by Sara Rosett
“Oh, that’s right. You’re Mr. Avoid Social Media.”
“No, I just know better than to broadcast the details of my life.”
“Anyway, Facebook sends messages every once in a while, saying, ‘hey we see you know so-and-so, do you also know their friend, so-and-so?’ I got one that had the name Kathy Vazarri on it. I remember it because it’s an unusual name, but I didn’t make the connection with Mort because it had a different name listed with it as well. Oh, I hope I didn’t delete it. Wait, here it is. Kathy Bennett Vazarri. She’s a friend of Jenny Singletarry, and Facebook wanted to know if I knew Kathy.”
“Back to the reporter,” Jack said with obvious distaste in his tone. “Any word from her?”
“No, nothing, which is kind of strange. Maybe she’s out of town, too.” Zoe looked through a list of names. “Yes! Here is his wife’s profile. It’s not even set on private. I can see all her updates.” Her tone changed. “Oh. Nothing for the last three weeks, and it doesn’t look like Mort has a Facebook account.”
“Smart man.”
“You don’t get it, I know. But if this gets us in touch with Mort, you’ll thank me later.” Zoe straightened and began typing. She sent a friend request to Kathy along with a message, asking her to have Mort contact her with the note, “Please let him know it is urgent I talk to him.”
She hit the send key and minimized the window. The webpage with Anna’s email was still open, so Zoe hit the button to refresh the page. “Jack, there’s a new email.”
“Another twenty percent off sale?”
“No, the subject line is blank.” She gulped water while she waited for the page with the message to load, then read it aloud. “Meet me at the pyramid behind the pyramid in forty-five minutes.”
“That’s it?” Jack asked, coming around to look over her shoulder.
“No signature, nothing. The sender’s name is [email protected]. It’s so vague; surely it’s about the painting.”
Jack nodded. “But a pyramid? In Paris. There’s one at the Louvre.”
“No, there’s actually four,” Zoe said, reaching for her guidebook. “There’s one large one, the entrance to the museum, but there’s three smaller ones positioned around it. There’s also a stone pyramid somewhere else. I saw it in the guidebook. It looks like there’s only one pyramid there, sort of a garden folly.” She flipped a few pages. “There’s also the Place des Pyramides, but it’s not a pyramid. It’s the name of a statue of Joan of Arc near the Louvre. The folly is farthest away in the north part of the city.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “We don’t have time to hit all three places.”
“The Louvre seems most likely.”
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Nine
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ZOE reluctantly turned her back on the Arc de Triomphe du Carousel, which was quite a sight. One of Paris’ “smaller” arches, it was dramatically topped with four horses pulling a chariot flanked with gold statues. They moved around a traffic circle to the Louvre.
Positioned in the center of the vast courtyard of the U-shaped palace that housed the Louvre, the large central glass pyramid that served as the main entry to the museum glowed in the darkness, its steep, sleek lines contrasting with the ornate curves of the one-time palace that surrounded it. Three smaller pyramids were set around the larger pyramid, one on the right, another on the left, and a third directly behind it. The museum was open late and, while the courtyard wasn’t packed with people, there were more than a handful.
As they approached the large pyramid, Zoe said, “Technically, any one of the smaller pyramids could be ‘behind’ the larger pyramid. It depends on where you’re standing.”
“Yes,” Jack agreed. “But my money is on the one in the back. It’s in alignment with the Arc and the larger pyramid.”
“Good theory. I hope you’re right,” Zoe said as they hurried along the diagonal path between a fountain and the larger glass pyramid to the smaller one in the back. “I don’t see her.”
“We’re early.” Jack slipped his arm around Zoe’s waist. “Let’s stroll.” The air had a sharp cold edge; spring hadn’t fully arrived, but the sky was clear, and stars glowed along with the lights of the city. They circled the small pyramid then ambled around the courtyard. The leisurely pace set Zoe’s teeth on edge. She wanted to move, make something happen, but there was nothing they could do, except wait. After another loop around the courtyard, Jack said, “I see her.”
