The Lost Concerto

by Helaine Mario

  They turned uphill once more. “Fighting the good fight,” Maggie said suddenly. “That’s finally the truth, isn’t it? Why you’re really here in Paris?”

  “Seems to me there are three kinds of people in this world, Mrs. O’Shea. The creators, the destroyers, and the maintainers.” He glanced down at her. “You—you are a music maker. A creator. You search for beauty in a harsh world.”

  She felt herself go still, listening.

  “Me, I seem to be one of the maintainers.” He scowled down at her. “The creators need protectors, it seems. And I don’t want the bad guys to run the world. So, yes, ma’am, I guess that’s why I’m here.”

  “And you think Victor Orsini is one of the destroyers.”

  “I know he is.”

  She saw the darkness at the back of his eyes, and grasped his sleeve. “Then don’t ask me to leave! You want Orsini. I need to find Zachary Law. We can help each other.”

  “Your elevator keeps missing the penthouse, ma’am. I work alone. I walk my own night patrols.”

  Her hand dropped from his arm. “I’m going to bring my godson home, Colonel. Help me or don’t help me, but don’t try to stop me.”

  “And if we don’t find the boy? What then?”

  She looked at him as if he’d hit her. “I have to do this, Colonel. If I’m ever going to be free.”

  A sudden, distant booming sound.

  Beckett paled, spun around, his body thrust in front of hers. The Golden gave a high, frenzied whine as he crawled beneath a bench.

  “My God!” cried Maggie. “What was that?”

  Beckett shook his head, crouching to reach gently for the dog. “Nothing good, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  PARIS. JULY 6

  Sirens in the distance.

  Beckett watched Maggie brace herself against a low stone wall and extend her left leg behind her to stretch the calf muscles. She was getting ready, once more, to run. Not a chance.

  In that stance, with those graceful, muscled legs, she looked like a dancer. “Are you sure you’re a pianist?” he asked her.

  “Pretty sure,” she said with a faint smile. She turned toward the Gambetta gate.

  His eyes narrowed. “And just where do you think you are going, ma’am?”

  “To find my godson.”

  A faint buzz filled the air around them. He pulled the cell phone from his jacket and listened without taking his eyes off her. “Be at the Gambetta gate. Ten minutes.”

  “The explosion?” she asked. “The Secretary of State is in town—”

  “I’ve got to go. But I’ve arranged safe transportation for you.”

  “I don’t need your car. I’m neither innocent nor frail. I can pay for my own hotel. I speak passable French, and I know Zach was last seen at the Café de la Paix.”

  “I don’t want to have to pull rank on you, Mrs. O’Shea.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Colonel Beckett.”

  He smiled grimly. “Your nose is growing longer, ma’am.”

  Beckett pulled an airline ticket to Boston from his pocket and thrust it into her hand. “Go home, Mrs. O’Shea. Go home to your family and your music. You live in the normal world, but I live in a darker place. A world of shadows. You don’t want to look at the world through my window.”

  “But I’ve got the perfect reason for being here—and it’s the truth! I’m a widowed musician trying to get on with my life. No one suspects me of anything. There won’t be any danger as long as I’m careful.”

  He remained silent, with his arms folded, eyes appraising.

  She searched his eyes. “I’m afraid we’re both just going to have to do the right thing, Colonel. And that includes naming your dog.”

  “You are one damned exhausting woman, Mrs. O’Shea. And he’s not my dog.”

  “What I am is a soloist. I’m accustomed to working alone. I believe that I am the one who does not need you, because I have my husband’s calendar book. That’s all the information I need.” She turned and jogged deliberately past him toward the tall cemetery gates.

  “What calendar?” he asked.

  She stopped, turned slowly. “Simon Sugarman must have told you that my husband began searching for Zach Law last summer—without my knowledge. I found Johnny’s date book just before I flew to Paris. A diary, with all of his notes. Names, places, phone numbers, appointments. He uses codes, abbreviations. I have no idea what all of it means, but he was on to something.”

