The Paris Secret (7 page)

“Calm down, Maya,” I whispered. I didn’t have time to panic. I’d have to return the ring when this mess was over. I just hoped Dr. Hewitt hadn’t called the police and reported it stolen.

I located my guidebook and flipped through it until I found the address for the U.S. Embassy.

On my way back off the island, I passed by Berthillon’s again. A familiar-looking woman with short brown hair and glasses stood in line for ice cream. Meryl Berman! I couldn’t believe my luck.

“Meryl!” I shouted. “Meryl, hey! How are you? You left the hotel before I got back from the police station. Are you okay?”

“Maya,” she said, slowly looking around. “Where’d you come from?”

To say she didn’t seem pleased to see me was an understatement. A vacant look in her eyes made me wonder if she was on medication.

“You okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

I was skeptical but didn’t push it. “Look, Meryl, I really need your help. Did you tell the police about everything you saw the other night? It’s really important.”

Meryl’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, that poor woman.” She shook her head. “That poor, poor woman.”

“I know. It was horrible. But I need to know if you got a good look at her in the shower. Do you remember seeing something in her neck?”

“Remember? I don’t want to remember! I’ve been doing everything I can to forget.”

“Did they ask you about seeing something in her neck?”

She shook her head no.

“But you did see it, right?” I was getting frantic.

“I saw something. But I can’t say what it was or wasn’t.”

“That’s okay, Meryl,” I said hopefully. “The police don’t believe me about the corkscrew because it’s missing. They think I had something to do with her death and I need you to tell them you saw something in her neck, too. I need you to back up my story so they’ll know I’m not the one who removed it. Please? This is really important.”

Meryl shook her head and tears filled her eyes. “Please leave me alone. I just want to finish me vacation in peace. Ted went to look for a loo. If he comes back and sees you here he won’t be happy.”

“I don’t give a damn about Ted. I need your help! Please, Meryl.” I don’t know if it was the desperation in my voice or that she just wanted to get rid of me, but Meryl slowly nodded her head yes.

“Thank you. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really important.” I pulled out the card Captain Bellange gave me.

“What’s all this then?” exclaimed Ted Berman. Berman snatched the card from me and tore it up. He grabbed his wife’s arm.

“The police need to talk to Meryl again about what she saw in my room the other night. It’s important, Mr. Berman.”

“Stop harassing my missus! Look at her! Can’t you see she’s traumatized? She already told them cops all they need to know. She ain’t got nothing else to say. Now fuck off!”

He pulled her out of the line and down the street. “Wait! Meryl!” I shouted in vain.

Meryl looked back and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and then they were gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

People in line began to whisper. Tears burned in my eyes. Not wanting to make more of a scene, I figured I should get out of there fast. I ran all the way across the Pont de la Tournelle. As I came off the bridge, the hem of the too long pants I was wearing got caught on my heel and I went down face-first on the pavement. My bag flew into the middle of the street. And as if I hadn’t suffered quite enough, I watched in horror as a cab rolled over it.

I’d also skinned my knee and it was on fire. I limped over to the curb. The traffic showed no signs of slowing down. Car after car ran over the bag, flattening it to a canvas pancake. Just as I was about to give up on getting my bag back again, a man on a black Vespa took pity on me and scooped it up. I gave him a teary “
Merci.
”

Realizing I seriously needed to chill out—I hobbled over to a café and ordered a bottle of red wine. I downed a glass before I had the courage to examine the damage.

Miraculously, my cell phone was okay as it had been at the very bottom of my bag. My sunglasses were bent in half. They snapped in two when I tried to bend them back. No big loss. They were cheap knock-offs. But my expensive digital camera was completely crushed and the insides were rattling around inside. The cover over the battery compartment was cracked and stuck, but I wanted to try to get the batteries out before they leaked. I pounded the remains of the camera on the table in frustration, and the battery cover bounced off, but there were no batteries. Something small, rectangular and silver was nestled in the compartment. I pulled it out and recognized it as Juliet Rice’s pendant. She must have hidden it in my camera. But I couldn’t figure when, let alone why she could have done it. We’d only been in the room together twice and the first time she was definitely wearing the necklace. It had to have been when she came back to the room, after Simon confronted her on the bridge, and while I was in the bathroom.

I ran my fingers over the engraved
J
on the front and then turned it over. There was a small raised mark on the back. I couldn’t make out what it was. I held my empty wine glass in front to magnify it and discovered a tiny infinity symbol with an
S
and an
M.
The Society of Moret’s symbol. Why on earth would it be on Juliet’s pendant? I must have inadvertently pressed it because a retractable USB prong popped out of the bottom. It wasn’t a pendant at all. It was a flash drive. Now all I needed was a computer.

