15

SearchArt was dead quiet. Sophie, who usually sat behind the reception desk, was nowhere to be seen. Good, Marion thought. There was nobody around to sense her inner turmoil. All she could think about was Alain Ozenberg.

This was weird, though. Sophie was always at her desk. It was late in the morning but too early for lunch.

Marion opened her office door. Then Bruno’s. Nobody home. Just when she was about to inspect the last office she heard someone racing down the stairs from La Medici’s office. She turned around.

“Sophie?”

“Good. You’re here. I was all by myself. You know how much La Medici hates it when no one else is in the office.” Sophie took on a bossy tone whenever their fearless leader was away.

“Where is she?”

“She left yesterday for the New York Antique Fair. You forgot she was going, didn’t you?” Sophie glared at Marion. Was she supposed to feel guilty? “La Medici’s already called for an update on the Duverger case.”

Even when she was on the other side of the ocean, the hounding never stopped.

“What about Bruno?” Marion asked. “I thought he’d be here.”

“He’s at the doctor’s office. He left work with a stomach thing, but he didn’t look sick to me. I don’t know what’s gotten into everyone. You’re all off in a hundred different directions.”

“Do I have any messages?” Marion was tired of Sophie’s complaints.

“Detective Combes called, and Bruno has a file he wants you to see.”

Marion started toward Bruno’s office. “Okay, Marion, focus,” she muttered once she had closed the door behind her. It was time to put aside thoughts of Ozenberg—along with his voice, his moves, and their innovative lovemaking positions. She stared at Bruno’s collection of art books, all perfectly aligned. Not a single spine hung over the edge of the shelves. Bruno had probably hidden the file in an old book about the Museo del Oro. This was how they passed documents to each other whenever one of them was out. The boss methodically checked computers, drawers, and trashcans for messages. Marion had asked Bruno to compile every article on Magni that he could find. She wanted to know exactly where and how the man had died.

Indeed, a small catalog envelope was tucked between the pages of the book. And inscribed neatly in big black letters on the front was her father’s name. Bruno’s OCD came across in the smallest of details.

“Couldn’t find the auction catalog,” Bruno had written in a note. “Go straight to the source. Call Mr. Rambert, and tell him we’re colleagues. I’ve got more news for you. Will tell you in person.”

Mr. Rambert, how about that.

Marion sat down and tried to calm herself. Under different circumstances, she’d have paced in front of the phone before making a call aimed at prying out the names of the sculptures’ owners. But the fact that the auctioneer had pounced on her like a vulture made her feel more daring. Then again, she thought, it could be the Ozenberg Effect.

She entered the number and asked for Mr. Rambert. His secretary, who had most likely heard him spew her name dozens of times, put her through immediately.

“Our conversation was a bit brief the other day. I wasn’t able to call you back until now,” she said, paying phone etiquette no mind.

“I understand. How may I help you?”

“I need you to clear something up for me.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I recently learned that you handled three sculptures belonging to Edmond Magni at an auction a few years ago. Those were the only ones he ever sold. Do you know why?”

“Oh, there was nothing surprising about that,” Mr. Rambert responded without hesitation. “Your father said he was bored and wanted a fresh start. That happens to collectors like him all the time. When they’ve been at the top of their game for a while, they start looking for new conquests.”

So that was it? He wanted a clean slate? The answer didn’t satisfy Marion. “Why just three sculptures? Why not ten or a hundred?”

“We had to build hype for his first auction. Everyone was ready to jump in. He had us show only the most extraordinary pieces in order to surprise the market and keep them in suspense until the next sale. Those were the most breathtaking auctions anyone had ever seen. We agreed to organize the next ones as quickly as possible to keep up the momentum.”

“So what happened next?”

“Your father was taking his time to make the arrangements, and then, unfortunately—”

“Did you know which pieces he was planning to sell next?” she asked quickly, afraid the man would clam up.

“Do you intend to sell the collection?”

The hunger in the auctioneer’s voice was palpable. He’d been an easy victim to bait.

“Yes, part of it. But not before putting together a solid catalog…”

“We can help with that.”

“I know. That’s also why I called. I need to know who owns the sold-off pieces so I can provide a detailed description of them—assuming the owners agree to be mentioned.”

