Confessions: The Paris Mysteries (8 page)

Harry and I arrived back home
before dinner and told Jacob about the awesome Givenchy and Monet exhibitions at the Louvre, which we’d seen at a really fast run just before the museum closed for the day.

Naturally, we omitted telling our uncle about interviewing Katherine’s earnest and heartbroken boyfriend. And we didn’t tell him we’d stumbled into a mystery that had been so buried in time and erased by fire, I wasn’t sure it could be solved.

Hugo came downstairs to tell us, “I taught Jacob how to beatbox. It might not be his calling, though.”

I rubbed Hugo’s head affectionately until he squirmed away. Then we all sat down to a dinner of lamb chops
and green beans almondine, finishing the meal with a
mousse au chocolat
. This dinner Jacob had made with love made me sorry I’d doubted him, and yet I doubted him still.

After dinner had been cleared away, Jacob mooched around the downstairs rooms, watching the news, taking his computer for a spin, effectively blocking the entrance to the cellar, where unread papers called out to me.

Yes, Jacob had said he would tell me about Katherine, but I wanted answers I could verify before having a chat with my Israeli commando uncle.

Harry said he had some thinking and composing to do, and after he secluded himself in the back garden, I climbed the stairs to my room. I opened a closet and found a silk nightgown and matching robe made of cerise silk. As I put it on, the silk drifted over my head and floated around my shoulders like it had been lonely for me. I got into bed and thought about Katherine and Dominick’s doomed love story, and frankly, it didn’t track.

I do believe it’s possible to be rear-ended and not see the vehicle that struck you from behind. I believe it’s possible that in the inferno that followed, other drivers had been shocked and horrified by the flames and had missed seeing the guilty driver who, after rear-ending Dominick’s motorcycle, sped away.

But why had Uncle Pig threatened Dominick?

Why wasn’t he more concerned for Kath’s boyfriend, the other victim in this accident? Why hadn’t he waited for Dominick to recover and maybe helped him pursue legal matters arising from the accident? That would have been humane. And why hadn’t Dominick been allowed to contact my parents and tell them about Katherine’s last days?

That might have been a comfort to us all.

Instead, we’d had Katherine’s funeral without the boy who loved her. What could be sadder than that? Had Peter been at the funeral? I couldn’t remember.

After our parents died, I’d caught Peter smuggling documents out of my father’s office. He had said the papers belonged to Angel Pharmaceuticals and, therefore, to him.

Now I wondered if those papers were all about Katherine. Was there a connection between Katherine’s drug protocols and her death?

I had to find out.

I have a track record of solving crimes, starting with the deaths of our parents and continuing from that day, so that I even get respect from the NYPD.

So I say this not as a snotty teenager, but as a proven investigator:
Uncovering the mystery of Katherine’s death would be the most important investigation of my life.

That was my last conscious thought before I dropped into a black hole of sleep.

I had to swim up from the depths of my slumber to finally understand that Jacob was knocking frantically on my door.

“Tandy! Open up. It’s an emergency.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s late. Get dressed, Tandy. Harry is in trouble.”

I bounded out of bed in my borrowed peignoir and threw open the door.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Someone is
dead
. Harry has been arrested.”

Monsieur Morel surprised me.

I was slammed against the backseat as he floored the Mercedes, cutting through early-morning traffic and whizzing through intersections against lights, without incident or accident.

Hugo clung to me in the backseat as the car lurched and swayed and shot through the streets of Paris.

We couldn’t go fast enough for me.

My heart ached for Harry. Was he terrified? Had the police already decided he was guilty of something heinous? It had happened before, to Matty when his girlfriend had been found stabbed to death. The media had played judge and jury before the trial even started.

Before I could get swamped in bad memories, Monsieur Morel braked the car outside the Commissariat de Police. Car doors flew open, and with Jacob in the lead, Hugo and I nimbly skirted a long row of bike racks and iron fencing, edging through a line of police cars at the curb.

The police station was gray brick, lit from within with a stark, bluish-gray light, looking quite ominous under the circumstances.

Jacob held the glass doors for Hugo and me, saying, “Don’t worry, kids,” in a way that sounded like he was worried
sick
.

The police station looked like every one I’ve ever seen. There were community notices on the walls and long counters around the perimeter for filling out forms. There was a bank of folding chairs in the middle and one in a corner, and another all the way at the back of the room; a desk was manned by two uniformed officers, a big clock on the wall behind their heads.

In front of the desk were two staggered lines of drunks and thieves, and also parents and loved ones making inquiries.

As I stood in the entrance taking all this in, a man approached from the edge of my vision. He was chubby, bald, and wearing jeans, a gray plaid sports jacket, and
a scowl. That was when I recognized him. It was Gram Hilda’s senior attorney, Monsieur Delavergne.

He shook hands with Jacob, nodded hello in the direction of Hugo and me, and then walked us to the cluster of folding chairs in the corner of the room.

Jacob asked him, “Where do things stand?”

