[JJ06] Quicksand (7 page)

CHAPTER 12

I was simultaneously giddy and disappointed. My code had worked! Maybe being a magician was cooler than I thought.

But...my efforts hadn’t led to anything I could use. I didn’t have anything to ask Sanjay in code that would help me out of the situation I was stuck in.

Even if I could convey to Sanjay the gravity of the situation, what could he do? If he sent the police, that would be an even bigger disaster than the mess I was already in. North and his associates had distanced themselves from the crime, leaving Lane to take the fall. And even if Sanjay’s French friend could help me in some way, he wasn’t in Paris.

What I needed was a run to help me think. I usually went for a run in Golden Gate Park nearly every day, and I’d packed my running shoes. I wondered if my shadow would be able to keep up with me. I could probably lose him, but I’d already established that was a bad idea.

I flung myself back down on the couch—and immediately shot up again. I had too much adrenaline coursing through me to sit still. I went to the side table where the hotel had provided bountiful information about Paris. Locating a map of the city, I looked in the street index. Finding the street I was after, I smiled to myself. Normally I would have found it frustrating to find my way in a new city where the names of streets changed every few blocks, but in this situation, it was a stroke of luck. The street I was after was only three blocks long.

I closed the map and thought about my options. Emboldened by my success at conversing with Sanjay in code, I decided to try something with more immediate results.

Creepy Dante was the man assigned to watch me if I left the hotel. He didn’t seem to be the brightest of men. North thought Lane was the bigger risk. Somet
imes it was nice to be underestimated.

“Dante!” I called out to the ceiling. “I’d like to go out!”

Less than a minute later, the hotel room door opened and an unsmiling Dante walked in.

“I’d like to go on a walk,” I said.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he grunted his answer, but he simply nodded.

The weather forecast predicted it might snow, so we bundled in coats before setting out for a walk under the stormy sky. I flipped up the collar of my thick black coat as the doorman held the door open for us.

“I heard that Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie is beautiful,” I said. “Do you know how to get there?”

“In the Marais,” he said, his breath visible in the crisp air. “That’s a long walk from here.”

I realized I hadn’t heard him speak before. He spoke with an Italian accent. More importantly, his voice was strong. That gave me pause. Perhaps I’d misjudged Dante. I’d assumed he was hired for his brawn rather than intellect, but perhaps he was simply the silent type. If so, dare I risk the real reason for my walk to Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie?

“Good,” I said, after only a moment’s hesitation. “I need some exercise.”

He eyed me with disdain as he pulled gloves on. “Let’s take a taxi.”

“What’s the point of a walk if it’s not a walk?” I said.

He muttered something under his breath that I guessed to be an Italian swear word, then glanced right and left. “This way.”

Even under gray skies and the strangest of situations, Paris took my breath away with its beauty. No wonder nobody could believe I’d never previously visited the city. Modern shops and apartments were housed in stunning old buildings, many of which I’m sure had been there for centuries. 

I wondered if it was my heightened alertness that brought out an added appreciation to the details of my surroundings. The threat of danger created a more acute experience of living. I wasn’t merely walking down a street lined with cafes full of people drinking coffee, smoking, and speaking various languages under heat lamps. Instead, I breathed in the scents of the swirling cigarette smoke from a group of Spaniards drinking espresso, the fragrant ham-and-cheese baguettes toasting under the watchful eye of a café’s chef, and the subtle perfumes of French women walking purposefully down the street in stiletto heels higher than my own. I noticed routes I could use to escape, if the need should occur, down a narrow alley bracketed by colorful apartment buildings, across a nearly-hidden courtyard with shadows cast by arches and barren trees, and through a heavy gate for delivery vehicles that stood ajar.

The thirty-minute walk helped me relax—until I saw a sign indicating we had entered the Marais neighborhood. The purpose of this visit wasn’t to see a pretty street, as I’d told Dante. I was fairly confident Hugo had wanted to tell Lane something he wasn’t able to while Marius was there. He mentioned the street he lived on, as well as a piece of art in the window. It had struck me as an odd thing to say at the time—but not if he wanted Lane to find him.

There was no way for Lane to seek out Hugo while he was with Marius, but I was hoping the details of the museum conversation hadn’t reached Dante. So far, that seemed to be the case. Dante hadn’t raised an objection when I mentioned the street name.

“Americans,” Dante mumbled, looking around at the apartment buildings on Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie that must have been over a hundred years old. “If you want
real
history, you should visit Rome.”

We walked slowly down the street, which was lined with shops on the ground floor and apartments above. If Hugo had indeed been trying to tell us where he lived, his window must be visible from the street. Dante startled me by grabbing my arm. I tensed. Had it finally dawned on him what I was doing? He shook his head, and pointed resolutely at a ladder propped against a building, steering me away from it, so neither of us would walk underneath it. It was difficult to conceal a smile.

Two blocks in, I stopped abruptly. A statue with angel wings was silhouetted in a second floor window. It was Michelangelo’s
Angel
statue, and I was relieved to see it was a reproduction. I’m not an expert on art, but it was much too small to be real. This had to be Hugo’s apartment. 

