“I had visitors last night,” she said. “One thanks to you. Yves.”
“Did everything work out?” Rene said, a smile in his voice.
“Let’s say Yves took my mind off the first one. A rat. Sorry I didn’t make it—long story.”
He hit Save. “Want to talk about it?”
She told him. Most of the story, anyway. She kept her hands in her pockets so he wouldn’t see them tremble.
René shook his head.
“No wonder you look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said. René swiveled his chair toward her. “You, of all people, get nervous with things that ignite. Can I help?”
“Merci, I’ll let you know,” she said. “Time to change.”
She wedged her feet out of the damp chunky-heeled boots, setting them by the door. In the storage room she changed into her Chanel suit. It was black, tailored, and short, the one classic she owned. Her father’s face had lit up whenever she wore it. “That fits the Parisian in you,” he’d always said.
“Who died?” René’asked, his eyes quizzical when she emerged.
Startled, Aimée almost dropped her Hermes bag.
“You only wear that to funerals,” René said.
She doubted one would be held for Sylvie Coudray: There wouldn’t be anything to bury.
“I’ve got an appointment with a pearl expert,” she said. “See you later.”
Tuesday Afternoon
STANDING ON RUE DU Louvre, Aimée took several deep breaths. She told herself she could do it, and began the ten-block journey.
It was time.
It had been five years since she’d walked up rue St-Honore toward Place Vendôme. She concentrated on keeping her high-heeled feet one in front of the other, planning what she’d say. But, as if it were yesterday, she saw her father’s half grin, heard his low voice say “Attends, Aimée, let me check. Wouldn’t want anything exciting to happen.”
But it had.
The bomb exploded into a fiery ball of metal, blowing him and the surveillance van through the fence and into the column base. The blast slapped her backward with the van door handle in her hand, still burning. Debris rained over the column. Glass shards, burned bits of rubber and flesh—just like the explosion that killed Sylvie.
Aimée turned her head away; she still couldn’t look. She hurried to Mikimoto, where she stepped into the high-ceilinged foyer lined with mirrored doors. She was glad to be off the street, away from the painful memories and with a purpose. How Sylvie and Eugénie connected was what she hoped to find out at Mikimoto.
“Mademoiselle, do you have an appointment?” the blond coiffed receptionist asked, looking Aimée up and down.
Aimée smoothed her skirt and smiled at her. “Monsieur Roberge at two o’clock,” she said.
“Let me confirm,” the receptionist said with an intake of breath that brooked no argument and was meant to reveal how busy she was at the same time. Her glossy coral-manicured nails clicked over the keyboard, consulting her computer screen.
Aimée wondered why she couldn’t just check an appointment book—-even in this part of Paris she doubted that too many sheikhs or billionaires beat down the door to purchase rare pearls at the same time.
Her idea of jewelry shopping was bargaining at the antique stalls in the Porte de Vanves flea market. She rifled through her Hermes bag and touched the pearl she’d stuffed in the small plastic bag. It felt bumpy and cold.
“You may go up,” the receptionist said.
Aimée mounted the stairs to Roberge’s upper floor office.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
Pierre Roberge stood and greeted her. A tall man, his bony shoulders were hunched, giving him a stooped look. Aimée figured him to be in his sixties, and with a good toupee. He smiled and motioned for her to sit down. The plush Aubusson carpet absorbed her footsteps. Roberge’s tall gilt-edged office windows overlooked the Ritz Hotel and the verdigris statue atop the Vendome column.
“Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur Roberge, on such short notice.”
Below, a fleet of chauffeured Mercedes waited by the entrance of a bank so discreet that no name was posted out front. Aimée shifted in the little gold chair to avoid the view.
“To be honest, Mademoiselle Leduc, I was intrigued by your call,” Roberge said fitting the jeweler’s loupe over his eye. He adjusted the thin halogen lamp and donned a pair of white gloves.
She set the odd-shaped pearl, fat and tumescent-looking, on the black velvet tray.
Roberge sat forward and peered closely.
“Mikimoto is renowned for cultured pearls, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Unlike these.”
“Monsieur Roberge, I was told you are a pearl expert. I appreciate your kindness,” she said. “I hope I haven’t wasted your time.”
Politeness would prevent him from agreeing with her even if she had.
He turned the pearl, luminescent under the light, in his gloved hand.
She studied the framed Provencal landscapes ringing the room. Impressionist by the look of them, less known but original. She figured everything in the room was authentic except her story.
“Les maudites,” he murmured. The damned.
What did he mean by that?
“Comment?” Aimée asked.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Roberge’s voice had grown tight, she noticed, his tone more clipped.
“That’s the term we use,” Roberge said. “May I ask where you obtained this pearl?”
Irritated, Aimée wondered why he’d started posing questions. Instead she smiled and crossed her legs.
“All in good time, Monsieur Roberge,” she said. “I’d like your impressions. Tell me what you think first.”
“To be honest, Mademoiselle,” he said, fingering the pearl once more before setting it down on the black velvet, “the value diminished once this piece was removed from the setting.”
She kept her surprise in check and nodded. “And the setting—?”
“But you’re a thief,” he interrupted, “you should know.”
“Hold on, Monsieur!” she said, alarmed. “I didn’t steal this.”
“Security will deal with you,” he said, reaching for the phone.
Alarmed, Aimée stood up, putting her hand on his glove. “Why do you think this is stolen?”
He didn’t answer.
She saw his eyes flicker with fear, but she kept her hand on his.
“You know whom the pearl belongs to, don’t you, Monsieur Roberge?”
“I’m an old man,” he said. He blinked so much that his jeweler’s loupe fell on the velvet. “Don’t threaten me.”
“Tell me who it belongs to, Monsieur Roberge,” she said, perching on his desk. “And I’ll take my hand off yours and tell you who I really am.”
He looked unsure.
She let go, fished in her bag, and pulled out her ID. “I’m a private investigator, Monsieur Roberge.”
He stared at it, his jaw set and stubborn. Maybe he didn’t like the unflattering photo on it.
“From what I’ve discovered so far, Monsieur, my next stop will be the morgue.”
“What do you mean?”
She stood up and walked to the tall window. But after staring at the Place Vendôme, she didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Thinking back to Madame Visse’s conversation about Eugénie, she had to be sure of the dead woman’s identity.
“I believe the woman who owned this could be there,” she said, and turned to him. “Your information might help me avoid that process. Her toe tag will probably say Yvette, what the flics label unknown dead females. A number will be penciled next to that indicating the order in which her corpse was delivered.”
“So she’s dead?” he asked.