“Two of them probably won’t have a problem with being mentioned. They’re both professionals who’re used to seeing their names in print. But I can’t guarantee they’re still in possession of the objects. I’ll ask.”

“I’d prefer to do it myself. I don’t want to arouse any suspicion. If you intervene, they might get the impression that I’m trying to sell. I want to be as discreet as possible. Furthermore, I don’t want any middlemen trying to take advantage of me. My father trusted you, but at this point, we’re not that well acquainted. It’s my hope that over time we can develop the same kind of working relationship.”

Marion nervously tapped her pen. He made a timid attempt to resist.

“You know the importance of professional confidentiality. I cannot divulge the names of the buyers without their consent.”

Marion was silent, waiting for the man to be uncomfortable enough to cede ground. It didn’t take long.

“One of the buyers is an appraiser who works with us regularly. He wasn’t particularly attached to the piece, so he could have sold it. His name’s Laurent Duverger. The second buyer was Alain Ozenberg, an antiques dealer.” Mr. Rambert reeled off their names so quickly and quietly, Marion would have had to ask him to repeat them if she didn’t know exactly who they were. “You’ll have to forgive me for keeping the third buyer’s identity a secret. This one is a special case—one of our more important clients and highly sensitive. But don’t worry. This person will agree eventually. Actually, I think the buyer will be flattered.”

What was most obvious to Marion was that Mr. Rambert didn’t seem to be aware of Chartier’s death. He was also trying to maintain his connection with her. Nonetheless, she had her information now and was seething at Duverger. If he still owned the sculpture, he had what he needed to be an unavoidable obstacle.

“Which piece did Laurent Duverger buy? Do you remember?” she asked.

“Yes, it was a jaguar. A magnificent piece.”

“One more question, and I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

“Did my father know the buyers’ names?”

“He was in the room with me, and when it comes to gamesmanship, your father was a master. I got the impression that he intuitively knew who would buy the pieces. He looked happier about the buyers than the prices the items fetched.”

“That seems strange, doesn’t it?”

“The word ‘strange’ was used a lot with your father.”

Marion arranged a meeting for the following week and hung up. She was furious.

“That son of a bitch!” she yelled. “Duverger was screwing with me! Sending me cryptic messages through Gaudin! If he thinks he’s going to steer me off course by playing puppet master, he’s got another thing coming, They’re all twisted, incapable of going through life without lying and manipulating. My father was exactly like the others—hiding the owners’ names from me when he knew them all! What was the point? If it’s because he liked scavenger hunts—damn, I’m too old for this!”

She was flipping through the articles left by Bruno, when Sophie put her head through the door. “Combes is here to see you.”

“We don’t have an appointment. Tell him I’m busy,” she said, looking up to see the detective taking Sophie’s place in the doorway.

“Marion, when were you going to tell me?”

Marion glanced at her bag by the door, which still had the sculpture in it, then looked back at Combes and put on a gracious smile.

“Tell you what, Didier?”

“About Magni. I’m investigating a major pre-Columbian piece of artwork that once belonged to the man, and you don’t think it would interest me to know that you’ve just inherited his entire collection? Now I understand why you were so tense. What else aren’t you telling me?”

Marion was at a loss for words. “I should have just assumed that everyone knows,” she told herself. “What do I do now? I can’t possibly tell him I also have the figure he’s looking for.”

“Well?”

“Listen, Didier, it’s been a lot for me to take in. The man abandoned me as a child.”

They looked at each other for a minute. Then Marion started shuffling through the papers on the desk. “I was just going through some articles about his death. Want to look them over with me?”

He made a face, stepped into the office, pulled up a chair, and picked up a newspaper.

“Look at this, from La Prensa. A daily Peruvian newspaper, I assume. A short death notice. ‘A Frenchman by the name of Edmond Magni has died in Pacaipampa,’” Combes said after a few minutes.

“Didier, I didn’t know you could speak Spanish.”

“There are quite a few things that you don’t know about me, Marion.”

“Pacaipampa, Pacaipampa,” Marion repeated. “It’s got a melodious ring to it.” It sounded light and ethereal. What a strange place to die.

This was the first time she had seen the precise location of her father’s death. The French journalists and her attorney had only mentioned some remote town in the Andes, probably because it sounded mysterious and in keeping with his image as pope of the art world.