  “I need to know what’s in your husband’s book, Mrs. O’Shea. I’ll keep you updated—”

  “I don’t buy it,” she said. “You need me and it makes you furious.”

  “I need the calendar book, ma’am, not you.”

  She folded her arms and locked her eyes on his. “Do you have a gun, Colonel?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because the only way you’re going to get rid of me is to shoot me.”

  He swore under his breath and rubbed his jaw wearily. “All right,” he sighed finally. “We’ll try it. But at the first sign of danger, you’re on the first flight home. Count on it.”

  A spark flared deep in her eyes. Beckett found himself thinking of October leaves glinting in the evening sun, back home in Virginia.

  “I have a meeting with Vanessa Durand today at noon,” said Maggie. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Durand? Who the devil is she?”

  “An art gallery owner. My husband discovered that she had a connection to both Sofia and Victor Orsini. I found her initials, VD, in his calendar, along with the phone number of her gallery here in Paris. I called the number, asked for the owner. Voilà, Vanessa Durand. Johnny met with her just two days before he died.”

  “Just where is this meeting of yours?”

  “Her home. The quai, Right Bank side of the Pont Alexandre III.”

  “We should see her before we go to the Café de la Paix,” said Beckett. Then, “Do you ever play by the rules, Mrs. O’Shea?”

  “Music is all about rules, Colonel. Knowing those rules makes me a schooled musician.” Her smile flickered at him. “But breaking the rules…well, then you have jazz”

  He took a deep breath, as if counting to ten, and gestured toward the taxi waiting at the gate. “Okay. That taxi is driven by Lieutenant Henri LeBlanc of the French Sûreté. He’ll be working with us. Go back to your hotel, and I’ll meet you at the bridge just before noon.”

  “Whatever you say, Colonel.”

  “I say you’re more than I bargained for, ma’am.”

  She flashed a smile over her shoulder as she jogged toward the gate. Beckett scowled down at the Golden. “If a beautiful woman ever drops out of the sky in front of you, run for the hills!” The Golden snorted beside him.

  He watched the cab disappear around a corner and felt, suddenly, as if the light had gone out of the morning. Admit it, he told himself grudgingly. You admire her determination to search all of France alone to find her friend’s kid. In another time, he thought, it would have been nice to get to know her better.

  “Round one to you, Mrs. O’Shea,” said Michael Beckett quietly, touching a finger to his forehead in salute.

  He looked down at the Golden, who was gazing off toward the trees. “Come on, Dog. Miles to go.” The Golden sat still, gazing up at him. Beckett rolled his eyes. “Please.”

  At that moment Beckett’s phone rang again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 6

  The deck rocked gently beneath her feet as Vanessa Durand stood alone on the small boat, gazing down at the gray waters of the Seine. Today the river was as restless as her thoughts.

  At forty years of age, she was tall, willowy and elegant in her white silk suit and pearls. Hair the color of summer wheat curved softly against her pale cheeks, framing eyes of a startling blue. Only the tightly clasped hands betrayed her tension.

  The houseboat was moored on the quai just below the ornate arch of the Pont Alex
andre III. Across the Seine, rooftops glowed pink in the afternoon light.

  So beautiful on the surface, she told herself. Until a bomb outside a bistro shatters a peaceful morning and turns it into a nightmare.

  * * *

  Simon Sugarman sat hunched over a crossword puzzle in the driver’s seat of a taxi parked outside the Relais Odette. Only Beckett and the Admiral knew he was in Paris.

  He filled in 21 Down—“Synergy,” hell of a word—and thought about the woman he was waiting for. Full of surprises, that was for sure. Who knew the Doc would arrange her own meeting with Sofia’s closest friend in Europe? But that was Maggie O’Shea for you, determined to do it her way.

  He thought about Vanessa Durand. Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that the art gallery owner was involved in this mystery up to her pretty little neck?

  Sugarman hadn’t seen Vanessa since just after Sofia’s death—some ten months, now. When he’d questioned her, she had been shocked, grief-stricken, angry. Blamed herself for not finding her friend in time. But as far as Sugarman was concerned, too many questions had never been adequately answered.