According to my guidebook, the nearest Internet café was on boulevard Saint-Michel, near the Luxembourg Gardens. Since my knee was sore and aching, I opted for the metro. The Micro Café consisted of two long, narrow rooms with computers lining the walls. I paid two euros for thirty minutes of computer time and settled in at one of the available Macs.

After I punched in the access code given to me by the clerk, I plugged Juliet’s flash drive into the computer’s USB port, and an icon with the initials
JR
popped up on the desktop. I clicked on it, only to be disappointed when a login screen popped up. The flash drive was password protected. I tried to guess the password, but it was slow going. The European keyboards weren’t arranged the same way as the keyboards back home and I had to hunt and peck. I tried
Stanford, art, art history and professor.
When those didn’t work, I threw in
Moret, Society, nun, Mutus Liber, book
and a dozen or so other words without success. In the meantime, the café had filled. Several people patiently waited for their turns near the front counter.

A timer popped up in the bottom right of the computer screen, indicating that I had about five minutes left on my allotted time. I knew I’d have to give up my computer and get back into the queue if I wanted to use it again. I gave it one more try and typed in
Dior.
I was immediately greeted with menu of dates that went back as far as 1978. I clicked on a random entry and the screen filled with lists of numbers and symbols. The file was encrypted. I clicked on two more entries and found those files were encrypted as well before my computer screen reverted back to the “Welcome” menu. My time was up.

The next stop was the U.S. Embassy. Hopefully, someone there could advise me on my current situation. I was hoping the key to Juliet’s murder was on her encrypted flash drive and I planned on handing it over to someone at the embassy.

One of the things mentioned over and over in all the books I read before coming to Paris warned tourists who wanted to remain unnoticed by muggers and pickpockets not to stare at people on the metro. The message was reinforced strenuously by Monsieur Marcel on the bus ride from the airport to our hotel. So, following instructions, I avoided making any eye contact with anyone. I sat next to the window and stared out.

It wasn’t very long before I sensed someone was staring at me. An elegantly dressed older woman reading
Le Monde,
a Parisian newspaper. She kept looking from me to her paper. She certainly didn’t look like a pickpocket, but who knew? If I were at home in Columbus riding the COTA, I’d have looked her in the eye and said hello. But I wasn’t at home. I ignored her and turned back to the window. Her cigarette-roughened voice startled me.

“
Est ce vous?
” She gestured toward the newspaper in her hands.

“
Je ne parle pas francais.
” I said, ignoring the paper and hoping she’d get the hint that I didn’t speak her language and wanted to be left alone. The woman was undeterred and quickly switched to English.

“She could be your twin, no?” She gestured again to the front page of
Le Monde.

Frustrated, I finally turned to look at what she was pointing at. The shock made me sit upright. Splashed across the front page of the newspaper were two composite sketches of a man and a woman. Simon and me. And though the sketches were pretty generic and lacking small details such as the diamond stud in Simon’s left ear and the small beauty mark above my right eyebrow, there was clearly enough detail for anyone observant enough to recognize the resemblance. The headline read,
Couples cherchés dans la mort de tir à Versailles.
The woman was watching me closely and I knew I had to keep my cool if for no other reason than so she could translate what the article said. I smiled at her and willed my voice not to shake.

“Maybe a little around the eyes. But my mouth is fuller don’t you think?” I said with a nonchalant laugh.

“Perhaps.” The woman looked skeptical.

I sure hoped no one was listening to our conversation. But the only person close to us was a filthy bearded man with grime-encrusted fingernails who was sleeping in the seat across the aisle.

“Who are they? Can you read it for me?” I leaned forward. She seemed more than happy to oblige. It took everything in me to remain calm as she relayed the grim details. The headline read, Couple Sought in Shooting Death at Versailles. According to the article, a maintenance worker at the Chateau de Versailles, identified as Bruno Allard, was shot and killed during a car jacking on the palace grounds. The only witness to the crime, who asked to remain anonymous, saw the couple attack and shoot Monsieur Allard when he tried to stop them from stealing his maintenance truck. The witness tried to stop the couple from leaving but was knocked down by the truck as it fled the scene. The composite sketches were based on the witness’s descriptions. The article went on to say authorities were still looking for the truck and that the couple was armed and highly dangerous. The witness was treated for minor injuries at a local hospital and released.

“
Mon Dieu,
” exclaimed the woman when she finished reading me the article. “What is the world coming to? So many crazies roaming the streets.”