“Must you walk so slowly?” Dante asked, rubbing his gloved hands together. I was full of too much adrenaline to mind the cold.

“Since we’re here,” I said, “I thought we might visit Hugo. He seemed like such an interesting man when I met him yesterday.”

His brown eyes narrowed as realization dawned on him. “Hugo?”

“That’s who told me this was a beautiful street worth visiting,” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking along with my pounding heart.

Dante shrugged. “As long as he has the heat on in his apartment.”

A thick blue door to the apartments was nestled in between a small general market and a pastry shop. Dante rang Hugo’s buzzer in front of the building, then scowled at me as we waited. “He’s not home.”

“Try again.”

Dante did as I asked, then shook his head. “We take a taxi back.”

He started walking in the direction of a larger street, presumably to find that taxi. I stood still. I’d come this far. I couldn’t give up so easily. I spotted a green trash bin on wheels underneath an awning of the next building over. I ran up to it.

“Hey!” Dante called out, running after me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said as I pulled the heavy trash bin underneath Hugo’s window. “I want to get a better look inside. Maybe his buzzer is broken.” Hugo had said he’d be home, hadn’t he? Unless I’d read too much into his words... “Help me up onto this trash can.”

“Americans,” Dante grumbled again, but did as I asked without question, steadying me as my heel sank into the plastic.

Balancing on the trash bin several feet off the ground didn’t lift me high enough to see directly into the window—but the little I saw made me lose my balance.

Dante grunted as I fell into his arms. As I struggled to stand up, I dislodged the contents of his coat pocket. A piece of chocolate wrapped in wax paper, several euros in large denominations, and colorful receipts from a tailor in Paris and an artisan chocolatier in Saint-Malo all fluttered to the sidewalk.

“We need to call the police,” I said, not trying to disguise my shaking voice.

Dante grabbed my forearms forcefully, a coldness in his eyes that scared me more than what I’d just seen. “No police. Why do you want them?”

“The angel’s wing,” I whispered. “It’s covered in blood.”

CHAPTER 13

Dante wouldn’t let me call the police.

He hoisted himself onto the trash can to see for himself. The lid sagged under his weight, and crumpled newspapers poked out from the strained edges. A nearby proprietor yelled at him. The incomprehensible words Dante said back to him caused the man to retreat into his shop.

He hopped down and grabbed my arm, pulling me along until we’d turned down two side streets and reached a more crowded main drag. I tripped several times, and would have fallen if Dante hadn’t maintained his firm grip on me. I barely saw the street in front of me. All I could think about was what must have transpired to leave the swath of blood on the statue. Was Hugo lying dead on the floor beyond my field of view?

“Stay there,” Dante said, shoving me against a recessed nook next to an apartment complex door.

The tiny cars on the busy street and well-dressed people on the bustling sidewalk seemed to go past me in slow motion. I watched Dante pull out his phone and bark angry French words. I heard my name and Hugo’s, but didn’t understand much else. He glared at me as he clicked off the phone.

“We wait here,” Dante said, motioning to one of Paris’s ubiquitous cafes only a few yards away.

Mutely, I let Dante take my arm and guide me to a small table under a heat lamp. Should I scream and have Dante arrested? That way I could call the police. What if Hugo wasn’t dead, but dying?

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. It gave me a moment to think. North said he’d created a file on me for drunk and disorderly conduct in France. Could he really do that? Even if I risked going to the police, would they believe me?

“Drink,” Dante said, holding a glass of wine under my nose.

“What if he’s—”

“We aren’t monsters.” Dante shook his head sadly, and I saw the first trace of humanity in him I’d noticed. “North will go to the apartment. If Hugo is injured, he’ll help.”

The change in Dante’s tone was so unexpected that I found myself believing him. A moment later, he went back to glaring at me. He continued to glare at me for the next fifteen minutes, until North stepped out of a taxi. Instead of sitting down with us, he motioned for us to join him in the taxi.

I thought North would be angry about my trying to talk with Hugo, but I was wrong. His face showed concern, but I saw no trace of anger as I eased into the seat next to him. “He wasn’t there,” North said quietly. He was no longer enjoying himself. The laugh lines on his face were now lines of misery. Was he upset to learn that something had happened to Hugo? Or did he regret what he’d have to do to me after I’d attempted to contact Hugo?

We rode back to the hotel in silence, my spirit broken.

When we opened the door of the hotel room, Lane rushed across the room. “You’re okay?”

“Physically. But what’s—”

He pulled me into his arms, cradling my head in his hand and pulling me close to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Jones.”

I broke away. “You know what’s going on?”

“North called me from Hugo’s apartment to tell me Hugo was
missing
. He wanted to know if I had any idea what had happened to him.”

“He
is
missing,” North said. “Jaya’s imagination is a bit overactive.”

“I know what I saw,” I said.