Marion woke up the computer and typed in Pacaipampa. It took a few seconds for the map to come up on the screen.

“It’s in northern Peru, bordering Ecuador, some fifty miles from the Piura region,” she said, thinking that was where the sculptures had been found. It wasn’t far from Las Lomas, either, and its necropolis, the one Chris had talked about.

Questions raced through Marion’s brain. Was Chris right? Had the sculptures come from Las Lomas? Why hadn’t Pacaipampa shown up anywhere else? Had the name of the village been covered up to avoid any association with the pillaging of the necropolis?

Marion grabbed the newspaper out of the detective’s hands and anxiously flipped through the rest of it. Its yellowed pages made it look older than it actually was. According to the date, it had been printed barely three years earlier.

Meanwhile, Combes started reading the famous American interview with Magni out loud.

“All collectors experience the high of acquisition, whether it’s unexpected or longed-for. But the thrilling acquisition—the acquisition that electrifies the mind and body—is rare. It might happen just once in a lifetime. Perhaps the item is too expensive, or it’s too hard to obtain. Very few men are willing to risk it all on an object they believe in, despite the consequences.”

Marion struggled to control her breathing. She had accused her father of being calculating and Machiavellian. She had judged him for his ridiculous and distrustful behavior. But after concealing a sculpture from the police and sleeping with their scapegoat, that statement sounded frightfully relatable.

She watched Combes as he continued to read, hoping her discomfort didn’t show, while questions bounced around in her head: “I’m risking it all, but for what? Money? A challenge? To find out about my father and his past? To recognize myself as Magni’s daughter, envied and desired, no longer a scared and lonely little creature who thought she’d never measure up?”

There was so much elation and intoxication in this realization, Marion let herself run with it. But what about Magni? Had he ever questioned it all: his reputation, his beliefs, his lifestyle?

Marion understood now that he had been capable of doing anything. Organizing grave-robbing networks? So what? This illicit trade had been justified for many years. Why couldn’t she do the same? The raids allowed thousands of impoverished families to stay alive. Few works of pre-Columbian art were acquired in a legitimate way. Museums were full of objects from Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and Etruscan civilizations. They needed to be preserved. And Peru certainly didn’t have the means to preserve its heritage. Just a day ago, she would have rebelled against this kind of litany. But now the situation had changed. She saw the big picture. If she wanted the inheritance and was willing to accept the consequences, she would have to be swift and cynical. Avoiding culpability seemed so simple, she wondered whether the real problem with these sculptures was the fact that they had been plundered. Maybe that wasn’t why people were killing each other. The question posed by Didier Combes remained unanswered: what was so important about the warrior and its companion pieces that people were willing to kill for them?

Instinctively, Marion glanced at her bag. It was sitting by the door of Bruno’s office, and the sculpture was still in it. She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t want to leave it at SearchArt or at her place. But she couldn’t keep carrying it around. She did have one idea—Chris. His lab had tons of boxes that nobody ever opened.

Combes had looked up from his reading and was watching her tap the desk with her pen.

“They all say the same thing,” she said. “It seems he died of a heart attack. There are no details other than what the Peruvian paper printed: the name of the town where he died.”

“Why don’t you Google it?” Combes said.

Marion focused on him for a minute. “Didier, what’s happening to you? Suggesting I actually use technology for something.”

“Yeah, you have to go with the times.”

Bruno’s computer was still on. Marion typed the words “Prensa,” “Magni,” and “Pacaipampa.” Only two articles came up, each one no more than a few lines.

“It’s hard to believe that no reporters ever looked into Magni’s death. A wealthy white Frenchman hungry for pre-Columbian treasures had died under mysterious circumstances in a remote Peruvian town. Now that’s a story.”

Spotting the name of the mayor in one of the items, she changed her search, replacing the name of the Peruvian paper with “Julio Gomez,” followed by “Pacaipampa” and “Magni.” A single entry corresponded. It had been published by an even smaller publication. The date of the article was October 10 of the previous year. She started reading.

“Well, what do you know. A reporter interviewed the mayor. Edmond Magni had been known throughout the village for his sexual activities with young indigenous women. He had bought a house near a cemetery, where he lived a depraved life with total impunity. It was said that he paid the families handsomely in exchange for their daughters and their silence.”

“He just gets better and better, doesn’t he?”

