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The helicopter was hovering right over them now, with a blur of rotating blades and the wind from those blades whipping up fallen leaves and petals off the terrace floor and blowing them through the moonlit night sky like so much confetti. Mandy put her hand up to her hair ruffling away in the wind and caught sight of a rope ladder being dropped down from the helicopter. She watched as Monsarrat reached out for the ladder — stepping over Toot Monroe’s prostrate form — and took hold of it with both hands and steadied it. Then, looking over at her, he shouted through the noise of the helicopter:

“It’s a beautiful, exciting world out there: Come see it with me.”

“What about Dahlia?”

“That’s over. It’s been over for a while.”

“Then why did she have her husband killed?”

“You’re sharp — but this time you’re a little off. She didn’t order the hit. Anton himself ordered it. You see, he was dying of cancer and Parkinson’s disease and he couldn’t face it. Poor Anton. Perhaps, God willing, he’s finally found some peace.”

From above, a voice piped out: “Hey, we don’t have all night here. On or off?”

Monsarrat looked up at the helicopter and signaled with his hand. Then, to Mandy, he spoke loudly: “Every now and then in life you meet a person and you know how great it could be with them — just like that, you know it.”

“That duffel bag was filled with money. Why did you let Dahlia take it?”

“A gift to say goodbye. And besides, as it turns out, I still have the diamond.”

But a startled look crossed his face when he reached his hand beneath his jacket and felt inside his shirt pocket. And then, that look turning into an appreciative grin: “Oh, you are sharp.”

Mandy returned his grin and offered up a view of the little black box in the outstretched palm of her hand. Now the voice from above piped out — “Last call” — and the rope ladder began to rise upwards. Monsarrat climbed on just in time and rose off the terrace and up into the confetti-filled air. Looking down, he called out: “Another time, luv, another time.” Once he was safely on board, the helicopter climbed quickly higher up into the night sky, then it veered off, transiting the moon.

Left alone with the fallen Toot Monroe, as the windblown leaves and petals settled about on the terrace floor, Mandy couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if for once in her life she had followed her heart instead of her head...

“You made the right decision, mademoiselle.”

She looked around and saw Brother Simon standing behind her like a shadow.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that you made the right decision — even if at the moment, perhaps, it doesn’t feel that way.”

Ignoring that, Mandy said: “Where exactly did you disappear to?”

“You seemed to have the situation under control, so I took a moment to go alert the authorities. And to have a few parting words with Dahlia.”

“What about? That bag full of money?”

“Partly. But unfortunately for Dahlia, there’s more torn-up newspaper in that bag than money.”

“So Monroe was double-crossing them.”

“Yes, or at least he was trying. Such an amateur.” Brother Simon paused, looking down at the still-inert figure of the man in question. “He should stick to his books.”

Mandy held out the little black box in her hand and removed the glittering stone from within. “What about this?”

“Of course, you must now realize that’s a fake.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured it was a little too easy, but still, for a moment there I had hoped...”

“Most professionals have copies made up of whatever it is they’re going to fence or sell just in case they find themselves in an awkward position, be it with the police or an unscrupulous buyer. It’s an old trick.”

“So when Monroe pulled out the gun, Monsarrat pulled out the fake diamond.”

“Exactly, mademoiselle, exactly.”

“Which means he also had the real Sunburst Diamond on him.”

“Yes, I would think so.”

“You mean we were that close to it—” Mandy felt something brushing her knee; she looked down and saw Toot Monroe pushing himself up into a sitting position, looking around groggily, and then fixing his gaze on the glittering stone in her hand. “Hey, that’s mine. I want it.”

Mandy put the stone back in the box and dropped the thing down into the big man’s lap. “Enjoy,” she said. Looking back at Brother Simon, she noticed that he had removed his eyepatch. She quickly did the same. He smiled at her. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, I was wrong: It’s not just what you see, but how you see it.”

She paused a moment, rubbing her eye as it grew accustomed to the light. Then she glanced up at the moon, which appeared smaller and farther away now than before... far, far out of reach.

Yes, Mandy thought, but was that all there was to it: a matter of perspective? She sighed dreamily: “I thought tonight history was to be made.”

“Ah, you are disappointed in me.”

“No, I’m disappointed in myself. I should have maced him — Monsarrat — when I had the chance. What was I thinking?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. He does have a certain quality that is quite disarming. I’m just glad that you didn’t...” His voice trailed off and the two of them looked at each other in the moonlight. Then he added: “The authorities will be covering all of the heliports in the area.”

“What if he doesn’t land at a heliport?”

Brother Simon drew in a breath. “Well, then the hunt continues—”

“Not for me — at least not tonight. This huntress is going home.”

“But of course; the hour is late,” he said, with a chivalrous bow. “You will permit me to see you home, mademoiselle?”

Mandy smiled and touched the little man’s shoulder, brushing away a phantom piece of lint, and said, “Why not? After all, it’s not like I don’t trust you.”

Stinking Plaster

by Bavo Dhooge

Passport to Crime

Translated from the Flemish by Josh Pachter

In the decade since the publication of his first novel, Ghent’s Bavo Dhooge has produced more than sixty books. In 2002, he won the Dutch C rime Writers Association’s Shadow Prize for the best first novel published in Dutch or Flemish. A three-time nominee for the Flemish Crime Writers Association’s Diamond Bullet Award for best novel, he won in 2009 for Stiletto Libretto, which was also nominated for DCWA’s Golden Noose Award.

* * *

I tasted blood, sweet blood, but that was just an appetizer. A second later, a pair of hands gripped my head and gave my hair a quick rinse in a tub of plaster. The stink permeated my nose and mouth and lungs and weighed on my tongue like a charred steak. I struggled free of the tub and felt wet plaster bite at my eyes. There wasn’t a mirror handy, but five’ll get you ten I looked as sexy in gray as Richard Gere. The trick would be to get the stuff off me before it hardened and turned my perfect profile into a Greek bust with a busted nose.

But there wasn’t time for a self-beautification project. My attacker was still on the loose, somewhere in the atelier. Every light bulb in the place had been shattered, one by one, and the studio was as dark as a tomb.

I scooped up a plaster limb from a pile of debris. It could have been an arm or a leg — hell, for all I knew, it might just as well have been a giant toe. Contemporary art goes right over my head. Whatever it was, it’d do as a club in a pinch, and it might just help me avoid ending up stiff and cold as a statue myself.