Chapter 9
I think that if you shake the tree, you ought to be around when the fruit falls to pick it up.
—Mary Cassatt (1844-1926), American painter
The best fruit is plucked from the branches without delay. —Georges LeFleur
Only an hour ago I had vowed to go to the police with the metal box from Louis Spencer’s grave. Now that the police had obligingly come to me, I found my heart pounding and fought the urge to flee. Childhood habits die hard, and my adult interactions with the authorities had not laid those fears to rest.
Calm down, Annie, I scolded myself. You’re not the center of the universe. The cops could be here for any number of reasons.
I entered the Hall of Tranquility but veered into the office when I spied the officers speaking with Roy Cogswell in the Gregorian Garden. Miss Ivy’s lip curled as she gave me the once-over, and I had the distinct impression she did not approve of my rain-soaked artistic attire. I didn’t think much of her outfit, either: she wore a short skirt with a black-and-white Holstein cow pattern, a wide patent leather belt, and a tight red sweater cut low enough to display much of her bony, freckled chest.
“Why are the police here?” I asked, wiping the rain from my face with my sleeve.
“There was a break-in last night.”
“No kidding? Is anything, uh, missing?”
“Not that we’ve discovered, but we’re still checking. Did you hear or see anything?”
“No, but I left early.”
“The police want to speak with you,” she said, sucking on her teeth. “I’ve been calling you at home.”
“I’ll talk to them. Listen, did the woman who left the suitcase for me the other day say anything?”
Miss Ivy’s lips were pressed together so tightly that it looked as if she had to pry them apart through sheer force of will. “I am not a storage locker attendant.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I had no idea she would be bringing it in,” I replied in the soothing tone I used with crying infants and snarling dogs. “Did she mention her name?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what she looked like?”
The secretary gave me an odd look. “Isn’t she a friend of yours?”
“Yes, but I’m just not sure which friend, if you see what I mean.”
“Pretty girl. Asian. Petite. Seemed in a hurry.”
Cindy Tanaka.
“And did she say anything?” I asked, trying not to sound eager.
She shook her head.
“Anything at all?” I persisted. “It’s important.”
Miss Ivy crossed her thin arms over her flat chest. “This whole thing is odd. Very odd. I think—”
I followed her gaze over my shoulder, where a cop stood next to Roy. Whatever I did, it would not be wise to mention Michael, in case he had returned to the columbarium last night as I’d asked. I should also keep mum about the metal box and La Fornarina, at least until I had a chance to speak with Sebastian Pitts. And if I told them about being chased through the columbarium last night they might well wonder why I had failed to report it.
So I fell back on a familiar response and danced around the cop’s questions. Without out-and-out lying I managed to leave the young, inexperienced police officer with the impression that I had seen and heard nothing. After fifteen minutes of this the officer seemed satisfied with my apparent cluelessness and thanked me for my help. I wondered if he was being sarcastic.
I hurried upstairs to the Chapel of the Madonna to find my red plastic storage tub upended, and the paints, brushes, and other supplies scattered across the floor. The brown paper bag containing Cindy’s photographs was gone, but a quick inventory of my shoulder bag revealed that my wallet and valuables were still there—all five dollars and thirty-eight cents of it. I packed my things into the bin and cleaned up the spilled mineral spirits, wondering if I could retrieve the metal box from behind the ceiling molding without attracting attention. It might be hard to be inconspicuous while pushing squeaky scaffolding down the hall.
“Why did you lie to the police?” Manny demanded.
I jumped in surprise, hugged the red plastic bin to my chest, and sloshed mineral spirits on my shirt.
“Manny, you scared me to death!” I put down the bin, grabbed a paper towel, and dabbed ineffectually at the solvent. No decent lie came to mind, so I channeled Georges. When in doubt, chérie, remember ze three magic words. Deny, deny, deny. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I overheard you saying you didn’t know what a thief might be after. Did you forget the miniatures collection?”
“Was it taken?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“There are plenty of things a thief might want, such as the artifacts you were asking me about yesterday. It seems strange that you didn’t mention any of that.”