Zoe scanned the courtyard from the pyramids to the fountains to the museum and didn’t see Anna. “Where?”
Jack stood behind Zoe, his hands on her shoulders, aiming her toward one of the fountains near the small pyramid. “There’s your doppelganger, sitting on the ledge of the fountain. Third person from the left.”
“That’s not Anna...” Zoe protested, but her words died away as she recognized Anna’s face under a mass of curly red hair. “She’s in disguise,” Zoe said, wonderingly. She’d heard what Oscar had said about the woman who wanted to sell the painting having red hair, but until this moment, Zoe had found it hard to believe that Anna would actually impersonate her. “Well, as weird as it is to see her being me, at least we found her.”
Anna perched on the edge of the fountain, one slender leg crossed over the other, showing off a shapely calf and Louboutin pumps. She wore a camel-colored wool knee-length coat and a Burberry scarf. A heavy black bag weighed down her elbow, and a Marc Jacobs shopping bag sat at her feet.
“That wig is all wrong,” Zoe said. It was too short; the fire engine red curls ended at Anna’s chin, while Zoe’s red hair with gold and bronze highlights fell to her shoulder blades.
Jack wrapped both arms around her waist and whispered in her ear, “Relax. We want to blend in with the crowd. We’re just tourists taking in nighttime Paris.”
“I’m blending.”
“Not with that stare, you’re not. You look like a hawk that has spotted a mouse. A very fat mouse.”
“No way is Anna anywhere near fat. Perhaps I’m a tourist who finds the fountains and pyramids especially fascinating. Wait. Look at that guy who sat down beside Anna. Isn’t that...?”
“Masard? Yes, it is.”
Anna became very interested in her phone. Masard rearranged his scarf, tucking it more securely into the lapels of his coat then he checked his watch. Anna stood and walked away quickly, and Jack made a move to follow her, but Zoe gripped his arms. “Wait. The shopping bag. She left it.”
After a few seconds, Masard picked up the bag and walked in the opposite direction from Anna.
They both hesitated then Zoe said, “We’ve got to follow the bag. It’s big enough to have the painting in it.”
“Yes, but we need to know where she’s going, too. I’ll take her; you follow him. Meet you back at the hotel.”
“Right.” Zoe said, but Jack was already walking away. Anna had left first. He had more ground to cover. Zoe’s gaze flitted back and forth between Jack, who was shifting through the flow of people, and the black and white designer shopping bag Masard carried. When he rounded the corner of the fountain, moving between it and one of the other small pyramids, Zoe moved.
It was easy to keep track of the distinctive bag with large white letters spelling out the designer’s name repeatedly over a black background. Zoe moved through the crowd, always staying a few people behind Masard, hoping he didn’t hail a taxi. She had no idea how to say, “Follow that taxi,” in French.
Fortunately, Masard skirted the traffic circle, strode through an archway, leaving the courtyard of the Louvre, then trotted down the steps under the curving art nouveau tulip lights at the Palais Royal and Musée du Louvre Metro entrance. Thank goodness, she and Jack had brought a carnet, a packet of ten tickets earlier, and split them. She only had to scramble through her messenger bag to find one and then slink into the same Metro car with Masard. She was afraid she’d lose sight of him if she rode in another car.
He d
idn’t even look her way. He changed trains at Concorde, and Zoe had to run to keep up with him through the maze of white-tiled underground tunnels, but she managed to slip into the same car on the lilac colored Number Eight train, seconds before the doors closed.
As the train pulled away, Masard placed the shopping bag between his feet, crossed his hands over his paunch, and closed his eyes. When the train slowed for the École Militaire stop, his eyes popped open, and he moved to the door. There were a few other people exiting at the same stop, and Zoe let them leave first. She jogged across the platform, up the stairs, emerged to street level, and caught sight of him as he turned a corner.
