5

Visions of masked snorkelers kept her thrashing in her bed until she realized that trying to sleep was useless.

She stumbled across her loft studio—in a converted hosiery factory–and ran into a pile of books.

“Shit.”

Her bed faced a fireplace with just a mirror on the mantel. Marion looked at her reflection. Her eyes were red from crying. Under them were dark blue circles.

At the other end of the room were a cream-colored couch, two leather armchairs, a glass coffee table, and a potted palm tree. It was all the furniture she would allow in her home after spending her days surrounded by artwork. The minimalist look complemented the old bricks and industrial metal.

In the kitchenette, Marion forgot to fill the coffeemaker with water before turning it on.

“Dammit.”

Her brain wasn’t engaged. She’d forgo the caffeine. After pouring some tap water in a mug, she flopped into one of the leather chairs.

Marion was strung out. Chris had stayed too long the previous night. He thought conversation would help her sleep better. So she filled him in on the day’s developments.

“Chris, I’m scared now,” she had told him. “The pool is my place. That’s where I unwind, my haven. Why’d they have to strike there? Why not outside my office, or even here?”

“Marion, you’re making too much of this. There’s no ‘they.’ Put it behind you and move on.”

“Admit it, Chris. My life has gotten a bit complicated since the estate lawyer called. But why? My father wasn’t trying to compensate for his absence. No, he had other things in mind.”

“Paranoia isn’t going to help.”

“I can’t believe Magni didn’t know the whereabouts of the sculptures when he wrote his will. Those were the only pieces he ever sold, according to Gaudin. Why didn’t he leave any clues? Maybe it was his eccentric way of testing my determination.”

At that point, Chris had started looking at his watch.

“Do you need to get back to your lady love?” Marion asked.

Chris frowned and looked away. “Don’t change the subject, Marion. Your father didn’t want anything to do with you when you were growing up, so such an elaborate plan focused on you seems a bit of a stretch. Maybe he just didn’t have anyone else to give the collection to. End of story.”

“Still, he’s six feet under, and he’s calling the shots. I don’t like being steered by a dead man, even if it is my father.”

“Well, if you want my honest opinion, I think you’re just freaking out because you have to deal with power struggles and people crawling out of the woodwork—Gaudin, Duverger, and God knows who else. You hate confrontation. In fact, you do your best to avoid emotional involvement. Look at the boyfriends you choose so analytically.”

She had stood up then and starting puttering in the kitchenette, with her back turned to him. He wasn’t entirely wrong. “There are fewer disruptions that way,” she said.

“Too bad about that last one,” Chris threw in.

“Peter?”

“You know he really cared about you.”

“He was insufferable. Too cloying.”

“Cloying. That’s what you call it? I call it affection when a guy shows up at his girl’s door to steal her away from her books and take her to a concert, especially when it’s not even the music that he likes. Remember that big house party he threw?”

“Yeah, he arrived early to pick me up. I hate surprises. And I hate crowds.”

Marion had no desire to socialize or be seen by others. And now, ironically, she seemed to be the focus of a great deal of attention, and as much as Chris wanted her to put the whole thing out of her mind, she couldn’t.

~ ~ ~

After calling in sick, Marion had gone back to bed. Now, she was up again and drumming the armrest of her chair. Chris had promised to swing by today. She checked the position of the sun in the window and surmised that it was well into the afternoon. Where was he? Just then, she heard banging at the door. Marion got up to answer, and Chris raced in without giving Marion a second look. Still wearing his coat, he threw himself into one of the armchairs.

“What a day!”

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Four thirty, maybe later…”

“You took your sweet time,” she replied.

“I was at work, Marion, and I see that you weren’t.”

“I had an excuse.”

“Well, I did not, and I couldn’t get here any earlier. My boss left five messages on my cell last night. He wanted me at the lab at eight o’clock sharp.”

Chris analyzed and authenticated antiques for a private lab.

“It’s not your habit to respond to other people’s emergencies, Chris.”

“Except yours, of course.”

“You could have called me,” Marion said, wondering whether Chris would get around to asking her how she was doing.

