by Anne Stuart
“We’re still working on that. Alpert’s life is an open book. He grew up outside of Paris in the Marie-le-Croix orphanage, worked his way through college, got a job with the government, and was a model, industrious Frenchman. He was all set to get married next month. There is no clue, no hint as to why he would suddenly show up at a stranger’s apartment and murder her.”
“Do we know they were strangers?”
“It’s a logical assumption. The woman had very nosy neighbors, and no one had ever seen him before.”
“Besides, she said so in her phone call to the police,” Vidal offered.
“So she did.” Malgreave nodded his approval.
“Why don’t I check and see what records I can find concerning the orphanage?” Josef suggested, glaring at Vidal’s lavender jeans. “There might be something that would explain Alpert’s sudden derangement. Maybe he was a difficult child, maybe he came from an abusive home.”
Malgreave shook his head. “Another dead end. The place burned down years ago.”
“Before or after Alpert left?”
Malgreave grew very still. “Josef,” he said gruffly, “you cheer me enormously. I will be leaving this department in good hands when I retire.” He stood up, shuffling the papers briskly. “First things first. You start with the orphanage. Find out when the fire took place, see if any records survived the blaze, or if records were kept elsewhere. In the meantime, Vidal can scout out Sahut’s boucherie and see what he can find.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe, my friends, just maybe, fate has decided to be kind. We may solve this case after all.”
“With you in charge, sir, I never had any doubts,” Josef said with complete sincerity.
He was going to kill her. He had always known he would, deep inside, but he’d hoped that this time his trust wouldn’t be misplaced. This time a woman would prove worthy of his love.
But deep inside he’d known. She’d lied to him, from the very beginning. She’d kept a tiny part of her hidden from him, no matter how he tried to charm it out, into the light and into his possession. She’d always held back.
A part of him had been glad when she’d kissed the American. He was sick of wondering, sick of giving her the benefit of the doubt. Now all questions were answered. Now it was up to him, to pick the time, the place. And how much he was going to make it hurt.
The predawn light was a faint pearly glow in the east. The rain had, for the moment, stopped, and streaks of pale blue were edging across the Paris sky. Claire lay there, curled in on herself, trying to fight her way back to oblivion, when she realized she wasn’t alone.
She could hear the steady, deep breathing. She could feel the weight on the bed behind her. Terror sliced through her, complete, mindless panic, as she lay there, not daring to move. Had Marc returned?
But no, Marc wouldn’t simply have crawled in bed with her, would he? Marc had very definite ideas about what the bed and Claire’s presence in it signified. And besides, why should she be frightened of Marc? He had never hurt her, and she had only Madame Langlois’s word for it that he’d hurt her daughter. No, her growing distrust of Marc had no logical basis in physical fear.
Still, she was frightened. In the predawn light and her sleep-disrupted panic she had to consider whether the stranger in her bed was the murderer who’d been haunting Paris the last few months. But no, they only murdered old women, didn’t they? Not thirty-year-old Americans.
Slowly, carefully, she turned her head, terrified of what she might find, of the monster that had invaded her bed during the night, waiting to rip her limb from limb.
Lying next to her, on top of the covers, was the small, defenseless form of Nicole.
Relief and wonder washed over Claire. She shifted carefully, so as not to wake her visitor, and stared down at the child’s face. Nicole looked younger in her sleep, less terrifyingly precocious. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, with the dried trace of tears beneath them, and she was curled in a fetal ball, as if even in sleep she knew she had to protect herself.
Yet she’d come to Claire, a fact that amazed her. Despite the uneasy truce that characterized their relationship, she’d sought out Claire for a comforting presence.
The room was damp and chilly in the early-morning light. Claire had made the bed the way Marc liked it, with a top sheet and a duvet, no blankets. Carefully Claire lifted the duvet away and wrapped it around the child’s body. Nicole shifted once, sighing, and sank back into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Claire lay there, shivering under the light sheet, watching the child, fighting the wave of maternal tenderness that had swept over her. It was too much for a little girl, first to lose a mother, then to be caught between a stepfather’s coldness and a grandmother’s paranoia. It should come as no surprise when Nicole turned to the only person who demanded no allegiance and only wished to offer comfort.