This was a different Metro stop than the one she and Jack had used earlier, and the tangle of streets, tall buildings, and scattering of sidewalk cafés blocked any familiar landmarks that would have helped her get her bearings. She couldn’t even see the Eiffel Tower. As she paced along behind Masard, she finally saw a familiar street name, one she’d seen earlier today. He was going back to the gallery.
Zoe kept back about half a block then hung back even more when he turned into the smaller street where the hotel and gallery were located. She turned the corner and collided with a blond-haired woman who stepped out of a doorway directly into her path. With a huff, the woman twitched her bright scarf back into place and moved on. Down the street, the gallery door closed.
After retrieving her key at the hotel front desk, Zoe skipped the tiny elevator, and took the curving stairs two at a time. Not bothering to turn on any lights, she went directly to the windows in her room. Masard was in the room above the gallery. “No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath as Masard closed each set of interior shutters over the windows. The last thing Zoe saw was the black and white shopping bag on the worktable as he swung the final shutter into place.
She needed to see what was in that bag. Zoe hurried through the adjoining door to Jack’s room, which they’d left open, and snatched up the binoculars from where he’d left them on the ledge near the window. Maybe she’d be able to see something through a sliver in the shutters.
The view was better out of her room, so she dashed back there in time to see one of the shutters swing inward a few inches, revealing a strip of the room, including part of the table. He hadn’t latched the shutters, she realized as she put the binoculars to her eyes, edging to one side to maximize the tiny shard of the room that she could see. She could only see about half of the bag and Masard’s hand as he reached into it.
He removed a bundle of fabric. Possibly a shawl because there was a lot of fringe. He tossed it casually aside. He turned the bag on its side and worked a fold on the bottom open, then ran his hand along the long seam on the side, opening it. He splayed it flat, exposing the white lining.
He leaned close to the paper, bringing his face into Zoe’s view. He adjusted his glasses as he teased one of the edges of the lining until he’d worked a finger between two layers of paper. Gently, he pulled the top layer of paper way, and Zoe caught her breath. Slowly, as if he were pulling a protective layer of plastic off a piece of electronics, Masard inched the white paper away, revealing the curve of land in tan, yellow, and green that contrasted with the deep blue of the water.
“That’s it,” Zoe whispered. The painting had been taken off the wooden frame that had once held it taut. She could still see the ridges where the frame had once run along the edge of the painted canvas.
Her phone rang, cutting loudly through the quiet of the room. She jerked, bobbling the binoculars. She had dropped the messenger bag somewhere beside the door, and it took her a few minutes to find it in the dark. She answered and was back at the window, cutting off Jack’s greeting. “He’s got it.”
“The painting?”
“Yes. I’m watching him through my window. It was in the bag. He’s set up a desk lamp over the painting and is bent over it right now, examining it. Looks like he’s got a jeweler’s loupe.”
Jack blew out a breath. “That’s good. I got nothing, except Anna’s hotel.” In the background, Zoe heard a car horn and traffic noise. “A five-star place off the Champs-Élysées. She came directly here and went right up to her room. I’m on my way back.”
About thirty minutes later, Jack came in the door. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing. He’s still examining the painting. He’s going over it an inch at a time.” Jack came to the window, and she handed him the binoculars.
“What’s wrong? You shouldn’t look so stressed. We found the painting. No orange jump suit for you—or me, for that matter.”
“It means we have to get it. How are we going to do that?”
“Unless you have a couple of million in the bank and can buy it from him, we’ll have to take it.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
***
“I hate this.” Zoe inched closer to Jack, away from the streetlight as they left their hotel. They had waited, watching the rooms above the gallery until the light on the worktable went off. Masard’s shadow passed back and forth in front of the shutters as he moved from the main room into an adjoining room, where lights clicked on, and finally after about forty minutes, the main lights switched off around ten. Then they waited two more hours to make sure he’d really gone to bed.
“Don’t skulk.” Jack caught her hand before crossing the street. “We’re just two romantics out for a moon-lit stroll on a Paris night. Let’s make the block. Don’t want to go directly from our hotel to the gallery in case anyone is watching.”
