The Paris Secret (14 page)

“Is that the police? Are they here for us?” I was suddenly as awake as if Simon had thrown cold water in my face. I quickly pulled on my underwear and pants. I forced the sweater down over my head. I stuffed my bra in my bag and slipped my sockless feet into my shoes.

“I don’t know but we’re not taking any chances. Let’s go.”

I barely had time to grab my bag before Simon pulled me out the door. The sounds of running feet sounded on the stairs and floated up to where we were standing. Simon pulled me up three flights and paused on the landing to listen. A loud voice was calling out from below in French. It sounded like they were at Monsieur Marcel’s door.

“
Ouvrez, maintenez l’ordre!
”

I looked at Simon questioningly for the translation.

“Open up, police,” Simon whispered.

“Oh my G—” Simon clamped his hand over my mouth before I could utter another sound.

We ran up several more flights of stairs until we reached the door to the roof. It was locked. I could hear shouts from below. They were coming. Simon started kicking frantically at the door.
Wait! I still had Marcel’s keys!
I fumbled around in my bag until I found them.

“Move!” I shoved him aside and tried first one key on Marcel’s silver-and-garnet key fob without luck and then another. The second key worked and I opened the door just as three police officers arrived at the bottom of the stairs and drew their guns.

“
Arrêt! Police!
” yelled Thierry Bernier. Our eyes met and I could see the intensity in his.

“I don’t want to harm you or Monsieur Girard, Madame Sinclair. We can get this all straightened out. Just give yourselves up and you won’t be harmed. I cannot guarantee your safety if you keep running,” he called out in his heavily accented English.

For a split second I considered it. I was tired. I wanted this to be over. I wanted to go home to Columbus and familiar surroundings. Dealing with demanding students and uppity professors at work was a piece of cake compared to this. I would never complain again. Bernier’s eyes narrowed. Who the hell was I kidding? The only thing waiting for me was a French jail cell. Screw that!

A large trash barrel stood next to the door. I gave it a hard shove and it bumped down the stairs with a shocking amount of speed, knocking down Bernier and the other officers like bowling pins. Simon let out a whoop and pumped his fist.

“I knew there was a fat ass inside you just dying to get out!” he said.

“
Bad
ass!” I screamed. “I’m a bad ass,” I insisted as he pushed me through the door out onto the roof. There was a soft click as the door locked behind us.

“Now what?”

“This way.” Simon motioned for me to follow him.

I followed him to the edge of the roof. The street down below was filled with police cars. I jumped back, pulling Simon with me before we were seen. The door to the roof started to buckle outward in its frame. The police were using a battering ram. We ran to the other side of the roof. A large dump truck filled with dirt idled in the alley below.

“There’s no other way but down,
cherie.
” He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the roof’s narrow ledge.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” We were at least six stories up. The pounding behind us grew louder.

The driver of the truck emerged from the building next door. He got behind the wheel and started the engine just as the door to the roof flew off its hinges. Officers dressed in riot gear flooded the roof like water in a basement after a heavy rain. Simon quickly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and threw it to the far corner. A stack of metal chairs toppled over with a loud clatter. The officers rushed over and trained their guns on the pile.

“Come out with your hands up!” Bernier yelled.

Simon and I looked at each other. The truck below started to pull off. It was now or never. I closed my eyes and we jumped. For a few seconds, my entire body went rigid with terror. Then my arms flailed like a windmill and my feet pedaled in midair as gravity sucked me down. After what felt like an eternity in freefall, I landed with a hard, bone-rattling thud in the dirt. I was too stunned from the impact to do anything but lie there with my arms and legs splayed. And then I quickly found out that what I thought was dirt was actually fertilizer. Manure-rich fertilizer.

The sour stench slapped me in the face, threatening to knock me out. Simon, who landed next to me, frantically started covering us up with the foul-smelling fertilizer until we were buried. Between the horrible smell and the jolting movement of the truck as it sped off, I had to bite my lower lip to keep from retching. But the good news was that I couldn’t hear any sirens following us and after a few long, tense minutes I dug myself out enough to breathe in some fresh air and to take a peak behind us. No police cars. We’d gotten away. Suddenly the fertilizer smelled as sweet as the finest French perfume.