Delavergne spoke mainly in English but stopped every now and then to look for the correct word.

“Put simply, Harry went to a party, what I would call an out-of-control bacchanal with no adults on the premises. The girl who invited him to the party, Lulu Ferrara, overdosed and died in a bathroom.”

Jacob expressed his shock, then asked, “Did Harry give drugs to this girl?”

“He says not,” said Delavergne, “and there are no witnesses to the contrary, but the two of them came to the party together, and that makes Harry a person of interest—at the least.”

I shouted,
“Harry went with someone to a party? That’s what he did? That’s IT?”

Ignoring me, Delavergne went on. “Mademoiselle Ferrara’s father is deputy foreign attaché to the Italian Consulate. Obviously, Monsieur Ferrara is pulling out—how do you say?—the ‘big guns.’ ”

Jacob said, “Big guns be damned. What are the charges
against my nephew? If he’s not charged, they have to release him, isn’t that true in this country?”

Delavergne said, “At present he is being held as a—”

Even as Delavergne said
“Témoin important,”
I said, “Material witness.”

I knew the drill. Where I come from, material witnesses can be held for forty-eight hours, enough time to break down a hardened street thug into a sobbing baby. Harry was no hardened anything. With enough skill, a cagey cop could get him to confess to something he didn’t do.

I was sweating and chilled at the same time.

I was about to start shouting again when Delavergne turned his head toward the intake desk. He said to Jacob, “One moment. I’m being called.”

Delavergne went over to the desk sergeant, who took him through a side door. The door closed behind them, and a few minutes later, the sergeant returned to the desk alone.

We waited.

Hugo was crying softly. “This isn’t right. Harry didn’t kill
anyone
.”

I grabbed my brother and held him tight.

I said, “Jacob, do you trust Monsieur Delavergne?”

“He’s a good lawyer. In fact, he’s very good.”

Of course I noticed that Jacob hadn’t answered my question.

Jacob, Hugo, and I hunkered down
in plastic chairs in the police station’s lobby for three endless hours.

My uncle and I took turns pacing. Sometimes we spoke to each other in screaming whispers, then went dead quiet so we didn’t wake Hugo, who was sleeping on the floor at our feet.

Finally, as sunlight pierced the front windows, Monsieur Delavergne came through the metal door with his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

I jumped to my feet, stepping on Hugo’s hand.

“Owwwwww!”

“Sorry, Hugo.”

I looked at Harry coming across the room with Delavergne. Harry was free—right? He looked terrible—both weak and pale, like he’d spent the night running on a treadmill. I’m sure the all-night interrogation must have felt exactly like that. But all that mattered now was that we had him back.

Hugo called out to Harry and started running to him. Jacob and I were only steps behind. We all hugged Harry really hard, but he hardly hugged us back.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “What did they do to you?”

“I’m really mad,” he said. “Does that count for anything?”

Delavergne said, “You’ll be all right,
mon fils
. Jacob, you can take this young man home. There may be more questions until Monsieur Ferrara accepts the facts of his daughter’s death, but right now, Harry is free.”

Delavergne had fought for my brother, and he had
won
. I felt a little explosion of intense love for the man, until Delavergne said to our uncle, “Jacob, you and I have to meet. The board will have to be informed of this situation. On the other hand—they may already know.”

I whipped around, looked out through the front windows, and saw a pack of people jostling for position behind the short iron fence on the median strip.

My heart, already exhausted from today’s workout, sank.

The
press
had found us.
Mega
-press. And then we were out on the street with Harry.

From the insignias on their caps, jackets, and satellite vans, the reporters were French, American, German, and English, both TV and print journalists, all of them shouting.

“Harry Angel.
Harry!
”

“Harry. Over here. Look this way.”

“Did you give drugs to Lulu Ferrara?”

Monsieur Delavergne, Jacob, and Monsieur Morel formed a wall of muscle, and I followed right behind them with a brother under each arm.

Harry hissed to me, “I didn’t hurt anyone. You know that’s the last thing I would ever do.”

I said, “I know that. Who knows you better than me?”

We were only steps away from the safety of the car when Harry’s knees buckled. He gasped, his eyes rolled back, and then my brother dropped to the pavement.

I screamed,
“Harry! Harry, what’s wrong? Jacob, help!”

Harry was shaking horribly, twitching and foaming as the press jumped the median strip barrier. Oh my God, what was wrong with Harry? Had he been poisoned with whatever had killed Lulu?

Was he dying?

Hugo threw himself on top of Harry, covering him as best he could, protecting him from the clicking cameras and the rolling tape. I pulled at Hugo. “Hugo, no. He has to breathe.”

I heard Jacob directing Delavergne and Morel to lift Harry into the car. It was all happening too slowly.

I pushed Hugo into the backseat after Harry, then scrambled in behind him and closed the door. Harry was moaning, still shuddering and twitching.

“We’ve got to get to the hospital. Fast!”
I shouted.

Jacob said to us, “Buckle up.” And to Morel, “Let’s go.”