She could say that again. I’d stepped out of the frying pan into a bonfire. And by helping me, Simon was getting burned, too. Not wanting to leave a witness behind, the asshole who killed Juliet and attacked me, must have killed that poor statue cleaner after we drove off in his truck. Juliet Rice and Bruno Allard’s killer was a material witness while Simon and I were Bonnie and Clyde.

“That’s horrible. I hope they catch them.” I shook my head. We arrived at the next stop, which wasn’t the one I needed but I had to get off so I could think. I stood to go. “
Merci, madame.
” She nodded but was still looking at me strangely and I had to work hard to keep from running out the door.

I paced up and down the metro platform trying to figure out what to do next. If the newspapers had just hit the newsstand as I suspected, then it was possible Simon hadn’t seen it yet. He could be walking around looking for me, unaware that he was a wanted man. I couldn’t decide whether I should go to Luc’s apartment to warn him since, after all, he had saved my life, or go to the U.S. Embassy as planned and leave him to his own devices. After all, he was the one who refused to go to the police in the first place. Not that it would have mattered since it was the “witness’s” word against ours.

Then there was the matter of the truck. Neither of us had bothered wiping our prints from it before we dumped it. It was only a matter of time before they found the truck and ran our prints. I suddenly remembered I’d been fingerprinted the night of Juliet’s murder, which meant I was screwed. As bad as I felt for Simon, I needed to get to the embassy and tell my side of the story before I was arrested. Then I suddenly remembered I still had Simon’s business card. I could call and warn him.

I was just about to hunt for the card in my bag when I noticed the filthy bearded man from the train I’d just exited. He stood about twenty feet away from me showing a baby-faced, uniformed police officer the newspaper cover and pointing at me. He must have overheard the entire conversation between the woman and me. The officer and I made eye contact and I froze. He squinted at me then back at the newspaper. The lighting on the platform wasn’t exactly the greatest. Quickly, I walked away, heading for the stairs to the street above.

“
Madame!
” He called out. I kept walking.

“
Excusez-moi, madame!
” His voice was louder this time, more commanding. I still didn’t stop. “
Arrêt, si vous plait! Arrêt maintenant!
”

Blood was pounding in my ears as I rounded the corner. I pushed through the turnstile and felt the strap of my bag get caught, pulling me back. Crap! I tugged frantically at it. The officer rounded the corner just as I managed to get the strap free. Pushing past people, I ran like hell and took the steps to street level two at a time. My skinned knee made each step painful. The officer behind me yelled.

“
Arrêt, police!
”

I was almost at the top of the stairs. A cab was idling at the curb several feet away—just a few more steps and I’d be able to jump into that cab and escape. A hand grasped my ankle. The officer had dived face-first onto the staircase to reach me. He was lying in the middle of the stairway on his stomach. He was reaching for his gun with his free hand. Instinctively, I kicked out. The officer struggled to hold on to my ankle but in doing so bumped against a young woman walking up the stairs backward, pulling a baby stroller. She lost her grip.

“
Mon bébé!
” the young woman screamed.

The stroller bumped down the steps. He looked back at me, and for just a split second, I could tell he was torn. But he let go of my ankle and flew down the steps to catch the stroller before it could hit bottom and overturn. It was the break I needed. I ran up the remaining steps and practically flew into the cab.

The U.S. Embassy in France was located just off the Place de la Concorde. Because several tour buses were blocking the street near the embassy’s entrance, I got out in front of the Hôtel de Crillon, which was next door and across a narrow side street, I quickly maneuvered around the well-dressed, wealthy people coming and going from the hotel, and the abundance of picture snapping. The security around the embassy was understandably heavy with a multitude of white concrete pylons and metal gates in front of the main entrance. There had been similar reinforcements around all the government buildings on my recent trip to D.C. It should have made me feel secure. Instead, I was afraid that at any moment one of the guards would throw me facedown on the ground and point a gun to my head.

I went inside the embassy, and after wandering aimlessly, I finally got up the nerve to ask where I could find help with a serious legal issue. I found out from an embassy employee that I needed to go to the consulate office. But by the time I finally located the consulate it was closed. The hours posted indicated that it was only open from 9:00 a.m. to noon. I was more than two hours too late. I sagged against the door. I’d just have to come back tomorrow. In the meantime, I had to warn Simon. That is, if he hadn’t already been arrested, or was even speaking to me after running away from him. There was only one way to find out. I needed to call him. Unfortunately, I soon discovered I’d lost the business card he gave me. This just wasn’t my day. Seeing as he’d saved my life, I owed it to him to warn him in person.