Manny looked at me with suspicion, and I realized his loyalty to the columbarium might be stronger than our two-week friendship. Had the samosas meant nothing to him?
“I just didn’t . . .”
Suddenly the faint but distinct sound of Mistah F.A.B. rang out, singing “Super Sic Wit It.” Sure, years of letting my cell phone battery run down and the one time I wanted it to die a quick death, it was alive and chirping from somewhere in the ceiling of the columbarium. The hip-hop tune seemed to go on forever, echoing through the chambers.
Manny gazed up at the ceiling, then back at me. “I think you should get your things together and go,” he said softly.
“Manny, please, I assure you—” He pivoted on his heel and marched down the hall with me hot on his heels. “Manny, wait. Is the suitcase still in your office?”
“I thought you took it yesterday.”
“I put it back.”
“It’s not there now. Guess that’s one more thing you forgot to mention to the police.”
He walked away.
It was after eleven, and I needed to get those faux-finished curtain rods to the Design Center. After lugging my tub of painting supplies to the truck, I drove into the City, pulled into the parking lot of the DeBenton Building, and parked next to Frank’s shiny Jaguar.
As I started up the stairs, my landlord was coming down, a sheaf of yellow legal-sized papers in one hand and a large black umbrella in the other. Despite the wind and rain, his hair was perfect. He halted on the step above me.
“Hiya, Frank.”
“Annie.” He smiled.
Zing.
Dammit!
He stepped aside as an architect started up the stairs. “Come to my office for a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“No time, Frank. I’m late.”
“You want to hear this.”
“I do?”
“Trust me.”
I had paid this month’s rent, hadn’t dented anyone’s car or set off the fire alarm. So why did I feel as if I were ten years old and had been busted for painting the caricature of Principal Eisenstein on the fence of Asco Elementary? I had been so proud of the likeness until I realized its very artistry had fingered me. Talent was a two-way street.
I tagged along to Frank’s office, whose door was emblazoned with the roaring lion of DeBenton Enterprises. The emblem was on his stationery as well as his fleet of armored cars, but not on the two unmarked trucks in the corner of the parking lot. It was better that people assume the nondescript trucks were hauling sacks of potatoes or plastic lawn furniture than valuable artwork.
“A cargo plane’s taking a valuable painting to LAX at two o’clock,” Frank said as he hitched one hip on the side of the desk. “I want you on it.”
“What for? I’m not a security guard, Frank, remember? Isn’t that why you hired Bubba?” I gestured at an imposing man chatting with a woman near one of the unmarked trucks, visible through the large front window.
Frank smiled. “I’m not asking you to strap on an Uzi, Annie. The Getty Foundation is developing a program to train law enforcement personnel to spot forgeries, and several members of the FBI art squad will be there. You should meet them.”
“But I have work to do!” I shuddered at the thought of what my grandfather would do to me if he learned I’d been training fake busters. Evisceration without benefit of anesthetic would be only the first step.
Frank laughed. “This is worth a lot of goodwill for you, Annie. You never know when a contact in the FBI might come in handy.”
His gaze spoke volumes. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to get some intel on what the FBI’s new art squad was up to.
“We’ll be back tonight,” Frank said. “It’s just a quick in-and-out.”
“We?”
“I’m personally escorting a valuable piece. I’ll be the one strapping on the Uzi.”
“All right. When do we leave?”
“Be downstairs in an hour. Oh, and, Annie? It wouldn’t hurt to dress more, shall we say, professionally?”
“See you in an hour. With bells on.”
As I charged upstairs to my studio I ran through today’s To Do list. First, call Grandfather and beseech him to lie low. Second, call the Design Center and reschedule the delivery of the curtain rods. Third, e-mail Josh a status report on the Garner renovation. Fourth, dump Josh. . . .
I left a message for Grandfather at Gallerie des Beaux Arts de Paris. Monsieur Luc Olivier, the director of the gallery, was a snotty little man in a city famous for its snottiness. But I’d known Olivier since I was a tot and was not buffaloed when he tried to pull that attitude with me. After some mutual sniping, he agreed to get word to Georges, as I knew he would. Olivier needed Grandfather much more than Grandfather needed Olivier.