“I’m not denying there was blood on that statue of his. But not enough to suggest severe bodily harm. My guess is that someone roughed him up, and he fled. Not everyone in our business is as civilized as I.” North paused and whispered into Dante’s ear, sending his lackey scurrying away, then walked straight to the bar and opened a bottle of Scotch. He poured himself three fingers of whisky.

“I could use one of those.”

North gave me a weak smile. “Quite.” He splashed amber liquid into a glass. Before he handed the glass to me, he appraised my wind-swept hair. “Explain to me,” he said slowly, “how you came to be at Hugo’s apartment.”

“Does it matter?” Lane cut in.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

My heart thudded in my chest. “When we met at the Louvre, he seemed like such a nice man.” I forced myself to stand casually, not wringing my hands together as my instincts pushed me to do. “I’m homesick. Lane was off preparing, and I was lonely.” I shrugged. “Since Hugo told us where he was living—”

“He did?” North cut in.

“You can ask Marius if you don’t believe her,” Lane said.

North pursed his lips together. He took a long drink from his glass, then sighed heavily. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to Hugo any more than you do.”

Lane snorted.

“You think I would harm him?”

“If you needed to.”

I sank down into the chaise lounge in front of the window, wishing it would swallow me up and transport me anywhere else. As I listened to the men fight, I watched as a light snow began to fall. The snowflakes weren’t yet sticking to the ground, but they fluttered by the window in a scattered blur that seemed to understand my thoughts. The image of the beautiful Angel sculpture smeared with blood was an image for nightmares. I took a large gulp of the whisky, swallowing nearly half of what was in the glass. If it hadn’t been so smooth, I would have coughed. Instead, smoky warmth filled my throat.

“There’s nothing to suggest he’s anything more than roughed up,” North said.

“Then why isn’t he answering his phone?”

“You of all people know the smartest thing to do when someone is after you is to turn off your phone.”

“Hugo wouldn’t get involved with that sort of people,” Lane said. “His religious conscience wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Religious conscience?” I asked.

“He used to be a priest,” Lane said. He moved to pour himself a drink. “He’s a religious iconography expert, which comes in handy with artwork. That’s how he got involved with North.”

A priest?
I took another gulp of whisky.

“He couldn’t stand the gulf between rich and poor,” Lane continued. “He felt he couldn’t do enough to save the world in a small parish. He was a radical trapped behind a collar, so he quit.”

“What, to join your little Robin Hood gang?” I asked.

“I didn’t say he was
good
at being a priest.”

I groaned and drank more whisky.

“I don’t know what else he was involved in,” North said, “but
that
must have been what led to his disappearance. I’ve always been respectful of the people I work with.”

“How is what you’re doing to Lane respectful?” I asked. The whisky was loosening my tongue more than was wise. Lane gave me a sharp look and took the nearly empty glass from my hand. I didn’t stop him.

“This situation is different,” North said. “I never coerced Hugo. There had to be a good reason for him to cross someone.” He spoke as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me and Lane.

North didn’t look like he was faking his emotions, but I knew I shouldn’t believe what I saw. He was a con man. It’s what he did.

“The job goes on as planned,” North said, regaining his composure.

“We can’t—” Lane began.  

“We don’t need Hugo. He had nothing to do with this job.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lane said. “I need more time.”

“Too bad you don’t have it.”

“You want this to work, don’t you?”

“The job,” North said, enunciating the words, “goes on as planned.
Tomorrow.
”

Lane downed the last of his drink. His hand clutched the glass so firmly I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it shatter. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

North cleared this throat. “Marius and Dante are at your disposal.”

“I’ve never understood why you’ve favored Dante over Hugo for so long,” Lane said.

“You
know
why.”

“That was a long time ago—”

North cleared his throat. “I need to attend to some things. In case anything untoward
has
befallen Hugo, I want to make sure his family is safe and taken care of.”

“He has a family?” I asked.

“A sister. He supports her. Whatever is going on, I’ll make sure she’s well cared for.”

I sank onto the couch.

“Can we have some privacy?” Lane asked sharply. “You’ll still be able to hear whatever we say. But you can see she’s upset. Your being here isn’t helping anyone.”

Without ano
ther word, North departed.

Lane sat down on the couch next to me. He pulled me toward him and kissed the top of my head. “Are you going to be all right, Jones?”

I nodded.

“After this awful day,” he said, “I wish there was an episode of
The Avengers
on TV. I could go for some Emma Peel to relax.” He stood up and went into the bathroom.

As we’d planned, that meant he was leaving me a note. With everything going on, I didn’t want it to appear suspicious for me to go into the bathroom right after Lane returned. But if I was crying, I’d need to wash my face. I forced myself to cry. It wasn’t difficult.

When Lane emerged a minute later, my face was blotchy.  “I need to wash my face.” I pushed past Lane on my way to the bathroom.

This tissue note was broken in so many places it was difficult to read.

No more notes after you flush this. It’s not worth the risk.  I misjudged North.

This job just got a whole lot more dangerous. Hugo might be dead—murdered by North.