Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“But you must know where he went,” insisted Beryl.

The French agent merely shrugged. “He did not say, Mademoiselle. He only instructed me to watch over the flat. And see that you came to no harm.”

“And that’s all he said? And then he drove off?”

The man nodded.

In frustration, Beryl turned and went back into the flat, where she reread Richard’s note: “Gone out. Back around three.” No explanations, no apologies. She crumpled it up and threw it at the rubbish can. And what was she supposed to do now? Wait around all day for him to return? What about Jordan? What about the investigation?

What about lunch?

Her hunger pangs could no longer be ignored. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She stared in dismay at the contents: a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread and a shriveled sausage. No fruit, no vegetables, not even a puny carrot. Stocked, no doubt, by a man.

I’m not going to eat that, she determined, closing the refrigerator door. But I’m not going to starve, either. I’m going to have a proper meal-with or without him.

Daumier’s men had delivered her belongings to the flat the night before. From the closet, she chose her most nondescript black dress, pinned up her hair under a wide-brimmed hat, and slid on a pair of dark glasses. Not too hideous, she decided, glancing at herself in the mirror.

She walked out of the flat into the sunshine.

The guard stationed at the front door confronted her at once. “ Mademoiselle, you are not allowed to leave.”

“But you let him leave,” she countered.

“Mr. Wolf specifically instructed-”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “I get quite cranky when I’m hungry. And I’m not about to live on eggs and toast. So if you can just direct me to the nearest Métro station…”

“You are going alone? ” he asked in horror.

“Unless you’d care to escort me.”

The man glanced uneasily up and down the street. “I have no instructions in this matter.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” she said, and breezily started to walk away.

“Come back!”

She kept walking.

“Mademoiselle!” he called. “I will get the car!”

She turned and flashed him her most brilliant smile. “My treat.”

Both guards accompanied her to a restaurant in the nearby neighborhood of Auteuil. She suspected they chose the place not for the quality of its food, but for the intimate dining room and the easily surveyed front entrance. The meal itself was just a shade above mediocre: bland vichyssoise and a cut of lamb that could have doubled for leather. But Beryl was hungry enough to savor every morsel and still have an appetite for the tarte aux pommes.

By the time the meal was over, her two companions were in a much more jovial mood. Perhaps this bodyguard business was not such a bad thing, if the lady was willing to spring for a meal every day. They even relented when Beryl asked them to make a stop on the drive back to the flat. It would only take a minute, she said, to look over the latest art exhibit. After all, she might find something to strike her fancy.

And so the men accompanied her to Galerie Annika.

The exhibit area was one vast, soaring gallery-three stories, connected by open walkways and spiral staircases. Sunlight shone down through a skylit dome, illuminating a collection of bronze sculptures displayed on the first floor.

A young woman, her spiky hair a startling shade of red, came forward to greet them. Was there something in particular Mademoiselle wished to see?

“May I just look around a bit?” asked Beryl. “Or perhaps you could direct me to some paintings. Nothing too modern-I prefer classical artists.”

“But of course,” said the woman, and guided Beryl and her escorts up the spiral stairs.

Most of what she saw hanging on the walls was hideous. Landscapes populated by deformed animals. Birds with dog heads. City scenes with starkly cubist buildings. The young woman stopped at one painting and said, “Perhaps this is to your liking?”

Beryl took one look at the nude huntress holding aloft a dead rabbit and said, “I don’t think so.” She moved on, taking in the eccentric collection of paintings, fabric hangings and clay masks. “Who chooses the work to be displayed here?” she asked.

“Annika does. The gallery owner.”

Beryl stopped at a particularly grotesque mask-a man with a forked tongue. “She has a…unique eye for art.”

“Quite daring, don’t you think? She prefers artists who take risks.”

“Is she here today? I’d very much like to meet her.”

“Not at the moment.” The woman shook her head sadly. “One of our employees died last night, you see. Annika had to speak to the police.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Our janitor.” The woman sighed. “It was quite unexpected.”

They returned to the first-floor gallery. Only then did Beryl spot a work she’d consider purchasing. It was one of the bronze sculptures, a variation on the Madonna-and-child theme. But as she moved closer to inspect it, she realized it wasn’t a human infant nursing at the woman’s breast. It was a jackal.

“Quite intriguing, don’t you think?”

Beryl shuddered and looked at her spiky-haired guide. “What brilliant mind dreamed this one up?”

“A new artist. A young man, just building his reputation here in Paris. We are hosting a reception in his honor tonight. Perhaps you will attend?”

“If I can.”

The woman reached into a basket and plucked out an elegantly embossed invitation. This she handed to Beryl. “If you are free tonight, please drop in.”

Beryl was about to slip the card carelessly into her purse when she suddenly focused on the artist’s name. A name she recognized.

Galerie Annika presente:

Les sculptures de Anthony Sutherland

17 juillet 7-9 du soir.

“This is crazy,” said Richard. “An unacceptable risk.”

To his annoyance, Beryl simply waltzed over to the closet and stood surveying her wardrobe. “What do you think would be appropriate tonight? Formal or semi?”

“You’ll be out in the open,” said Richard. “An art reception! I can’t think of a more public place.”

Beryl took out a black silk sheath, turned to the mirror, and calmly held the dress to her body. “A public place is the safest place to be,” she observed.

“You were supposed to stay here! Instead you go running around town-”

“So did you.”

“I had business…”

She turned and walked into the bedroom. “I did, too,” she called back cheerfully.

He started to follow her, but halted in the doorway when he saw that she was undressing. At once he turned around and stood with his back pressed against the doorjamb. “A craving for a three-star meal doesn’t constitute necessity!” he snapped over his shoulder.

“It wasn’t a three-star meal. It wasn’t even a half star. But it was better than eggs and moldy bread.”

“You’re like some finicky kitten, you know that? You’d rather starve than deign to eat canned food like every other cat.”

“You’re quite right. I’m a spoiled Persian and I want my cream and chicken livers.”

“I would’ve brought you back a meal. Catnip included.”

“You weren’t here.”

And that was his mistake, he realized. He couldn’t leave this woman alone for a second. She was too damn unpredictable.

No, actually she was predictable. She’d do whatever he didn’t want her to do.

And what he didn’t want her to do was leave the flat tonight.

But he could already hear her stepping into the black dress, could hear the whisper of silk sliding over stockings, the hiss of the zipper closing over her back. He fought to suppress the images those sounds brought to mind-the long legs, the curve of her hips…He found himself clenching his jaw in frustration, at her, at himself, at the way events and passions were spinning out of his control.