My second call was to the people at the Design Center who—surprise, surprise—weren’t ready for the curtain rods anyway. I arranged to bring them in next week. I e-mailed Josh an update on the Garner job but said nothing about breaking up. I wasn’t looking forward to a heart-to-heart chat with him but he deserved better than a Dear Josh e-mail.
I scrubbed my hands and face in the kitchen sink and rummaged through the old oak armoire for a change of clothes. I tried to keep a spare outfit or two in the studio for those occasions when paint-spattered overalls and smelly running shoes just weren’t “right.” I skipped over a short green skirt and low-cut cream sweater (too revealing), an assortment of Mary’s favorite things (too Goth), and a tight red cocktail dress (too flirty). That exhausted the options. Frustrated, I poked around some more. At the bottom of the armoire I spied a plastic bag from The Gap, a store I never shopped at. What was that doing here? Was Mary leading a secret yuppie life?
Then I remembered: a few months ago I’d been painting a mural of Pompeii in a client’s master bathroom. While I waited for the lava from Mount Vesuvius to dry I amused myself with a copy of Dress for Success! I had noticed on the bedside table. Inspired by the thought of “improving my financial outlook,” I stopped at The Gap on the way home and bought a pair of sharp khaki pants, a crisp white oxford shirt, a navy blue cardigan sweater, and brown leather loafers. When I got back to the studio I came to my senses. Khakis and cardigans were not what my clients expected from their artist. I had a reputation to uphold. I’d tossed the bag into the armoire with the intention of returning the clothes and getting my money back but had, predictably enough, forgotten about it. I slipped the clothes on now, twisted my damp hair into a knot on top of my head, and applied a little makeup with a light hand.
I looked at myself in the mirror. All I needed was a gold FBI crest on the sweater to pass as Special Agent Annie Kincaid. J. Edgar Hoover would be proud.
I ran downstairs and met Frank under the overhang in front of his office.
“Why, Annie,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “You look very nice.”
“I’m in disguise. Don’t get used to it.”
He laughed, and when he leaned over to pick up his briefcase I realized he hadn’t been kidding earlier: he was packing a pistol in a shoulder strap under his jacket. We hopped into the cab of a truck with Bubba the security guard—he didn’t offer his name and I was too intimidated to ask—and drove to Mayfield’s Auction House to pick up a remarkable Goya. I watched, intrigued, as Frank explained the packing process that would protect the painting during transit.
The Goya had been acclimated to a perfect fifty-five percent humidity and placed in a box within a box, the first lined with Tyvek—a moisture barrier used in home construction—the second with acid-free foam. Bubba snapped photographs of each step while Frank supervised. Once the painting was crated, the workers loaded it into the unmarked truck and strapped it to a wall. It looked as if we were in Boxcar Willie’s living room.
“Why don’t you use one of your armored cars?” I asked.
“It’s better to keep a low profile,” Frank said. “I have an unmarked follow car with two ex-cops waiting outside. They’ll tag along to the airport for backup. But theft is not my top concern. Damage to the painting—from rapid environmental changes, clumsiness, that sort of thing—is a much bigger risk. It’s not going to happen on my watch.”
After an uneventful trip to the San Francisco Airport south of the City, I watched Frank process paperwork and chat with the warehouse workers. Wincing as a forklift operator headed for the crate with more speed than skill, Frank intervened and insisted the warehouse manager take the controls. The workers laughed at something he said, and I noticed that despite Frank’s expensive suit and shiny shoes, he fit right in.
Trotting back to my side, Frank sighed. “Those forklift drivers make me crazy,” he muttered. “They’ve got too much to do, and too little time. And they’re used to loading bananas, not art. I’m always afraid they’ll skewer a priceless canvas.”
Half an hour later, Frank and I were strapped into the jump seats of a cargo plane with an excellent view of the crated painting alongside boxes of sourdough bread, strawberries, and tomatoes. Riding in a jump seat had sounded like fun. The reality was cold, loud, and really, really, boring. There was more legroom than on a passenger plane, but there wasn’t so much as a window to look out, much less peanuts or a crappy in-flight movie.