An hour later, the truck made its next stop at a nursery and the driver went inside. Simon and I scrambled out of the back and shook the fertilizer out of our clothes and hair. We reeked. I smelled so bad I could hardly stand myself. Simon burst out laughing when he saw the look on my face.

“It’s not so bad. I’ve smelled worse,” he said.

“You’ve smelled worse or you’ve
smelled
worse?”

“Both, actually,” he replied with mock seriousness. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. “Remind me to tell you about working undercover at a sewage treatment plant.”

“Any idea where we are and what we do next? We seem to have worn out our welcome everyplace we’ve been so far. And we’re still no closer to finding that crucifix.”

“No thanks to your precious Monsieur Marcel. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted that bastard! There was something pissy about him all along.”

“Pissy?” I sighed. What about him is
fishy,
Simon?”

“Something about Marcel stinks worse than we do, Maya. How else do you explain the police showing up at his place?”

“First of all, just because he’s in debt doesn’t automatically make him some kind of geriatric assassin. Secondly, how do you know the neighbors didn’t call the cops on us with all the noise we were making last night? Thirdly, why call the cops this morning? We were there all night long. Why not call them last night if that was his intention? It doesn’t make sense. Something must have happened to him.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Simon mumbled under his breath.

“Don’t hold back on my account!”

“All I’m saying is that Garland could have offered Marcel a deal, a cut of the proceeds from the sale of the book, in exchange for getting rid of the remaining members of the society.

We glared at each other, neither of us giving an inch, until a woman out walking her dog glanced nervously at us and pulled her dog close.

“Look,” I whispered. “I stink and I’m starving. What are you going to do about it? ’Cause we can’t stand here all day. We’ve got a crucifix to find and a seven o’clock deadline to make!”

He gave me a sly smile that I didn’t like one little bit. “Our luck hasn’t run out just yet. There’s still one more place we can go.”

Simon’s goddaughter, Phoebe Samuelson—a.k.a. Francoise the teenaged hacker—lived with her clothing designer mother, Claire, in a luxury apartment just off the boulevard Saint-Germain in the fashionable section of St-Germaine-des-Prés in the 6th arrondissement. When she opened the door and saw Simon, her face lit up with delight. That is, until she caught sight of me and caught a whiff of the both of us.

“Eew! You guys smell like you rolled in dog crap!” She clamped both hands over her nose and I could see each one of her short fingernails was painted a different color, as were her toenails. She was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a white Abercrombie T-shirt.

“It’s like 6:30 in the morning. What are you doing here?” She ran her fingers through her tangled wavy hair and shifted self-consciously from foot to foot.

“It’s good to see you, too, Francoise.” Simon ruffled the girl’s hair and stepped inside with out being invited. “Is your
maman
at home?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? You know she’s not here. Like when is she ever at home? She’s in London ’til Sunday getting ready for the spring line, remember?”

“Fabulous.” Simon rubbed his dirty hands together. “We are in desperate need of your help. How would you like to harbor a couple of fugitives?”

Francoise flushed with pleasure and grinned. I could see she was wearing a retainer. It was my turn to roll my eyes.

After taking a long, hot shower and scrubbing my skin practically raw with the absent Claire Samuelson’s Chanel body wash, I wrapped myself in her thick black velour robe and wandered through the ultra modern apartment. It was minimally decorated in blacks, tans and reds. Abstract art hung on the walls. The large floor-to-ceiling windows provided spectacular views of the Seine and the Eiffel Tower.

I followed laughter up a set of steps into a large open kitchen overlooking the living room. Francoise and Simon were sitting around a big, round, block-glass island, feasting on fruit, pastries, cheese, ham, baguettes and hot chocolate. Simon’s hair was wet from his own shower. He was once again clean-shaven. He had changed clothes and wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt that fit him perfectly. Where had he gotten them?

“You guys sure sound like you’re having fun,” I commented. There was a small plasma screen TV turned to MTV France mounted on the stainless steel refrigerator door.

“And you sure smell a lot better,” commented Simon. He tossed me a pear and winked at Francoise who dissolved into a fit of giggling.