“What a sick bastard. What made him such a monster?”

“Is there more in the article?

“It says he died in the arms of one of the women. The authorities hushed up the death and said it was just a heart attack. But the woman claimed that an emerald-encrusted figure found beside the bed had cast a curse.”

“How interesting,” Combes said. “Those emerald-encrusted figures seem to be popping up all over the place.

“No trace of the sculpture was ever found. Do you think he was murdered because of this other sculpture?”

“Why didn’t the story traveled further and make it to other papers or investigating authorities?”

“Do you think there were political or diplomatic reasons to keep the circumstances of his death hushed up? Or influential people trying to keep his vices a secret to protect his name?”

“I don’t know, but in any case, it does bring us full circle,” Didier said, placing a catalog in front of her, open to the warrior. “There’s the figure I’m looking for. Have you learned anything else about it?”

Marion had all but stopped breathing as she took the catalog in her hands and focused on the artifact. She couldn’t look at Combes. She couldn’t speak.

“Marion? Are you there? Do you know anything about the warrior?”

She looked up at him just as the phone rang.

“It’s for you,” Sophie curtly informed her before hanging up.

No sooner had she taken the call than Chris started blurting out words she had trouble understanding—he was almost shrieking. He had left a dozen messages on her cell phone. Had she turned it off? He was very worried. Someone was following him. He was sure of it. He had called the cops, bought a burner phone. Combes had gotten back to him. He seemed to be putting the pieces together.

“Come to the office,” she said to cut him short. Then she turned to the detective. “Didier, I have work to do now.”

Combes took the catalog back, watching her closely. “Yes, of course. Let me remind you that this is a homicide investigation, and I need whatever you can find on that sculpture as soon as possible.” He turned and left.

Marion didn’t even have time to let out a sigh of relief before the door opened again and Sophie came storming in.

“There’s a man out there for you,” she sputtered. “He’s weird-looking. Dressed like a bellhop and as big as the Hulk. He stopped by early this morning, and he’s here again now. He says he’s not leaving until he speaks with you. What do I do? He’s creeping me out.”

Sophie looked at her and then the mess of documents in front of her. Marion sighed and got up.

“Bring him in.”

On her way out, Sophie stopped just short of the door. She turned around. “You’re all going to make me go crazy,” she said. She returned a few seconds later to introduce a man in a dark-gray suit. Marion thought he had the bearing of a servant, but considering his size, it was possible that he was in a more dangerous line of work.

“Mrs. Romarel would like to meet with you,” he said.

Romarel… The name didn’t ring a bell. She motioned to Sophie to leave.

“She could have called to arrange an appointment. That would have saved you the trouble of coming here for nothing,” Marion responded.

“Mrs. Romarel would like to meet with you,” he repeated. “I’m to drive you to her.”

“Right this second? I can’t. Give me her number. I’ll call her when I can.”

“I’ll wait as long as you’d like.”

The chauffeur seemed nailed to the floor, determined not to budge an inch. Marion stared at him. She didn’t know what to think. Was the guy crazy? Was he in the wrong place?

Eventually she said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know this woman.”

The man’s eyes widened, and for a second, Marion had the impression that he, too, wondered if he was in the middle of a poorly scripted play.

“You are Marion Spicer, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“You didn’t receive a call from the estate attorney?”

“What attorney?”

“You are Edmond Magni’s daughter, aren’t you?” he continued with a hint of concern in his voice.

“Yes.”

“The attorney didn’t tell you anything?”

“About what?” she asked, growing tired of his game-playing.

“Mrs. Romarel was your father’s mistress,” he whispered, looking down and apparently hesitant to disclose other people’s business.

Her father’s mistress? Marion had totally forgotten about the woman. Yes, the attorney had mentioned her. She had left Paris without giving anyone a forwarding address. He thought the chances of finding her were slim to none. This was exactly what she needed on what was already the world’s weirdest day.

“I can’t leave work right now.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I have at least two hours of work to do, probably more. I’d prefer to meet with her another day.”

“I’ll wait.”

This guy wasn’t going to give up. Whatever Mrs. Romarel wanted to talk about, it had to be pretty important.

“By all means, if you’ve got time to kill,” she finally conceded. ”Make yourself comfortable in the waiting area. Sophie will get you a cup of coffee.”