“I was waiting for confirmation on a few things that may interest you.”

“What?”

“It’s about Chartier, the historian—you know, that socialite dandy who’s all over the media.”

Marion perked up. Laurent Duverger had mentioned Chartier as one of the guests at Magni’s dinner party.

“When I showed up at the office, who did I find? Didier Combes.”

“What was our favorite white-collar crimes detective doing there?” Combes headed up the art theft division of the Banditry Repression Brigade.

“He was looking for information about a pre-Columbian sculpture that belonged to Chartier—a Peruvian warrior.”

Marion’s heart was racing. Did Chartier have one of her sculptures?

“We were able to dig up a couple of X-rays taken in our lab, plus an authentication analysis, but it wasn’t very thorough. He wanted anything that we might have: photos, analyses, the certificate, the whole shebang.”

“And?” she asked, hanging onto his every word.

“Nothing, unfortunately. We searched through all our archives—they’re a huge mess now that Michel’s gone. You’d think he took off with some of our files.”

“Michel’s the one you fired?”

“Yeah…”

“Why was Combes looking for these documents?”

“I’m assuming Chartier got robbed. I couldn’t get anything out of the detective. You know Combes isn’t a very talkative one.”

She certainly did. The first Thursday of every month, she would meet Combes for lunch to go over their casework. He was the only detective she met this way. With the others, she talked on the phone or corresponded via e-mail. But Combes was an old-timer who preferred to deal with people face-to-face. He prided himself on using his street smarts, not modern technology, to solve his cases.

Marion stared at the floor.

“Do you think it’s one of yours?” Chris asked.

“I need to find a woman with child, a jaguar, and a warrior, so maybe. But there are thousands of warrior sculptures. We need a more detailed description.”

“It’s pretty weird, though. A bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“The warrior I’m looking for has geometric designs on the right side and emerald inlays. Is there any chance at all that you could find a photo?”

“A photo…” Chris slapped his forehead. “Jesus Christ. I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I think of it? You’ve got the pictures of your pieces, don’t you?”

Marion nodded.

“Give them to me. I’ll see what I can find tomorrow. It could very well be that we handled the warrior while your father owned it. If that’s the case, we should be able to make a match, based on what we already have and your photos. We’ll get the certificate of authenticity and the name of the most recent owner, and that’ll be it. Who knows, we might be able to find a match for more than one of the sculptures.”

“But you can’t even find a file for Chartier,” Marion responded listlessly.

“The problem with Chartier is that the X-rays and the analysis are all that our lab has to work with right now, thanks to Michel and his mismanagement. We have the same system that you guys have at SearchArt. We archive the files based on images and descriptions of the piece. With the pictures you give us, we might have enough. I can run them through photo recognition.”

“It doesn’t hurt to try, but there are a lot of labs like yours in France,” Marion responded.

Chris pulled out his cell phone. “But our lab is the best, isn’t it? Pieces of this caliber would have come to us.”

“That’s assuming they’ve been analyzed.”

“It’s worth a shot. Everyone wants certificates of authenticity, with all the counterfeits floating around these days.” Chris looked at his phone. “Oh God, my boss has left a bunch more messages already.” He brought the phone to his ear and whispered as he listened to the recordings. “They want me to come in at eight again tomorrow. The boss sounds furious. I don’t…”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of. It must be complete chaos at your lab. Anyway, this is just a wild goose chase arranged by some crazy old man who’s now dead. This is not who I am, Chris. In fact, it’s a perfect example of how art can make you nuts.”

“Stop that, Marion. Get a grip! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And you’re about to be showered with millions! Think of it. Millions! Sure, this is a little scary, but don’t the adventure and the money make it worthwhile?”

“I’ll never be able to find the sculptures.”

“Have more faith in yourself, Marion. I know you can do it.”

“Look at me,” she replied, getting closer to him. “What do you see in my eyes?”

He leaned in, half curious, half amused.

“Determination…”

“No, Chris. It’s fear. Fear. And I can’t shake it.”