My landlord’s thigh kept touching mine as we rumbled through the air. I tried to ignore it, but the more I tried, the more I thought about it. I glanced at Frank, but he didn’t seem to notice anything except the BlackBerry device that he typed into furiously, using his thumbs.
“What are you doing?” I shouted over the roar of the engines.
“Working.”
“On what?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
He kept typing. I looked at the strawberries. According to the crates, they were FARM FRESH FROM MILPITAS! I hadn’t realized food still grew in the South Bay. I thought it was all semiconductors and Starbucks.
There wasn’t anything else to see. I was bored and worried about what I would find in Los Angeles—or what would find me. The combination made me chatty.
“You enjoy your work, don’t you?” I yelled over the roar of the engines.
“Love it.”
“Tell me something exciting.”
Frank’s thumbs ceased their frenetic hopscotch over the BlackBerry’s tiny keypad. “You mean this thrill ride isn’t exciting enough?”
“It’s pretty exhilarating,” I shouted. “But tell me something juicy about the art security business.”
“I’m actually pretty excited about a new global tracking system developed in the Netherlands. It meets international air regulations, and has total GPS and satellite line-of-sight signal penetration. The best part is we can get global coverage with a remote-monitored base station. All we need to do is adapt it for mobility and we’re good to go.”
The engine roared and I waited.
“That’s it? That’s the juiciest thing you could come up with?” I asked finally. Give me the rank odors of turpentine and horsehide glue any day. So long as the phrase “satellite line-of-sight signal penetration” never came up in my work, I would die happy.
“I’m pretty excited about it,” he said, and I could have sworn I heard a petulant note in his voice.
“Frank, you transport art and valuables. What about intrigue, adventure, the good stuff?”
“It’s not exactly The Thomas Crown Affair, Annie. Other than the rare instances I’m around you, I rely more on technology and intelligence than guns and bravado.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Sounds safe.”
“Why are you so concerned with safety?”
“Most people are.” Frank gave up on the BlackBerry and slipped it into his pocket. I smiled in triumph.
“Have you always been so focused on safety?”
He chuckled.
“What?”
“Want to know a secret?”
“Yes!” I loved secrets. I would have been a fabulous gossip if I could ever remember any of them.
“I was hell on wheels as a kid,” Frank said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I never knew my father, and Mom died when I was young. Her parents did their best but I didn’t make it easy. By the time I was a teenager I’d been sent to juvie so many times it felt more like home than my grand-parents’.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Afraid not. At seventeen I was busted for grand theft auto. The judge gave me one last chance to stay out of prison if I agreed to go into the military. Turns out I thrived under the discipline. I did some Special Forces work, infiltration, that sort of thing. After the military I went back to college on the G.I. Bill, majored in finance, and opened a business in the field I knew best—security.”
“Damn. I never would have thought it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you seem so . . . so . . .”
“So what?”
“Straight.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’ve worked my entire adult life to be legitimate. I would think you’d understand, Ms. Art Forger Felon.”
“Hey! Unlike some people, I was never convicted of anything, remember?”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He smiled and his leg pressed into mine, on purpose this time. Our eyes held for a moment, and then the copilot announced we were starting our descent into Los Angeles. I craned my neck to see out the cockpit window, but glimpsed only a thick blanket of beige smog.
For the next hour we waited on the tarmac as the strawberries and tomatoes were unloaded before the crated painting was finally transferred to an unmarked truck. We inched along the 405, and up into the winding hills to the museum. I had been to the Getty before, but in general I didn’t “do” L.A. Though I was born in Paris I had thrown my lot in with the Bay Area crowd a long time ago. Except for the obligatory childhood pilgrimage to Disneyland, Northern Californians didn’t mix with the folks in SoCal. We thought differently, ate differently, and were not nearly as blond or fit.