  Who had helped Sofia escape from Rome? Who followed Sofia to that remote island? What had happened to her boy? What had been rolled up in that empty canister? And the million dollar question, what happened to Victor Orsini’s journal?

  Sugarman tapped his pen thoughtfully on the newspaper. Sofia Orsini and Vanessa Durand had been friends since Fee’s early days in Italy. Vanessa was an art dealer with galleries in Paris and Rome who had been hired to catalog Victor’s collection at the villa. After Sofia’s marriage, the women continued to see each other at Embassy parties, art gallery openings, the cafés and theatre. Sofia never suspected that Vanessa could be anything more than a beautiful Renaissance art dealer.

  No doubt his old pal Beckett would believe Vanessa’s innocent, wide baby-blues, too. But one question kept nagging at him. The person Sofia had trusted to help her escape to the island was the only one who knew where Fee and Tommy had gone to ground.

  That person had betrayed Sofia Orsini to her killer.

  Sugarman rubbed the back of his neck to ease the grip of jet lag. At least the shark had taken the bait. Someone had broken into Maggie’s music shop, injuring her friend Luze Jacobs.

  Sugarman stared thoughtfully across the courtyard at the elegant entrance to the Relais Odette. Beautiful Maggie. His sweet lamb. His lure. Yeah, here’s the stake and the rope, angel. I’ll just slip this around your beautiful neck and send you out there, so I can smoke out the bad guys.

  Maggie appeared in the hotel doorway.

  Dropping the newspaper to the seat, Sugarman leaned out the window. “Yo, Doc! Taxi, Mad-moi-zell-ee?”

  “Simon!” Maggie smiled with surprise as she moved toward the car.

  “Back seat, Doc, quickly!”

  She slipped into the Fiat, and he pulled out into the narrow Rue Christine, eyes on the rearview mirror. She leaned forward to touch his shoulder. “What are you doing here in Paris?”

  “Checking on my team.” Sugarman wagged a dark finger at her in the rear-view mirror. “Beckett says you’re a loose cannon already.”

  “I am not loose.”

  He grinned. “You’re forgiven, if you know a five letter word for ‘northern hemisphere.’”

  She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Igloo.”

  “Igloo! I’ll be damned.” He turned toward the Seine. “Almost there. Ready to meet Sofia’s friend? She’s a real knock-out.”

  “Simon…”

  “What’s bothering you, Doc? Second thoughts about Vanessa?”

  “It’s Colonel Beckett. I met him this morning. He made it very clear that he wants to work alone.”

  “Trust me, Maggie, we need your help. Mike is here to take over after you find Zachary Law. Okay, his people skills aren’t the greatest.” He grinned at her as he maneuvered the Fiat onto the Alexandre Bridge. “He’s always been a loner. He’s a good man in a bad world, a moral man caught in an immoral life. Too damned noble for his own good sometimes.”

  “You like him.”

  “Oh, yeah. West Point, Special Forces, handful of medals hidden in the back of a drawer somewhere. Won’t talk about it. Took a barrage of bullets in Afghanistan one time. He could barely walk, but he stood up to draw incoming fire so his men could get the other wounded away.” He glanced back at her. “Ever notice that when all hell breaks loose, most people run away as fast as they can? But there are always a few who run toward the screams, the smoke. To help. That’s Mike Beckett. Hell, I’d want him guarding my back any day.”

  She had noticed the Colonel’s limp in the cemetery. But he’d told her he was just a paper pusher. “But this is Paris, Simon, not some war zone.”

  “Some of us are always at war, Maggie. And sometimes it gives us a dark soul.”

  A dark soul. Maggie thought of the colonel’s dark, wintry eyes.

  “Give him a chance, Doc. He’s driven by a sense of justice. Doesn’t always do everything right, but he wants to make it right.” Sugarman pulled over at the end of the bridge. “Time to boogie!”

  * * *

  Beckett could hear Sugarman’s laughter lingering in the air as the Fiat pulled back out into the bridge traffic. Once again, looking down at Maggie O’Shea, he was struck by her eyes—large and luminous as emeralds in the sunlight. He much preferred blue, himself.

