deep in the triangle d’or—the golden triangle, or luxe land, as Martine called it—the wedge of wealth bordered by the Champs-Elysées and the Seine, showcasing designer couture such as Yves Saint Laurent, Dior, Hermès. These days, no self-respecting, budget-minded, fashion-conscious French woman emptied her pocketbook on the avenue of haute couture, according to Martine, who knew these things. They left this province to the wives of sheikhs and foreign billionaires.
The Peugeot pulled into the H?tel Plaza Athénée drive. She recognized the Plaza Athénée logo from the brochure in Oleg’s pocket. Red geraniums adorned the balconies, framed by stone art nouveau carvings. Expensive taste. Odds were Tatyana was visiting her old school friend and had disinvited Oleg.
Tatyana handed the keys to the valet and, with a swish of her long red leather coat, flounced past the bowing doorman. Too bad the hotel detective Aimée had known retired last Christmas. But he had always complained that this five-star hotel hadn’t upgraded their video surveillance. Or staff rooms. A tightwad for a manager, he said.
Aimée parked on a side street. She exchanged her ballet flats for heels, her helmet for the red wig she kept in the customized storage compartment under the seat installed by her cousin Sebastien. Minutes later, wearing oversize Dior sunglasses, her trenchcoat belt knotted, she smiled at the doorman.
The lobby exuded privilege: fresh sprays of white roses everywhere, gleaming marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and Louis XV chairs. From the adjoining bar she heard Russian conversation punctuated by peals of laughter. A woman wearing tight jeans, open-toed snakeskin stilettos, and an enormous bored pout passed Aimée in a cloud of amber perfume. She held a cell phone in each hand. All she lacked was an entourage. This diva made even the mauve Givenchy she wore look tacky. Tatyana, sitting in this group of three women, leaned forward laughing and hanging on the diva’s every word.
The third member, a sleek-haired brunette in a black pantsuit, scanned the bar and checked her cell phone every few minutes. A personal assistant, a trainer? Aimée hedged her bets on a bodyguard.
The diva nudged the bodyguard, who snapped her fingers at the waiter.
Aimée moved closer to hear. The bodyguard pointed to a menu. “Da, oui, please to order from the dog menu. Steak haché for Pinky. But first, please to take him for walk.”
The diva deposited a Chihuahua with an eighteen-karat-gold collar into the hands of the black-vested waiter. Not an unusual task in his job, judging by his servile expression.
“à votre service,” said the waiter, smiling at the little rat of a canine.
Aimée hoped the diva tipped well. The waiter deserved it. But the rich were different, n’est-ce pas?
The diva and Tatyana clinked frosted cocktail glasses together. Designer bags bunched beside them. The new Russia.