Inspector Faunier sipped from his cup then went on. “Monsieur Gaillot said you had asked to see his collection and angled to get an invitation.”

  Elle gasped. “That’s not what happened. I have the email he wrote me. I can pull it up on your computer if you want.”

  Inspector Faunier reached for a card from a stack on the desk and handed it to her. “My email is on there. You can send it to me later.”

  “Did he explain what in heck he had that little room for?” Elle looked from one to the other of the inspectors.

  Girod placed her cup on the corner of Faunier’s desk. “Ah, he said he often changes the work in there. He implied that his wife and he”—she turned to Inspector Faunier—“ah, it is a private matter.”

  Grossed out, Elle turned her head to see Ryan’s reaction. He grimaced in response.

  Elle said to the police, “So Francois is now claiming that I made the whole thing up? That I showed up, demanded to see his secret collection, and then maneuvered him into his closet, with some delusion about seeing a Marc Luc?” Her face felt hot.

  Inspector Girod cradled her cup in her lap. “He said you had been drinking his wine, that maybe you were on the drugs?”

  “I can vouch for Elle. She was sober,” Ryan said. “And I caught him in that closet with her. I saw what he was doing. How did he explain the bruise on his face?”

  “We saw the bruise,” Inspector Girod said. “He could have pressed charges.”

  “Then he would have had to explain why it happened.” Ryan gulped in impatience at his own coffee and pulled a face of disgust.

  Elle couldn’t tell whether his expression was from the coffee, which tasted like boiled water with coffee flavoring, or from Gaillot.

  “What did he say when you showed him the picture of the photo from Jean-Pierre Luc?” Ryan said.

  “He denied ever seeing it before,” said Faunier.

  “And had no explanation that he had the copy of it in his bedroom closet?” Ryan’s expression was grim.

  “It will be very difficult to prove, you know,” said Inspector Girod. “Gaillot has denied everything. and his wife is supportive.”

  “Now he spends time with her. Convenient,” Elle muttered.

  Ryan’s phone buzzed. She looked up and saw him glance at it, first with dispassion, but then with quickening interest as he seemed to take in the number. Was it Babette?

  “Sorry,” Ryan mumbled. “I have to take this.” He walked over to the window, facing the glass.

  Inspector Girod surprised Elle by offering to drive her back to Le Marais.

  “That’s very kind,” she said in a loud enough voice to hopefully get Ryan’s attention. She hoped he would go back with her. After all, his hotel was in Le Marais district as well.

  “Alors,” said Inspector Girod.

  “What about Ryan?” Elle lagged behind Inspector Girod in the hallway.

  “He is big boy, no?” Girod frowned. “Allez. We will take the stairs. At this time of the day, the elevators are slow.”

  Elle flung a last look behind her, and finally Ryan emerged onto the landing. “Hey, I’ll walk you out,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” Elle asked as he caught up to her.

  He gave her a distracted look. “I’ve got something—on another case.”

  “Inspector Girod is taking me home.” When Ryan didn’t respond, she said, “So we’re meeting tomorrow at ten thirty at Gregory’s?” Why was she asking him whether or not she could come? He had talked her into staying in France, saying he needed her help…

  “Right, yeah, I’ll see you then. Sorry this didn’t work out.”

  What didn’t work out—the interview, getting new information, going back to Le Marais together, her and him?

  Inspector Girod was now on the next landing. “Elle! We must go!”

  Elle hurried down the stairs after the inspector without saying goodbye to Ryan.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Disquieting Muses, Giorgio de Chirico (1916-1918)

  Ryan walked briskly from the building that housed the French Central Art division and headed toward the Bureau du Sécurité. Funny, when he was with Elle, he could see the charms of Paris, but without her, it looked dirty, run-down, and crowded, and everyone was scowling, just like they did in DC. And it was even colder here. Women wearing kerchiefs held their hands out to passing tourists. The uneven hems of their old-fashioned dresses dragged on the ground. Their children as numerous as pigeons flocked behind.