The Getty Center was the nation’s wealthiest museum but its design reminded me of an upscale shopping mall. Separate buildings housed its phenomenal art collections, and boasted cafés and strolling musicians. I preferred the “old” Getty Villa in Malibu, which housed the Etruscan, Greek, and Roman antiquities. The Getty Foundation was in the midst of a protracted dispute with the Italian government over the origins of some of its art and artifacts. This was a sticky issue because long ago many premiere museums had acquired artwork from a combination of government-sanctioned plundering, smuggling, and outright theft.
The Getty Center was run like a business, selecting as its director an MBA with experience turning profits rather than an MFA with an appreciation for art. The center had cost a cool one billion dollars to build, but extended its largess to the public: it did not charge an admission fee, and was open to all. The Friday afternoon crowd enjoyed the view of downtown L.A. from the terraced gardens as our truck pulled around to the back of the museum. We passed through two sets of locked gates and were met at the loading dock by armed security guards.
A stylish woman in a severe charcoal suit greeted Frank with a kiss on both cheeks, in the French style. They started talking business, and Frank seemed to have forgotten me. I cleared my throat.
“Sorry, Annie,” he said. “I need to attend to a few things with Pauline. Miranda will show you around.”
An elegant young woman led the way to a windowless private gallery, asked me to wait, and closed the door. In the center of the large room was a table with a light board, a microscope, bottles of chemicals, glass bowls, and a stack of reference books and journal articles. Clear plastic bins held tweezers, cotton balls, steel wool, and other paraphernalia used by art conservators—and art forgers. The gallery’s white walls were studded with beautiful paintings, each a stunning forgery. I recognized my grandfather’s work as well as several by Georges’ protégé, Anton Woznikowicz, and a handful of fakes by Marie Bertolini, whom I’d met at Grandfather’s atelier in Paris. There were also several fine works by forgers whose signatures I did not recognize.
Three canvases were of markedly lesser quality and I presumed these were by Jazz Hart. I examined them dismissively. The forgeries lacked the depth of a decent oil painting, and would not pass even a cursory inspection by yours truly. As Georges often said, forgers who couldn’t paint should stick to the abstract expressionists.
My grandfather’s work dominated the collection, and my breath caught in my throat as I studied each one. Not for the first time, I was struck by Georges’ singular ability to replicate so many different artists. There was an Albrecht Dürer watercolor in the style of the meticulous German Renaissance, rendered so perfectly that each hair on the rabbit was distinguishable; a Bronzino oil portrait of a child, her face shining with the smooth, luminescent paleness sought after by sixteenth-century Italians; a Mary Cassatt painting of two women taking tea, the frothy lace of their gowns and the gleaming silver dishes exquisitely slapdash, as befit the Impressionist obsession with the interplay of light and color. Never had I seen so many of my grandfather’s works hanging side by side on the walls of a museum, and my heart surged as I thought of how proud Georges would be. Of course, they were in a private workroom, not on public display, but still.
My eyes lingered on Grandfather’s version of La Fornarina. Relieved to see the painting here—rather than, say, in the Barberini Palace Museum—I studied her provocative smile, her laughing eyes. She gazed at me, sultry and sexy, tempting sane men—and, no doubt, quite a few women—to stray. It was easy to see why this painting had launched my grandfather’s career as a forger.
“Another time, another place, he might have been a great artist,” said a voice behind me.
I spun around and saw a balding man leaning on a silver cane. He looked to be in his late seventies, hands gnarled and face wrinkled, and intelligence glowed in his deep hawk eyes.
His accent sounded Italian.
“You are Annie Kincaid?”
“Yes.”
“So, you admire your grandfather’s work.”
I pasted a blank look on my face and said nothing.
“It was Georges LeFleur’s great misfortune to come of age at a time when technical talent was less important than revolutionary philosophy,” the stooped man said as he peered up at La Fornarina. He sighed. “Had your grandfather painted a red triangle on a field of black, he might be hanging in this very museum—in the permanent collection.”
As I suspected the man knew, my grandfather was hangingin the Getty’s permanent collection, as well as many of the world’s other great institutions of art and culture. Just not under his own name.
