“The three-dimensionality?” I asked.
“This too,” Herbert said. “But you see the letters, how they seem to hover? It is one of the signature methods of a Parisian graffiti artist who called himself Zee Pac-Man.”
“Where can we find him?” I asked.
“He was murdered late last year, just after Christmas. Found dead in the 9th beneath his last tag. Stabbed several times in the back.”
Louis said, “So what? This could be a follower of Zee Pac-Man?”
“Or simply a thief,” Herbert replied, and then looked to me to explain. “Artists steal what we like and admire, you know this?”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Do you still have all those followers?” Louis asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Think you could ask them if they’ve seen this tag elsewhere?”
“Bien sûr,” she replied. “What do I say it is about?”
“Just say you’re interested,” Louis replied, and then explained to me that Herbert had a Facebook page where people from all over the world posted shots of interesting graffiti. The page had been “liked” by more than half a million people.
“She has thousands of Parisians who follow her. Isn’t that right?”
Herbert blushed again. “They follow the graffiti. I just help others see it.”
I liked her. A lot. In the past I’ve met a few successful artists, and had several as clients. The majority are quirky egocentrics quick to turn the lights on themselves, a trait that inevitably leads to self-destructive behaviors. But Herbert seemed normal as well as self-deprecating, smart, and, well, just gorgeous.
“Any help would be much appreciated,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “You are in Paris long, Monsieur Morgan?”
I glanced at Louis, thought about all that had happened since my arrival, and said, “That’s unclear. But a few more days, anyway.”
“Well, then, I will put the request on the Facebook page rapidement.”
“Excellent,” I said. “And it was an honor to meet you.”
Herbert touched her neck, laughed, looked at Louis, and said, “An honor?”
“The man has a way with words.”
Herbert smiled and said, “And it is…sorry, it was wonderful to meet you.”
Louis’s eyes bounced between us a few times before he said, “Michele, would you care to have a glass of wine with us?”
Her head cocked left, and then right, before she laughed again and said, “Why not? I have been working much too hard lately.”
“Come, then,” Louis said. “Where should we go?”
Before she could answer, my cell phone rang. It was Rick Del Rio.
“How’s Paris?” he asked.
I glanced at Michele Herbert, held up a finger, walked away, and said, “Looking up all of a sudden.”
“Well, then let me make your day even sunnier.”
Del Rio had managed to get hold of Kim Kopchinski’s most recent cash withdrawals and credit card charges.
“Anything today?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ll e-mail you the particulars. I also arranged it so we’ll both get alerts of any future transactions sent automatically to our phones.”
“You’re a machine.”
“Bionic man,” he said, and hung up.
I hurried to catch up with Louis and Michele Herbert. My phone dinged to alert me to an e-mail. I opened it and showed it to Louis as we left the building.
He slowed and scanned the addresses of the ATM withdrawals and debit charges. “These are all in the Marais.”
“One of my favorite areas in Paris,” Herbert said. “We could go there for drinks, and maybe something to eat?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Chapter 28
4th Arrondissement
5:20 p.m.
LOUIS TOOK US to a café on the Rue des Archives.
The art professor looked around and said, “Louis, there are much more sympathetic places to entertain Jack in the Marais.”
“This is true, Michele,” the big bear of a man said, taking a seat outdoors. “But we are mixing business with pleasure.”
“Does it have to do with the tag?” she asked.
“It’s a missing persons case,” I said.
“Well, sort of,” Louis said. “This person wants to be missing.”
“Who is this person?” Herbert asked.
“The granddaughter of a client of mine back in Los Angeles,” I said.
“So, she is a runaway?”
“Not like a teen runaway. But she’s trying to escape something or someone and we don’t know why, other than knowing that drugs are involved.”
“And you think she’s here somewhere?” the artist asked, looking around.
Louis pointed across the street and said, “At eleven o’clock this morning, she withdrew five hundred euros from an ATM machine in that pharmacy. Twenty minutes later, she used a debit card to pay for a haircut in that salon. She also bought wine at that shop over there. And forty minutes ago, she returned to get more money from the pharmacy ATM.”
The artist grew excited and said, “We are on the stakeout, yes?”
“Something like that,” Louis said.
“I feel like I am in a film noir,” she said, beaming at the idea.
“Nothing that thrilling,” I said, flashing on the car chase and shoot-out from the night before and wondering just how much we should tell her.
A waitress came. Louis ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. It soon arrived and was chilled perfectly. There was a warm breeze as Michele described the neighborhood. First settled in the 1200s, Le Marais-the marsh-was one of the oldest districts in the city. During the Renaissance, it was the preferred neighborhood of noblemen. Jews had lived there for centuries. The Chinese came after World War I, and the gays more recently.
“Many galleries in Paris are here,” she said. “Nice restaurants too.”
“Do you have pieces in them? The galleries?”
“I do,” she said. “I can show you some later.”
The conversation drifted to discussions of Paris and Los Angeles. Time seemed to disappear as we chatted and laughed. The artist had a semi-humorous take on nearly everything, and after a while I became less flabbergasted by her looks than I was by her mind, which could be cutting or playful. Again and again, I heard this voice in my head saying that I’d never met a woman like Michele Herbert.
“So,” she said at one point. “Are you in love, Jack?”
I startled and glanced over at Louis, but was surprised to find him not there. I’d been so engrossed in my conversation that I hadn’t heard or seen him get up.
“Jack?”
“I’m in love with life,” I said.
“But there is not someone special?”
“Not at the moment,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn slightly. “You?”
“Just my art,” Michele said, doing that tongue-in-the-teeth thing before draining her glass. “More?”
I finished my glass and poured us both another. Louis returned and said, “Henri Richard’s murder is the talk of the café.”
“A terrible thing,” the artist said. “Have they got a suspect?”
“Not yet,” Louis said, and eyed the bottle. “Shall we order another?”
“Why not?” Michele said.
I was about to agree when I felt my phone buzz with an incoming text. I read it, looked up at Louis, and said, “She just bought something at Open Café.”
He jumped up and said, “It’s two blocks. One of the big gay clubs.”
We both looked at Michele, who started laughing and making shooing gestures. “Go, go!” she said. “I’ll pay and then come to find you.”
Louis was already moving. I had to run hard to catch up with him.
“Why would she be in a gay bar?” Louis grunted.
“Good place for a woman to hide?” I said.
We ran to the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie. Open Café was on the southwest corner. A crowd of men had spilled from the club onto the sidewalk, blocking our view of the tables inside and out.