  Well, that was a bust, he thought. He hadn’t gotten new information from the Art Crime investigators. But there may be another lead.

  During the meeting, Ryan had received a call from Chris Stevens, a buddy from Counterterrorism. He hadn’t seen Chris since their Chinese lunch, a couple of weeks ago, before Expectation of Time was stolen.

  “You’re in Paris, right?” Chris had gotten straight to the point once Ryan had said he was in a meeting. “You remember Faiser Al-Azzear?”

  Before Ryan could dredge up the name from his memory, Chris said, “A Saudi nobleman. We had a wiretap on him. And we have this informant—an American-born Pakistani guy. When he got back from training camp in Afghanistan, we turned him.” The triumph was full in his voice. “Al-Azzear mentioned Expectation of Time, maybe something about using it as collateral for AK-22s. Isn’t that your case?

  Ryan’s pulse increased. Finally, a job he could get excited about—marrying his true love Counterterrorism with the theft he was working on. “What do you need from me?”

  “The rest of us have to keep our cover.” Just like Ryan was supposed to be doing. “Can you go with a French agent and question Al-Azzear?”

  “Can you send me the transcript of the translation?”

  “Yeah, but the informant says he was using code for weapons.”

  Impatient with the meandering crowd, Ryan stepped onto the road to pass. As a Citroen headed toward him, he jumped back up on the curb. He called Kevin.

  “You can’t make this about terrorism,” Kevin said.

  “The guy mentioned Expectation of Time.”

  “Why aren’t they calling the French Central Office for Art Theft to coordinate?”

  After the interview with Elle, Ryan had a pretty good idea why. “They’re not that interested in helping the U.S. get back Expectation of Time.”

  “Sorry,” Kevin said, clearly not sorry. “I’m not using my budget to do Chris’s work for him.” He paused. “What I can do is see if this Al-Azzear has a connection to James Egart, if he has relatives in the Midwest, and if he traveled to the U.S. around that time frame. Stuff that relates to Art Crime. Nothing outside it.”

  Ryan couldn’t argue with that, and it was more than he could have hoped for.

  “And what’s happening with your other leads in Paris?”

  “Gregory is more or less on track.” He decided not to mention Elle and how much time they’d spent together today. What a beautiful morning—he had surely seen Paris at its best. Ryan had felt more relaxed and peaceful than in—he couldn’t remember how long. He realized with an odd jolt he hadn’t had any of those weird—okay, maybe he could say it—panic attacks lately. Could it be Elle?

  But they could not be a thing over here. It was okay to pursue Babette, since she had contacts that might be helpful in sniffing out the theft or a person eager enough to buy—or steal—one. But Elle was a different story. From Kevin’s standpoint, she was useless. Ryan had convinced him that she had her art history expertise to contribute, but it was to the ultimate aim of carrying off a clever forgery.

  Ryan checked his watch, trying to get his focus on the case. As was typical with cases, everything had happened at once, and, unfortunately, during his lunch with Elle. Babette had called, along with Inspector Faunier. Ryan was to meet her that night. He would string her along for a while, see what he could get out of her information-wise, and then make an offer to purchase one of the sketches.

  He had made an immediate call to Kevin after hanging up with Babette. With some persuasion, Kevin agreed to set up the account with enough money to cover the sale. But Ryan had time before then to try to raise Theo Watteau at the Bureau du Sécurité.

  …

  At the Alain Gallery, Marie, the assistant, was her usual good-natured self with a wide smile and chirping French. Babette wore cat-eye liner and dark lipstick. She offered her cheek to his kiss.

  Ryan imagined kissing Elle on her cheeks where she blushed a rose color that highlighted the green in her eyes. But she didn’t trust him, and he couldn’t blame her. He was lucky she’d agreed to act as expert consultant, but any day might be her last. She’d already threatened to leave. Jean-Pierre was dead, and there was no missing painting, if it had ever existed in the first place. And it had been dangerous. But working with him, he could keep an eye on her. Of course, Kevin, too, might stop the arrangement at any time.