“Ouch.” The handle of the screwdriver in Jack’s palm thwacked Zoe’s wrist. “Don’t tell me you brought a set of tools along with the binoculars.”
“I wish. No, that would raise a few eyebrows at airport security, and we didn’t want any extra attention. I borrowed these from the hotel’s maintenance closet.” Jack fell silent as another couple passed them, their arms entwined.
“I hope he’s asleep by now,” Zoe said as they rounded the corner and approached the gallery. “This is breaking and entering. In a foreign country. You do know the French don’t have the same guarantees of individual rights we do, don’t you?”
“Let me know if someone turns onto this street.”
Jack bent over the lock in the arched gallery door. Zoe crossed her arms. “They don’t have the same due process we do. You remember those paparazzi who were trying to get photos of Princess Di? They were arrested the night she died.”
“Where do you get all this?”
Zoe shifted her feet. “A Celeb Entertainment Special.”
“One of the foremost legal authorities. I always rely on Celeb for any legal opinions I need.”
“Stop it. This is serious.”
“Yes, it is, but you like stuff like this—crazy, impulsive, edge-of-your-seat stuff.”
“Legal crazy, impulsive, edge-of-your-seat stuff. Believe it or not, I’ve never broken the law before.” She paused. “Well, maybe bent it a bit, but I’ve never done anything like this.”
Jack stood. “Well, fortunately, your impeccable record will stay clean. It’s unlocked.” Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Do you think he forgot to lock it when he got back with the painting? Too excited?” Zoe asked in a whisper as she pushed the door closed. They moved carefully through the dark shop. Zoe tucked her elbows in to avoid a painting on an easel and maneuvered carefully around a vase on a pedestal.
“Doesn’t seem likely. Wouldn’t having a multi-million dollar painting in your possession make you more likely to remember to lock up, not less?” Jack said in an undertone.
“I just hope someone didn’t break in before us while we were going around the block.” They might not be the only people interested in the Monet painting. Had someone else been watching Anna as well? Had someone been watching them as they watched for the painting? Was it Mr. Gray’s man? Did he not trust them to bring him the painting? Was it some unknown player?
Zoe edged around a rolled oriental r
ug propped against a looming armoire. They froze at a noise from above, a scrape of wood on wood, as if someone had bumped a table or chair. There was a muted cry and then a thud.
Jack hit the iron stairs at a run, his feet ringing like gunshots in the quiet shop. Zoe galloped up behind him. The small room at the top was dim, lit only by a single light set into the underside of the upper cabinets in the kitchen portion of the room, which lit up a small area of the cabinet where a teacup lay on its side next to a teapot on a hotplate.
“It’s gone,” Zoe whispered. The worktable was empty. “Masard’s certainly tidy. He’s already cleared away the lamp that was on the worktable and the bag the painting was in.” Zoe’s gaze swept the small room. There were many places where the painting could have been stashed—the filing cabinets and desk for starters. “I hope we can find it. I don’t think Mr. Darius Gray is the type of person who accepts failure.”
“Before we worry about that we’d better find Masard. Where is he?” Jack asked, matching her low tone. “He was obviously making himself another cup of tea...”
Zoe saw a slipper. “I think he’s over here.” In the shadows cast from the single light, she could see the form of the pudgy man, face down on the floor on the far side of the worktable.
Chapter Ten
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ZOE stepped around the worktable and caught her breath. Masard’s face was turned to one side, and his temple rested in a dark puddle that was spreading across the floor and soaking into the robe that was loosely belted around his wide waist. “Oh, God. That’s so much blood.”
Jack snatched a tea towel and pressed it to Masard’s head. It was saturated in a few seconds.
Zoe looked around for something else. She grabbed a throw draped over the back of one of the armchairs. As she tossed it to Jack, footsteps sounded behind her.
Zoe half-turned. A figure wearing a knit ski mask crashed into her shoulder, and the blow sent Zoe to the floor. The figure—head to toe in black and clutching a rolled piece of canvas in one gloved hand—stumbled toward the circular stairs.