Their obvious ease with each other made me feel like an intruder. Francoise filled in Simon on everything from her lame school, her recent vacation to Majorca with her lame cousin Steffie and their upcoming concert date. She slid the cheese and ham in my direction—with the distain only a teenaged girl could muster—in one of the few acknowledgments of my presence that I’d received from her so far. While she talked a mile a minute, she unashamedly stuffed herself with grapes and veggie chips.

The kid obviously loved spending time with Simon. As I listened to them talk and joke, I couldn’t help but be impressed at how comfortable Simon was in his role as surrogate father. I wished I could join in their fun. But I was too worried about Monsieur Marcel. What could have happened to him? Was he dead? Was he the one who reported us to the police? Could Simon be right? Was he a killer? The clock on the microwave read 7:18. We had roughly thirteen hours left to find out where Juliet hid the crucifix. And what would happen if we couldn’t find it? What would Garland do?

Thwack!

A grape bounced off my forehead. Francoise burst out laughing.

“I’ve been talking to you for two minutes. Where did you go?” Simon smiled and revealed a handful of grapes.

“What do you want?” I lobbed a strawberry at him and missed, eliciting more laughter from Francoise.

“What is it with you Americans and your guns?” He gestured toward the TV.

MTV news was on and from what I could deduce, since I understood very little of what was being said, some American athlete-turned-action-star named Chaz Chandler had been arrested at JFK Airport trying to get through security with a gun hidden in his clothing.

“How would I know? I don’t own a gun and I’m not the spokesperson for America or idiot actors. And by the way, the only time I’ve ever been shot at in my life was right here in good old Paris, France.”

“Not by a Frenchman. By one of your fellow gun-happy Americans.”

“Then I suggest you ask Vincent Garland when we see him tonight.”

“Asking that bastard anything is the last thing I’m planning to do.” His voice dripped ice.

He’d told me that night in Luc’s apartment about not being sure what he’d do when he found out who killed his brother. But I’d hoped he realized we needed Garland alive. I wasn’t so sure now. And I didn’t feel like talking about it in front of a thirteen-year-old. I grabbed a bunch of green grapes and went to sit on a chaise by the living room window. Minutes later, Francoise padded after me and sat.

“My mom’s got gobs of clothes she’s never worn. You’re welcome to them if you want. She’ll never miss them.”

“Thanks.”

“They’re on a rack in the back of her closet.” She got up and headed back into the kitchen and seconds later was laughing with Simon.

Claire Samuelson’s closet was bigger than my living room. It was filled with rack after rack of clothing and shoes, all organized by type, season and color. One hundred odd purses and evening bags hung on hooks on the walls. Stacks of sweaters filled the upper shelves. A 360-degree mirror and a vanity table occupied their own alcove. At the back of the closet I discovered a rack of clothes that still had their price tags. I picked out a pair of rich chocolate-brown suede jeans that cost more than I earn in a month and a clingy dark-gold V-neck sweater. My shoes were toast. So I helped myself to a pair of low-heeled ankle boots that were a little loose but fit fine with a pair of thick socks.

“You look nice.” Francoise was leaning against the inside of the closet door, watching me intently.

“Your mom has great taste in clothes.”

“If you want a scrunchy or a scarf for your hair, I’ve got some on my desk in my room. It’s down the hall.”

“Thanks.” She left and I wondered why she was suddenly being so nice to me. In the end, I chalked it up to teenage moodiness.

As I began to close the closet door a flash of red caught my eye. I lifted up the hanger. It was a dress much like the one Juliet wore the day she died. Brian and Jarrod swore the dress was a designer knock-off. But Juliet had written in her journal about buying a new red Dior dress. Why would she have written that unless the dress had been a real Dior? People don’t lie in their journals. If the dress was real, what had been up with the lopsided, clumsily sewn hem Brian and Jarrod had noticed? Then the image of Chaz Chandler, the actor arrested for trying to board a plane with a gun hidden in his clothes, flashed into my mind and I grinned. I knew where Juliet had hidden the crucifix. I had to tell Simon.