Usually Nicole wouldn’t accept that comfort. Last night’s dreams must have been particularly bad to send her into Claire’s bedroom, a bedroom Nicole always assiduously avoided. Looking down at her, Claire’s indecision vanished, the last of her doubts fled. She wouldn’t, couldn’t leave Nicole behind to the tender mercies of Marc and Madame Langlois.
Didn’t Nicole have a great-aunt somewhere outside of L.A.? Hadn’t that been where Madame Langlois spent the last year or so? If Claire moved swiftly, before Marc decided to return from his so-called tour, she could take Nicole out of the country, leave her with her great-aunt, and then disappear.
It would doubtless be against the law. Could France extradite her for kidnapping? And was it kidnapping if she was taking the child to a close blood relative?
All that was academic. She had already committed a criminal act and hurt a child in doing so. Perhaps another criminal act to help a child might even the score a bit. Not in the eyes of the law, but in her own, troubled soul.
She wouldn’t hesitate. This morning, after Nicole went off to Madame Langlois, she would go to the American Express office where, thank God, everyone spoke English. She would get two tickets for Los Angeles on the next possible flight, and then they would simply leave.
She imagined Marc’s anger when he returned from his nonexistent tour and found them gone. Not that he cared for Nicole, but he wasn’t likely to willingly give up ownership of anything, even an unwelcome nine-year-old. And to lose his control over Claire would make him livid.
Claire shivered in the dawn light, telling herself it was the chilly room. She allowed herself a brief, longing thought of Tom, then forcibly dismissed it from her mind. The right man, but the wrong time and place. It wasn’t meant to be.
She’d have more than enough to keep her mind occupied, away from regrets for what might have been. She’d have to find Nicole’s passport and put it with her own, she’d have to find the great-aunt’s name and address. She’d have to pack for both of them, surreptitiously, and think of something reasonable to get Nicole on the plane. While she’d be more than happy to leave her stepfather and the coldly elegant apartment that had once belonged to her mother, she wouldn’t willingly part with her grandmother.
Of course, Harriette Langlois might very well assist Claire in her plan. If she truly believed Marc was so dangerous, she should be glad to have her granddaughter sent out of harm’s way.
But could Claire trust her? Would Madame assist her, help cover for her if Marc should return unexpectedly, support her in case the French courts were more active than Claire hoped? Or would she demand that Nicole stay with her, a constant audience to her persecution complex, until Marc took her away again?
No, she didn’t dare risk it. She’d leave Madame a note, explaining what she had done, and it would be up to the old lady to help or hinder the aftermath. At least she wouldn’t be able to interfere with their escape.
Nicole stirred in her sleep, murmuring something low. The word was universal; even in its French form Claire understood it. She was calling for her mother.
Claire blinked
back the hot tears that had suddenly formed in her eyes. Come hell or high water she’d get Nicole safely away. Then, and not until then, she’d begin to deal with her own problems.
Harriette Langlois lay alone in the bed, watching the sunrise as she had every morning for the last thirty years. Except for her hideous, self-imposed exile in America, she corrected herself, watching the sky slowly lighten. The bed beneath her frail body had long ago conformed to her contours, so that she lay, cradled in the softness in a place that clearly belonged to no one but her.
The Americans bought new mattresses every ten years or so, her sister had said. They turned their mattresses every few months to keep the surfaces hard. Just another example of new-world stupidity, Harriette thought, sniffing contemptuously. With their constant need to spend money they would never have the luxury of owning a mattress that really knew them.
It was a shame she couldn’t die in this comfortable bed, but she’d already mourned that fact. She had never shirked her duty in her life, and she wasn’t about to do so now. She wasn’t going to die without taking Marc Bonnard down with her, and since fate and medicine had decreed her death was growing imminent, her need to act was also imminent.