I left the embassy and headed back to the hotel, thinking it would be the best place to catch a cab. While I waited for a cab to stop, I happened to notice a group of photographers snapping pictures of two men, one in an expensive suit, and the other dressed more casually. They stood posing next to a stretch limo. I didn’t pay them much mind until the voice of the more casually dressed of the two men caught my attention. My blood ran cold. Tattoo Man, my attacker, was standing right there, laughing and talking to the man in the gray suit.

Thankfully, he was oblivious to me, so I took advantage of the opportunity to get a good look at him. I didn’t see the snake tattoo since his long sleeves covered it, but what was easy to see was the cut across the bridge of his nose and the nasty purple bruise on his right cheek, courtesy of Simon. Hoping I was safe with so many people around, I crept a little closer and stood on the other side of a large luggage rack parked near the curb to try and hear what they were saying. But as soon as I moved, the men got into the limo. Who was that guy? I headed over to one of the hotel’s uniformed doormen.

“
Excusez-moi, monsieur. Parlez-vous Anglais?
” His eyebrows shot up as he took in my slightly disheveled appearance but to his credit he smiled politely, if somewhat insincerely.

“
Oui, madame.
How may I assist you?”

“The man in the white shirt that just left in that limo. I think I may have gone to college with him. Do you know if his name is John James?”

The doorman let out a sharp, harsh laugh. “
Non, madame.
The man you are referring to is Monsieur Vincent Garland, Ambassador Garland’s son.”

“The American ambassador?” I was unable to keep the shrill disbelief from my voice. He had to be kidding.

“
Oui, madame,
Ernest Garland, the American ambassador. His son, Vincent, is a attorney.”

“You’re sure?” The doorman sighed heavily. His allotment of good humor spent on someone who wasn’t a guest at the hotel was limited, and I was about to tap it out.

“
Absolument.
He luncheons here quite often,
madame.
”

I stared at him but he didn’t blink an eye. He wasn’t kidding. I was faint.

“Are you okay,
madame?
”

Hell no, I wasn’t okay because when it came right down to it, who were the French police going to believe, me—a murder suspect—or an ambassador’s son who was also an attorney and had diplomatic immunity. Even if I had proof he killed Juliet, he was untouchable unless the U.S. revoked his immunity, and I wasn’t holding my breath. I couldn’t believe it. I was officially fucked.

“I’m fine.
Merci, monsieur.
” I pressed a five-euro note into his palm, which brought a real smile to his face. He thanked me by putting me into a cab. I gave the driver Luc’s address.

If I wondered how things could get any worse, I was answered by the sight of the police barricade outside Simon’s brother’s apartment on rue de Douai. I had the cab drop me off around the corner and then walked back to join the crowd of people gathered at the barricade, careful to keep my head down and not make eye contact with anyone. Two police cars were parked out front and I strained to see if Simon was in either of them. He wasn’t as far as I could tell. My heart was beating so loudly I was surprised no one could hear it. They must have found the truck. Officers were leaving the building carrying items I recognized from Luc’s apartment—including his laptop—but still no Simon. Where was he? Had they already taken him away?

Lieutenant Bernier emerged from the building followed by Captain Bellange, who had a Gauloises dangling from the corner of his mouth. I took off walking in the opposite direction and didn’t stop until I came to a place identified by a green sign as Square Berlioz.

I had no idea who Hector Berlioz was but I hoped he didn’t mind me hiding out in his square. I sat on an empty bench. I was completely exhausted and the enormity of my situation hit me like a Mack truck. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I did nothing to stop them.

“Maybe I should just turn myself in,” I said to the pigeon pecking the ground around the bench.

“Like hell you will.”

“Simon!” He was standing behind my bench looking just as he had that morning. Not so much as a hair out of place or a worry line marring his handsome face.

“Shh! Not so loud.” He looked around with sly smile. “I’m a wanted man.” I punched him in the arm.

“That’s not funny. We’re in so much trouble. That poor man whose truck we stole is…is dead!”

I really didn’t want him to see me cry but couldn’t stop the flow of tears. He put his arms around me. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed. He stroked my hair and held me tight and it was a good thing, too, or I might have slid into a heap on the ground.

“It’s going to be okay, Maya.”

“How?” I pushed away from him. “How can this possibly be okay? This is as far from okay as it gets! Do you even have any idea who the man who tried to kill us is?”

“Vincent Garland, Ambassador Earnest Garland’s son.” He reached out and put a finger under my chin, gently closing my mouth after it fell open. “Look, I told you I have contacts everywhere, including the DCJP headquarters. When those sketches of us hit the paper, I called my contact to find out who this so-called witness was. And that’s not all I found out.”