  Babette’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Café, Ryan?”

  “Oh, no thank you, Babette. I don’t have much time, I’m afraid. I’m meeting a friend in a little bit.” In actuality, after the coffee with the inspectors, he feared he’d throw up if he had to drink any more of the vile liquid. “My clients wanted me to take another look at the sketches again, and then they will make their final decision.”

  “But, of course,” she practically purred. “Let us come.” She beckoned, and he followed her through the gallery.

  Once they were there, he said, “Oh, before I forget, I also wanted to take you up on your offer of the catalogue.”

  “Oui, oui!” Here her voice turned sharp. “Marie, s’il vous plait!”

  Marie’s heels clicked down the hallway toward them. “Oui, Babette?”

  Babette directed her in French, presumably to fetch a catalogue. Darn, he’d wanted Babette to leave the exhibit room so he could take a picture of the sketches on the wall, so Elle could see her handiwork displayed. Babette turned to face him. “We can get your clients’ names aussi and send them a catalogue, non?”

  Ryan took out his phone. Earlier, he’d rushed out to the Bureau du Sécurité—a grand, ornate building decorated with little statues of regal animals, pointy-eyed mythological birds and lions with snarling jaws and scratching paws—a far cry from the Cold War block architecture of the Herbert Hoover building.

  He had only grown frustrated trying—and failing—to be understood. While he waited for Theo Watteau, who never showed up, he texted Elle: Which of the sketches were already marked “sold” while she was involved?

  She texted back, Why?

  Because he wanted to stall for time. If he gave Babette the names of those two, and she said they were taken, then he could say he’d get back to his clients again, keep dragging this out. Each time he had contact with her about his supposed clients meant he could continue to ask questions and gain her trust. He only had the one week.

  He pretended to enjoy the sketches again. Boy, this was getting old. Finally, he spoke, avoiding eye contact, as if his attention were on the drawings. “You know, I heard a very strange rumor…”

  “What is it, Ryan?”

  “That a new Marc Luc has come to light, one no one’s seen before. Maybe someone wanting to cash in on the renewed interest what with the theft…”

  “Mais, what you do not understand is that we are the gallery that represented Marc Luc from the beginning. We know all his work. Who did you hear this ridiculous rumor from? Is that your friend Gregorie?”

  He faked a chuckle. “Oh, no, not at all. And I told you Gregory’s not a friend, only a business acquaintance.”

  “Then whom?”

  He shook his head and smiled, but he felt her demeanor take on a frosty edge. Had he offended her in some way? He was having a hard time reading the foreign subtext.

  Marie came in smiling, holding a catalogue as if it were the Holy Grail. Babette was curt with her and pasted a brittle smile on her face to hand it to Ryan.

  “Okay,” he said, reading off the titles Elle had supplied. “The studies for Expectation of Time Foreground Figures and for Coefficient of Y Background Rocks?”

  When she repeated the titles back in French, he said, “Yes, exactly. My client in New York wants me to compare a couple of details, maybe text him again, make a decision.”

  “Et quelle nombre?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She gave a huff of impatience and looked toward the door Marie had just passed through, as if it were Marie’s fault she hadn’t recalled the English words. “Nombre—number. What number of the sketches?”

  At his perplexed look, she said, “Un, deux, trois, quatre—”

  “Okay, there are different numbers to the sketches?” he said. “Like different versions?”

  “Yes, of course. The paintings are large, ambitious works.” Her hands waved around with grand gestures as she spoke. “One sketch could not capture what would become the finished masterpiece.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. Elle had not gone into version numbers. Maybe she didn’t realize he was going to use that information pronto, or she hadn’t remembered. Or was this her way of getting across that he wasn’t sharing enough of his investigation with her?

  She already knew too much for a civilian. He didn’t want to put her in danger.

  Realizing Babette was waiting for him to say more, Ryan asked, “So what is the difference between Expectation of Time Foreground Figures version one and version three, for instance?”