She thought back to the man dear Hubert had sent her. She didn’t even know his name, nor did she want to. She’d originally planned to ask whoever appeared to do it as painlessly as possible. One look into the man’s flat, dark eyes and she knew it would be a waste of her breath.
She’d faced terrible things in her life. She’d stayed during the long, terrible years when the Boches invaded Paris, she’d watched her beloved husband die slowly, painfully, she’d survived the cruellest blow of all, the death of her only child. She would face this, and do it without flinching.
But Lord, the bed was so comfortable, the scent of her lilac toilet water hung lightly in the air, and all around her were the dear, familiar things she’d had for so long. If only fate had decided, for once, to be kind.
In the early-morning hours, Harriette Langlois allowed herself a brief, uncharacteristic moment of self-pity. No one would see, no one would know. In another few hours she would face the day, stalwart, unmoved, waiting for the moment when the dark, evil-looking creature would reappear.
It might be today, it might be a week from now. Harriette hoped it wouldn’t be too long. The pain was getting very bad indeed, and Nicole had such sharp eyes.
At least Marc’s American mistress was a blessed surprise. The woman had more brains than Harriette would have imagined, coupled with an honest concern for the child. She would see to Nicole.
And the man in the leather coat and dirty fingernails would see to her, Harriette thought. Soon, she hoped. Please God, make it soon.
The passports were gone. Claire sat back on her heels, staring at the scattered contents of her traveling bag in horrified disbelief. There was no sign of the slim blue folder with its unflattering photograph anywhere in the jumbled bag where she usually kept it. That bag usually sat at the back of the bedroom closet, where no one knew of its existence; no one could get to it except Claire. And Marc, of course.
Nicole’s passport had been missing from its cubbyhole in the kitchen desk, but Claire had forced herself to be calm. To be sure, she thought she’d seen it just a couple of days ago. But she hadn’t been looking, its presence or absence hadn’t mattered then, and her perception of time might be unreliable.
But she knew where her passport should be. And it was most definitely gone.
Maybe, just maybe, in a moment of mindless distraction, she’d taken both of them and put them in her purse. Lord knows she’d had enough on her mind in the last few days to compromise the concentration of an automaton. Perhaps she’d been sleepwalking.
She raced through the empty apartment, grabbed her leather purse, and upended it on the pale rose Aubusson carpet that graced the formal salon. Lint and shreds of cigarette tobacco littered the floor, and a pen landed, making a small black spot. Claire stared at it in horror. No one else would notice the spot, no one but Marc. It would be the first thing he saw when he walked in, and her panic grew.
No passports in her purse, nothing. She flipped through her large wallet, hoping it might be tucked in there, but there was nothing, the little leather pockets yielding only more lint. She started to put it away when she realized something else. Her American Express card, her one link with financial freedom, was gone.
She heard the sound of the muffled moan, and knew it came from her. She’d seen the card yesterday—she had no doubt at all of that. Someone had been in the apartment, in her purse, removing the broken Limoges cup, the passports, her one way of escape. That someone had to be Marc.
“Stop it,” she ordered herself sharply, her voice unnaturally loud in the still apartment. “He’s just trying to frighten you. The American embassy will get you a new passport, American Express will get you a new card. You aren’t trapped.”
Brave words. But how was she going to get another passport for Nicole? Even if she spoke French, how would she be able to convince the suspicious French bureaucrats that she had the right to replace a French child’s passport, had the right to take her out of the country?
Could she leave her behind? Claire thought back to the small form curled up on her bed, her shy, ultimately defiant awakening, the surprisingly peaceful breakfast they’d shared. Their relationship had passed to a new level last night, one of reluctantly admitted trust. No, Claire couldn’t leave Nicole behind.
“First things first,” she said out loud, her voice deliberate. Was Marc hiding somewhere in the apartment, someplace she couldn’t find? She wasn’t about to go searching again. Twice she’d searched this apartment in the last two days. She didn’t want three to be the charm. She didn’t want to open a closet door and see Marc’s face there, watching her.
