25

Benjamin was impatient to get to their destination, as it was all coming together. But as soon as they hit the traffic on the beltway, he knew it wouldn’t be quick or easy. The winemaker hated driving in this aggressive city.

“I have no idea why we’re rushing to Paris, boss,” Virgile said, opening the passenger-side door at one of the city’s endless red lights. “But you might as well let me take the wheel. You’re too worked up to drive.”

Benjamin didn’t protest and traded places. He sat back as Virgile skillfully threaded the Mercedes from one lane to the next and then back again to make time. An hour later they were at their destination, the Open Air Productions studio in the eleventh arrondissement.

Virgile found an unexpected parking space in Le Square Gardette. They got out and walked across the park, with its charming music kiosk, profusion of trees and flowers, and boules courts. Miraculously protected from the commotion of the boulevards, this enclosed neighborhood was a hidden treasure in the heart of the capital. Benjamin let out a sigh.

The company’s office, rented space in a former haberdashery on the Rue Saint Ambroise, was far from luxurious. A slim woman in her twenties was sitting by herself at an austere eighties-style reception desk. Two photos and a potted plant on her desk were the only decorations.

She rose when they came in and walked over to shake their hands. Benjamin glanced at Virgile. His assistant had noted her short black curls and sparkling green eyes. Before he knew it, Virgile was flirting with her and had managed to get her name: Natalia. She was of Portuguese descent and had been working at Open Air for just a few months. Benjamin pulled him by the sleeve, reminding him why they were there.

Natalia directed them down a narrow spiral staircase to the editing room. Liza was waiting for them.

“Ah, here are our two film stars, now,” she said fondly, turning to a fiftyish man with red mustache and sturdy frame. “This is Henri, the engineer who’s collaborating with me on the editing.”

Henri nodded and tipped his black felt cap.

“He’s not quite set up yet. We weren’t expecting you until the beginning of the week, but we’re accommodating people, aren’t we, Henri?”

Once again, Henri nodded.

“He’ll just need a few minutes,” Liza said. “Why don’t we slip out so he can get ready for us. May I get you a cup of tea, Mr. Cooker? And coffee for you, Virgile?

“Yes, we’d appreciate that,” Benjamin answered. “And please, call me Benjamin.”

Liza asked Natalia to get the tea and coffee and ushered the men into her office. Although it was spartan, one of the walls was filled with framed awards and certificates of achievement. Benjamin walked over and studied them.

“I’ve been wondering, Liza,” he said. “You’re clearly a very talented director. Have you ever considered doing films?”

“As a matter of fact, that was my dream when I was studying at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. George Lucas of Star Wars fame went there, you know. But even though I was able to land jobs in television—on some major shows, in fact—I could never make it in films. In Hollywood, female directors are marginalized. I’ve heard that some male actors refuse to take directions from a woman.”

“Unbelievable,” Virgile said.

“So I’ve made my career in documentaries. I’m not complaining, mind you. This line of work suits me. I can educate and inform our viewers, as I am with your project.”

Henri opened the door and stuck his head in. “We’re ready for you.”

“Shall we?” Liza said, getting up. She led the men to the editing room, where she pulled up chairs for her visitors. Natalia arrived with their refreshments, and they took their places in front of the expansive desk and multiple flat screens, with Henri at the helm.

Before he could do anything, Benjamin turned to Liza. “I realize what an imposition this is, but could we postpone the viewing of all the rushes? There’s one set in particular that I need to see right away.”

Liza stiffened. “But we hurried to put everything together so you could view it at a time that was convenient for you.”

“I understand, Liza. I promise we’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

Liza sighed. “All right, Benjamin. What is it that you need to see?”

“The clips from the party at David Navarre’s château. What do you have?”

“We have him shaking your hand and saying a few words to you. We also filmed him drinking, but his face is as red as the Philippe Alliet Vieilles Vignes they were serving that night.”

“What else?”

“Let’s take a look.”

Henri turned to the control panel and brought up the clips. Benjamin watched the servers, wearing the masks of perfectly trained minions as they made their way around sweaty dancers brought in from a modeling school, while hipsters mingled shamelessly with wheeler dealers who looked more like car salesmen than movie moguls. A few naïve-looking souls, meanwhile, wandered here and there. The ear-shattering tech music drowned out any dialogue.

Virgile came into view. He was dancing with Simone. As she laughed and chugged her Champagne, the camera panned the scene: the buffet table, the courtyard, a couple making out, and a singer about to vomit in a Medici vase. Back in the ballroom, several young actors were arguing. Dr. Molinier and his wife, probably ready to call it a night, were looking bored. And David was drinking—staggering a few minutes later into the arms of a reality-show host. The camera swung to Simone again. Now she was playfully sticking out her tongue at a friend.

“Stop! You see that young man with gelled hair slinking between the dancers, his tray raised above their heads?” Benjamin said, pointing to the screen in earnest. “Go back, not too far. There! No, right there. Stop!”

“What about the guy?” Virgile asked, frowning. “What’s so interesting?”

“That’s not a guy, Virgile. That’s a woman. And I know who she is.”

“What are you talking about, boss?”

“I’ll tell you shortly, son.” He turned to Henri. “Could you zoom in and print out the image? I’d also like you to play with it a bit, if you could.”

The engineer swiveled around in his chair. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

Benjamin huddled with him briefly, standing over his shoulder and once again pointing to the large screen.

“Just give me a few minutes,” Henri said after he knew exactly what Benjamin was asking for. When he had finally worked his wizardry, Liza Stechelmann gasped. “That’s Mathilde Desloges. What was she doing at David’s party?”

“As you can see, she was passing herself off as someone else. But she made a fatal misstep. Can you tell me more about her?”

“As far as I know, she got her start in an appliance commercial. And then she landed a small role in a limited-run television series. After that, she attended the international drama school, Cours Florent, in Paris. She went on to stage productions but didn’t manage to win any major roles in film or television. To tell the truth, I don’t understand why such a good-looking and talented young actress never managed to land a star-making part.”

“As it happens, her acting stint as a server didn’t work out either.”