  She shrugged in an extravagant fashion. “Probably very little to the untrained eye. But I will show you both. It will take just a little while for Marie to retrieve from the stockage. In the meantime, we can share a little of the champagne, oui, to celebrate our new business relationship?”

  “Would you like me to help—I can hulk stuff from storage probably easier than Marie?”

  “That is not necessaire,” she said as she walked toward the door, her skirt twitching, showing off.

  Ryan’s text fired. An unfamiliar number. Was it Watteau finally getting in touch? Of course, it was a rule of investigations that everything always happened at once. “I’m sorry, this is one of my clients now,” he said and turned away.

  The notification was indeed from Theo Watteau, and he wanted to meet at LePlus for drinks in half an hour. Ryan checked the location of LePlus. He estimated it would take thirty minutes by taxi, forty-five minutes or more for metro. He would need to leave now.

  “I really appreciate you showing me these, Babette.” Ryan’s voice sounded hollow in the tall, empty space. “But I’ve got to meet a new client. He might be interested as well.”

  “Ah, well, that will provide us with a chance to get them out, display them for you, and you can come back very soon, oui?”

  At the main door of the gallery, he leaned in for the double-kiss thing, pulling away when she tried to clutch onto him. “I’ll text you later, okay,” he said, “when I know my schedule tomorrow.”

  “Au revoir, Ryan.” She sketched a wave to accompany her beaming smile. Despite his abrupt departure, she seemed very sure of her sale.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Metamorphosis of Narcissus, Salvador Dali (1937)

  Theo Watteau was the French version of Chris Stevens—short, self-confident, and high-energy. He had blatantly flirted with every woman who crossed his path at LePlus, no matter the age. The only difference was their hair—Chris was blond with the typical short haircut of law enforcement. Theo had a pile of fluffy hair that ended in corkscrews. Ryan suspected women loved to unravel his curls. However, he and Theo mainly spoke business, preparing for the visit in Al-Azzear in the morning.

  They showed up at nine the next morning as arranged at Al-Azzear’s Champs-Elysées apartment. Theo’s sharp knock went through Ryan’s head.

  A woman’s voice asked what Ryan assumed was the French equivalent of “Who is it?”

  “Bonjour,” Theo said, which began a lengthy exchange between him and the woman on the other side of the door. Ryan couldn’t understand a damn thing, but Theo was obviously trying to persuade her to open the door. As they spoke, he looked around the space that separated the only two apartments on this floor: an Oriental rug, watermelon-colored walls, a teak table, and perched on it, a long rectangular vase, a plant that looked like a miniature beech sticking up over the top.

  Ryan suddenly realized he had not told Gregory or Elle that he was not coming to the studio this morning. He didn’t necessarily want Gregory to know. He might not show up, either. He had meant to call Elle the night before, but they’d stayed out late at LePlus, drinking red wine. Theo was quite the talker and wanted to give all the background on the case and what was going on in their task force. And when Ryan staggered out of bed, slightly hungover, it was too early to call her. Quickly, he dashed off a text to her.

  “Now we wait,” said Theo, breaking into his thoughts.

  “For what?”

  Theo rolled his eyes at the closed door. “For her to get permission.” He reached into his bomber jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of Gauloises. That was another difference between Chris and him. Theo smoked whenever he was out of range of no-smoking ordinances.

  “Who is she?” Ryan asked.

  Theo grinned cheekily. “One of the wives.”

  A series of locks clicked back before Theo could light his cigarette. A middle-aged woman, plain as a nun in a full burka, opened the door. A boy of perhaps four with bed head and a nose that was very close to his mouth clutched onto her robe. In comparison to the French she had used with Theo, her speech switched to a Middle Eastern dialect.

  A deep voice answered behind her. A man taller than Ryan, presumably Al-Azzear, appeared in the hallway. He wore the traditional red and checkered ghutra and was bulky under his white tunic. Nicotine wafted off of him, and he had the same narrow space between nose and mouth as the little boy.

 

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