She dumped the contents of her purse back inside, shoveling everything in, stabbing herself on the pen. It was cold and damp and raw looking outside, but Claire was afraid to open the hall closet to fetch her raincoat. She ran back to the bedroom, to the closet she already knew was empty, and grabbed what she could find, a heavy wool sweater that would repel the rain. It didn’t matter that it would go oddly with the thin challis dress and leather pumps. All that mattered was that she get the hell out of the apartment and get her passport and American Express card replaced. And then she’d worry about Nicole.
Rocco sat in the dark corner of the café, drinking his coffee. This was his home territory, everyone knew that the table was his, that the café was under his protection, and everyone stayed out of his way. He sat there, smoking, thinking, left in peace because everyone was too afraid of him to bother him. Even Bobo behind the bar moved very carefully when he came over to refill Rocco’s cup.
It had been a strange meeting yesterday afternoon. Odd indeed to see him after so long, to still feel the same pull, the same excitement. Marc Bonnard had always had it, that magic something that drew people to him. It was no wonder he’d been able to lead a motley band of downtrodden orphans into a revolt against their tormentors.
What had been surprising was the violence that had erupted from Marc’s lily-white fingers. In Gilles and himself it was to be expected—they were rough boys from the slums of Paris. Gilles had been sent away by a weary grandmother for torturing and killing animals, cats and dogs and the like. Rocco had, at age thirteen, been the oldest and already a hardened criminal. He was an adept pickpocket, and he’d killed a man just before his own rattled grand-mère had sent him down. The man had caught him with his wallet and started yelling for the police. Rocco had had no choice. What had surprised him was how easy it was. And what a feeling of power it had given him.
His father’s mother had soon deprived him of that power. Whether she’d suspected his criminal activities or not, she’d had enough of an unwanted boy watching her every move. She still plied her trade every now and then, when she could find someone unfastidious enough to want a fat, fifty-year-old whore, and a grandson got i
n the way. So she’d sent him away from his beloved streets of Paris, to the Marie-le-Croix orphanage and the tender mercies of Grand-mère Estelle and Georges.
He’d paid her back for it, the moment he’d returned to Paris. The memory still had the ability to make him smile.
But Marc’s preorphanage upbringing had been different. Middle-class, respectable, his childhood was all that Rocco’s wasn’t. He didn’t know how Marc’s parents had died—Marc would never talk about them. But his grandmother, a well-dressed bitch with a mink coat, had dropped Marc off not long after Rocco had arrived. And she’d never come back.
Still and all, it had been Marc who’d talked them into resisting. Marc who’d planned the fire. Marc who’d honed the kitchen knives for them, passing them out that night so long ago. And it was Marc who’d struck the first blow, a savage grin on his angelic boy’s face. Marc who’d taken the first bite.
That was a memory Rocco wasn’t comfortable with, and he lit another cigarette, shuddering slightly. He’d always considered himself a tough kid, a hard, remorseless man, but there were certain things that had the ability to shake even him.
Marc hadn’t changed. He was still almost unnaturally handsome, with mesmerizing dark eyes and a charming, ready smile. He seemed perfectly at ease, doing his best to make Rocco feel as comfortable, but it had all been in vain. Too many years, too many strange and terrible things, lay between them. Rocco sat far away from him on the park bench and wished he’d never come.
“So my belle-mère wants you to murder her?” Marc had said gently, his upper-class accent making Rocco want to puke. “And frame me? Bless her heart, I didn’t know the old bitch had it in her.”
“She’s sick. Probably dying anyway,” Rocco said, looking at his rain-soaked boots rather than the man next to him. “She had too many pills by her kitchen sink, and her eyes were yellow.”
“I expect she would like to take me with her.” Bonnard’s voice was dreamy, musing. “I’m afraid we’ll have to thwart that final wish of hers, much as it grieves me.”