Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps / Stolen - In Their Footsteps / Stolen

“Beryl, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that—” Jordan shook his head “—you don’t seem at all yourself.”

“Neither of us is, Jordie. How could we be?” She looked out the window again, at the lengthening shadows in Place Vendčme. The same view her mother must have looked down upon on her visits to Paris. The same hotel, perhaps even the same suite. I’m even wearing her dress. “It’s as if—as if we don’t know who we are anymore,” she said. “Where we spring from.”

“Who you are, who I am, has never been in doubt, Beryl. Whatever we learn about them doesn’t change us.”

She looked at him. “So you think it might be true.”

He paused. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m preparing myself for the worst. And so should you.” He went to the closet and took out her wrap. “Come on. It’s time to confront the facts, little sister. Whatever they may be.”

At seven o’clock, they arrived at Le Petit Zinc, the café where Daumier had arranged to meet them. It was early for the usual Parisian supper hour, and except for a lone couple dining on soup and bread, the café was empty. They took a seat in a booth at the rear and ordered wine and bread and a remoulade of mustard and celeriac to stave off their hunger. The lone couple finished their meal and departed. The appointed time came and went. Had Daumier changed his mind about meeting them?

Then, at seven-twenty, the door opened and a trim little Frenchman in suit and tie walked into the dining room. With his graying temples and his briefcase, he could have passed for any distinguished banker or lawyer. But the instant his gaze locked on Beryl, she knew, by his nod of acknowledgment, that this must be Claude Daumier.

But he had not come alone. He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again, and a second man entered the restaurant. Together they approached the booth where Beryl and Jordan were seated. Beryl stiffened as she found herself staring not at Daumier but at his companion.

“Hello, Richard,” she said quietly. “I had no idea you were coming to Paris.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “Until this morning.”

Introductions were made, hands shaken all around. Then the two men slid into the booth. Beryl faced Richard straight across the table. As his gaze met hers, she felt the earlier sparks kindle between them, the memory of their kiss flaring to mind. Beryl, you idiot, she thought in irritation, you’re letting him distract you. Confuse you. No man has a right to affect you this way — certainly not a man you’ve only kissed once in your life. Not to mention one you met only twenty-four hours ago.

Still, she couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those moments in the garden at Chetwynd. Nor could she forget the taste of his lips. She watched him pour himself a glass of wine, watched him raise the glass to sip. Again, their eyes met, this time over the gleam of ruby liquid. She licked her own lips and savored the aftertaste of Burgundy.

“So what brings you to Paris?” she asked, raising her glass.

“Claude, as a matter of fact.” He tilted his head at Daumier.

At Beryl’s questioning look, Daumier said, “When I heard my old friend Richard was in London, I thought why not consult him? Since he is an authority on the subject.”

“The St. Pierre bombing,” Richard explained. “Some group no one’s ever heard of is claiming responsibility. Claude thought perhaps I’d be able to shed some light on their identity. For years I’ve been tracking every reported terrorist organization there is.”

“And did you shed some light?” asked Jordan.

“Afraid not,” he admitted. “Cosmic Solidarity doesn’t show up on my computer.” He took another sip of wine, and his gaze locked with hers. “But the trip isn’t entirely wasted,” he added, “since I discover you’re in Paris, as well.”

“Strictly business,” said Beryl. “With no time for pleasure.”

“None at all?”

“None,” she said flatly. She pointedly turned her attention to Daumier. “My uncle did call you, didn’t he? About why we’re here?”

The Frenchman nodded. “I understand you have both read the file.”

“Cover to cover,” said Jordan.

“Then you know the evidence. I myself confirmed the witness statements, the coroner’s findings—”

“The coroner could have misinterpreted the facts,” Jordan asserted.

“I myself saw their bodies in the garret. It was not something I am likely to forget.” Daumier paused as though shaken by the memory. “Your mother died of three bullet wounds to the chest. Lying beside her was Bernard, a single bullet in his head. The gun had his fingerprints. There were no witnesses, no other suspects.” Daumier shook his head. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

“But where’s the motive?” said Beryl. “Why would he kill someone he loved?”

“Perhaps that is the motive,” said Daumier. “Love. Or loss of love. She may have found someone else—”

“That’s impossible,” Beryl objected vehemently. “She loved him.”

Daumier looked down at his wineglass. He said quietly, “You have not yet read the police interview with the landlord, M. Rideau?”

Beryl and Jordan looked at him in puzzlement. “Rideau? I don’t recall seeing that interview in the file,” said Jordan.

“Only because I chose to exclude it when I sent the file to Hugh. It was a…matter of discretion.”

Discretion, thought Beryl. Meaning he was trying to hide some embarrassing fact.

“The attic flat where their bodies were found,” said Daumier, “was rented out to a Mlle Scarlatti. According to the landlord, Rideau, this Scarlatti woman used the flat once or twice a week. And only for the purpose of…” He paused delicately.

“Meeting a lover?” Jordan said bluntly.

Daumier nodded. “After the shooting, the landlord was asked to identify the bodies. Rideau told the police that the woman he called Mlle Scarlatti was the same one found dead in the garret. Your mother.”

Beryl stared at him in shock. “You’re saying my mother met a lover there?”

“It was the landlord’s testimony.”

“Then we’ll have to talk face-to-face with this landlord.”

“Not possible,” said Daumier. “The building has been sold several times over. M. Rideau has left the country. I do not know where he is.”

Beryl and Jordan sat in stunned silence. So that was Daumier’s theory, thought Beryl. That her mother had a lover. Once or twice a week she would meet him in that attic flat on Rue Myrha. And then her father found out. So he killed her. And then he killed himself.

She looked up at Richard and saw the flicker of sympathy in his eyes. He believes it, too, she thought. Suddenly she resented him simply for being here, for hearing the most shameful secret of her family.

They heard a soft beeping. Daumier reached under his jacket and frowned at his pocket pager. “I am afraid I will have to leave,” he said.

“What about that classified file?” asked Jordan. “You haven’t said anything about Delphi.”

“We’ll speak of it later. This bombing, you understand—it is a crisis situation.” Daumier slid out of the booth and picked up his briefcase. “Perhaps tomorrow? In the meantime, try to enjoy your stay in Paris, all of you. Oh, and if you dine here, I would recommend the duckling. It is excellent.” With a nod of farewell, he turned and swiftly walked out of the restaurant.

“We just got the royal runaround,” muttered Jordan in frustration. “He drops a bomb in our laps, then he scurries for cover, never answering our questions.”

“I think that was his plan from the start,” said Beryl. “Tell us something so horrifying, we’ll be afraid to pursue it. Then our questions will stop.” She looked at Richard. “Am I right?”