  He stared at her and her slight smile disappeared. Taking her elbow, he cocked his chin at the Golden, and steered them both toward the stone steps that led down to the path along the river. Her subtle perfume reminded him of spring in Virginia.

  “Wait.” Maggie hesitated at the top of the steps, pulled back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She glanced uneasily down toward the dark water of the Seine. “I don’t see her…”

  “She must be inside.” He gestured toward the line of gently rocking barges and houseboats as he began to descend the narrow steps. Maggie stopped abruptly, and the Golden hesitated beside her with a low whine.

  “Where is she exactly?” Her husky voice was strange, tight.

  Beckett raised an eyebrow impatiently. “Waiting for us on the third houseboat.”

  “No!”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “No. I said no, Colonel. I won’t get on that boat.”

  “What is it, Mrs. O’Shea? The boat is very private. We can even take her down the Seine toward—”

  She pulled away from him. “I can’t do it! I’m sorry, but I just—cannot. The boat, the water…” She was shaking her head from side to side, backing slowly away from the steps.

  Boat? What the devil? Suddenly he remembered a line in Sugarman’s file. “Husband killed in a boating accident.” Beckett, you idiot.

  “Mrs. O’Shea. Just give me a moment to make other arrangements. Wait for me here. Please.” He looked hard at the Golden. “Stay with her.”

  * * *

  Shocked and embarrassed by her unexpected reaction, Maggie sat down on the ancient stone steps, hugged her elbows tightly, and took several deep breaths. The Golden pressed against her knee and whined softly.

  That’s it for me, she thought, watching the colonel limp angrily up the gangplank. Disgraced by an innocent, flower-decked boat on a sunny river in Paris.

  Fight it, she challenged.

  A deep breath. Stand up. One step toward the river. Another. Her body began to shake. Fight the nightmare, damn you. You can do it. More steps, quickly, across the stones. The edge of the river, and now the water was dark and swirling. She felt dizzy, sickened, and closed her eyes tightly. Get on the boat, damn you. She felt herself tilting forward.

  Loud barking. Then a hand grasped her elbow roughly, swinging her around, away from the water. She opened her eyes. Beckett was standing in front of her.

  “Vanessa will meet us across the river at the Musée d’Orsay.” His eyes were splinters of gray ice. “I trust you’ll find no demons in an art museum?
”

  “Please understand, Colonel—”

  “It’s time for you to understand, Mrs. O’Shea. Beauty has wandered into the Beast’s garden now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. AFTERNOON, JULY 6

  “Magdalena O’Shea is in Paris.”

  Far to the south, Victor Orsini heard Dane’s words and gripped the phone to his ear. She is in France!

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Dane.

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Orsini disconnected.

  Magdalena O’Shea. What did she remember? What did she want? What did she know?

  He paced slowly back and forth across the antique Aubusson carpet in his bedroom like a caged prisoner, his heavy features indistinct in the half light.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  He stopped, finally, before his favorite Lippi panel. The Annunciation, with the Archangel Gabriel on bended knee. As always, he appreciated the irony of the artist’s story. Lippi, an orphan raised in a priory, had taken his vows as a Carmelite only to discover, too late, that he was better suited to earthly pursuits when he eloped with a nun who bore him a child.

  Orsini bent closer, examining the fine, nuanced brush strokes, the richness of the colors. The emotion. Orsini shook his head. He had given up on his own emotions years before, deliberately closed the door on every feeling, every response. The only emotion he allowed himself now was the fierce hatred that fueled his need for revenge.

  Once more his eyes swept over the Lippi. There had been a Lippi in the collection he’d been admiring on the afternoon he met John O’Shea. At an Old Masters exhibit at the Galerie sur le Port in Hyères, he’d been standing in the midst of a huge, noisy crowd, drinking Moët et Chandon and studying Carravagio’s The Lute Player...

  “Not bad, I guess. If you like Carravagio.” Orsini turned from the magnificent oil to stare into eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea just beyond the gallery windows.