“During an investigation?” One that seemed to be going nowhere fast, she wanted to add. First the Russian bodyguard, now Dombalse. Was she giving off some special scent tonight? Or should she blame it on the musk and ambergris in Chanel No. 5?
But she liked this semi-nerdy intello, unlike any flic she’d met. She couldn’t put a finger on why—the way he spoke about art, maybe. She sat back—wine now, on top of the champagne—at this corner table in the Montsouris café. The place was empty on this rainy night, apart from the owner reading L’Equipe, the sports and betting newspaper, behind the counter. Outside, on the narrow street, lamps illuminated the wet cobblestones like in a black-and-white Atget photograph.
After the rain stopped, Aimée and Dombasle walked uphill past the park shrouded in darkness, hearing the distant croak of frogs. She liked the way he asked her no questions and she told him no lies. How he kept her arm in his.
He gestured to rue Nansouty, a hilly, treelined lane of brick and timber and stone houses. Once the countryside, now exclusive and home to the wealthy. “That’s my place.”
A flic with a trust fund? “Art flics do all right,” she said.
“My grandfather was a mutilé de guerre, une gueule cassée.”
Aimée shivered. A “broken face”—the men disfigured in the trenches of the Sommes, in Ypres, half their faces blown away. When she was a child, the butcher’s father around the corner on ?le Saint-Louis wore a mask to cover his half-face, a grotesque, scarred map.
“A philanthropist built the houses for wounded soldiers and their families after the war. I grew up here.” He grinned. “Last one of the original families. A unique mingling of walking war-wounded and artists. Everyone a bit crazy. My father and grandfather knew Ana?s Nin and Henry Miller, Soutine, and Dalí. All neighbors down the street. My grandfather let Braque sketch him, during his Cubist phase. That’s why my father took up painting, he’d say, to find the beauty in pain. Pain lived in our house.”
Part of Aimée ached to tell him of Dmitri Bereskova’s paper museum. She knew she should, but held back. Not sure why.
“Huppert said you know about the fixer. Maybe if I ask with a ‘pretty please’ and sweeten it with.…”
His arms enveloped her. “With this?”
The wet wool of his coat against her cheek, a curl of his hair against her lashes. His lips on hers. She didn’t want him to stop.
Bright headlights pierced the mist. For a moment she felt paralyzed, like a deer caught on a country road. What was she doing here with Dombasle? The bright light shocked sense into her. The white sign on the roof signaled that it was free.
“Taxi!” she yelled, struggling out of his arms. Brakes squealed. “I’ve got to go,” Aimée said, and ran to the waiting taxi.
BACK AT HER apartment, the imprint of his kiss lingered. His warm lips, the way she hadn’t wanted to pull away. The canopy of leaves and vines leading to his rain-freshened doorstep on rue Nansouty. The peaceful sea of foliage in the park.
Confused, she curled under the duvet, her laptop at her side and Miles Davis at her feet. Had Dombasle turned the tables on her, seduction being part of his strategy?
So far, chasing the Modigliani and her mother had only led her to a dead end. What kind of detective would her father call her?
Something was staring her in the face, but what? Over and over, she asked herself what she was missing.
Start over, her father always said. Go back to the beginning, reexamine every detail. Reassemble the pieces of the big picture.
She fell asleep to the night sounds outside her mansard window—the Seine lapping against the stone bank and the tapping of the rain. Her dreams were a murky haze of running and never catching up.
Thursday Morning
AIMéE WOKE UP to a sweet, woody fragrance wafting from the yellow and orange petals sprinkled over her duvet. Miles Davis’s wet nose nudged her ears. He sported a red collar with a rosebud.
What in the world?
She grabbed her father’s old wool robe and followed the aroma of coffee to her kitchen. Dozens of orange, yellow, and red roses in vases filled the counter.
“Your landline’s been ringing off the hook, sleepy head.” Melac, tousled hair and barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, sipped from a steaming demitasse of espresso. Beside him was a plate of fresh-baked brioches with raspberry confiture and a slab of rich Brittany butter. Her stomach growled.
“So you raided a florist’s?”
“I missed you too.” He picked her up, engulfing her with his arms and kissing her neck, sweet and sticky raspberry breath in her ear.
Her heart dropped. Last night she’d almost slept with Dombasle. She felt a stab of guilt. But hadn’t she seen Melac with the blonde?
This was his way of making it up to her—flowers and affection, always a man’s telltale signs of guilt. He’d deny everything.
“You wasted your money, Melac. Send them back to the florist.”
“But our sting op ended by the flower market. The florist’s a friend.” He gestured to the small green ivy topiary and miniature lemon trees.
“You think I’ve got an orangerie?”
“Use the jardin d’hiver, you’ve got enough room.”
The old glassed-in terrace full of ancient rattan chairs she never used.
His gray eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you return my calls last night?”
“I was busy.” He didn’t deserve to know. “I broke my rule, never mix with flics.”
“Not this again,” he said, moistening his thumb and picking up brioche crumbs.
“That blonde, the drunk sports star at la Rotonde,” she said. “Don’t deny it. I saw you.”
Melac’s eyes clouded. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t talk about it? You expect me to believe—?”
“A honeypot sting,” he interrupted.
“And I’m Madame de Pompadour,” she said.
Melac grinned. “Better. Zut, Aimée, she’s an agent.”