On my way back to the kitchen, I came across Francoise’s bedroom. I glanced inside at the rumpled, unmade bed and posters of anime characters on the walls. I wasn’t surprised by the massive state-of-the-art computer with a 27-inch computer screen but there was something sitting on the desk that made me stop dead in my tracks. Sitting on a shelf next to a collection of DVDs was a framed photo of Francoise, Simon and a gorgeous woman who looked like an older, blond version of Francoise. The woman’s arms were wrapped around Simon’s waist. Now I knew why a vegan’s fridge had meat and cheese in it and the clothes Simon had on fit so well. The food was for him and the clothes were his. He must keep clothes and a razor here because he and Claire Samuelson were a couple.

“She’s really beautiful, isn’t she?” came Francoise’s voice from behind me.

“Very.” My throat was suddenly dry.

“They make a cute couple, huh?”

I finally understood. She’d wanted me to see this picture. Francoise thought I was infringing on her mother’s territory. I was sick and it took everything in me to retain my composure. How could I be so stupid…again! Well, she and her mother had nothing to worry about from me. Simon and his wandering dick weren’t my problem. After tonight, crucifix or no crucifix, I was getting the hell out of Paris and not looking back.

“When this is over, I’ll make sure to get your mom’s clothes back to her,” I said as I walked passed her.

“No big deal. Like I said, she’ll never wear them. Those are her fat clothes. She’s a size two now.”

I ignored the comment. Simon was still in the kitchen nursing an espresso. I sat across from him and could barely look him in the eyes. But there was no time to dwell on him and Claire. It was time to get it together.

“Guess where I think Juliet hid the crucifix?”

I explained about the dress and Simon grabbed me and bent to kiss me. I pushed him away. He looked bewildered but didn’t comment.

“Where is the dress now?”

I shrugged. “She wasn’t wearing it when I found her. I guess the police took it. It’s probably with the rest of the stuff they took from our hotel room.”

“You okay? You seem a little off. You know I was just teasing you about the guns, right?”

I gave him a tight, fake smile. “Yeah, I know. I’m just tired.”

“I’m sorry. We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, did we?” he whispered conspiratorially.

I wanted to scream and slam my fist into his handsome, arrogant face. Not that I had a right to be upset. No promises had been made. No words of love had been spoken. He hadn’t taken anything from me that I hadn’t freely given. And, yeah, I’d done my share of taking, too. But I wouldn’t have let things go so far if I had known he was involved.

“Maya?” Simon waved his hand in my face to get my attention.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said if Juliet wasn’t wearing the dress when she was killed, then her things were probably taken to the evidence room at the DCPJ.”

“Can your police contact help us?”

Simon leaned against the counter and put his hands in his jeans pockets. “My contact is only a file clerk. She doesn’t have access to the evidence room and if she got caught, she’d get fired.”

She.
I should have known it was woman. Otherwise, Simon wouldn’t be able to work his considerable charm to get what he wanted. I bet all his contacts were women.

“How do we find out if the dress is even there if she can’t help us?”

“You guys are so pathetic,” came Francoise’s voice from the living room. “Have you forgotten just who I am and what I can do?”

We went into the living room to find her sitting on the floor in front of the red leather couch with a black laptop perched on top of the frosted glass coffee table. By the time we joined her, her fingers were already flying across the keyboard as codes and symbols flashed up and down the screen. I recognized the DCPJ logo in the background. She was hacking onto their system. My hand involuntarily flew to my mouth. Simon gave me a look that told me now was not the time to get on my high horse. We needed to find that dress. I kept my mouth shut.

“Crap!” exclaimed Francoise. Her brow was creased in concentration.

“What?” Simon scooted forward to get a better look at the screen.

“They’ve put in a new security system since I was last in here.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Lots of times,” said Simon proudly.

I bit my tongue.

“No biggie. I’ll just go through the back door. It’ll just take a little bit longer, that’s all.”

“And how do you do that?” I asked.

“Any site with a search feature has a back-end database to handle the queries. All I do is enter a bogus search in order to generate an error message. Then I use the error code to get the system information and take it from there. Don’t worry,” she said, glancing at me. “I’m strictly white hat.”