“Most artists become bitter when they are spurned by the art world. But not Georges LeFleur. He and I worked side by side in Firenze during the floods. He was a gifted art conservator before he began using his talents to create, rather than to restore, rare masterpieces. But to this day he embraces art with a joie de vivre that one cannot fault. He is a genius.” The man chuckled and turned his intense gaze on me. “But, Ms. Kincaid, he must be stopped.”
“Who are you?”
“Donato Sandino, at your service, Signorina.”
“Signor Sandino.” I held out my hand, though I really wanted to mow the little fellow down and run for the airport. “It’s an honor. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“And I, you,” he said, shaking my hand. “Please tell me that I am correct, and that this is indeed your grandfather’s marvelous copy of La Fornarina.”
I remained mute. No way in hell was I going to drop a dime on Georges, not even if Donato Sandino tied me down and stuck a muralist’s pounce stick up my nose.
“It doesn’t matter.” He waved his hand, as though to swat a mosquito. “Tell me, Signorina, are you familiar with the saying about the French realist Jean-Baptiste Corot?”
Indeed I was. It was one of Georges’ favorites. “They say that Corot painted two thousand canvases, five thousand of which are in America.”
Sandino chuckled again.
“But Corot was an altruist,” I pointed out. “He allowed poor artists to sign his name in order to sell their paintings.”
“There are many reasons for fraud, Signorina,” Sandino said as he hobbled toward the worktable. “But it is a crime nonetheless. Have you seen the list I have compiled of the most-forged artists?” He picked up a laminated sheet and handed it to me.
The list was in alphabetical order and included Corot, Dalí, van Gogh, Modigliani, Remington, and Utrillo. I was surprised that neither Reubens nor Rembrandt was on it, for both had worked with numerous apprentices and had been generous with their signatures. Sandino’s list apparently distinguished between the Old Masters who lent their fame to lesser artists, and the modern forgers who were out-and-out copyists.
“Your grandfather seldom forges the obvious works,” Sandino continued. “I admire him for that. He is a man of unusual aesthetic sensibility.”
I remained mute.
“As in so many things, the United States has become the biggest consumer of stolen and forged art. It may interest you to know that I am planning to move my laboratory here. Sending items to and from Europe has become . . . how do I say? Not workable. Not feasible.”
Made sense. Europe was the bastion of Western art, but the American market was red-hot these days, as dealers and auction houses cashed in on the virtually unregulated industry.
“So, here I am, in the City of Angels, teaching your FBI how to spot the obvious signs of forgery so that they may call upon my services in the future. You may imagine how pleased I was to hear that the granddaughter of Georges LeFleur was inquiring after La Fornarina.”
“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”
“You may speak freely, Signorina. I have no interest in your career, and I have more than enough evidence to convict your grandfather many times over. It does not follow, however, that I wish to send him to prison. Who better to understand the plight of an old man than another old man, eh?”
I was fond of Italians in general, but this man’s steely determination repelled and frightened me. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“The FBI, even Interpol, does not have the expertise to track your grandfather. They must rely upon me. But my memory is not as it used to be. At times I am forgetful. If I were, say, to have a reason to forget, well . . .”
“What are you saying?”
Sandino smiled. “I believe that you understand me, Ms. Kincaid. Raphael’s little baker girl is quite special. I became intrigued with her when I discovered your grandfather’s forgery in 1966. Although his forgery was in my possession, my interest was piqued, and I began to doubt the authenticity of La Fornarina in the Galleria Nazionale. I brought my concerns to the museum administration, but I was laughed at. At the time, I was not sure of my own skills. I began to fear my opinion had been swayed by a romantic attachment to a charming American woman. I am Italian, after all,” he said, and placed his hand over his heart. “Romantico.”
“Mrs. Henderson.”
He looked surprised. “You know more than you admit, Signorina.”
“Lucky guess.”
“L’amore e cieco, eh? Love is blind.” He smiled and ducked his head. “I was engaged to another woman at the time, so it was very complicated. Still, I wanted to see the painting that Margaret—Mrs. Henderson—believed to be genuine, but I had difficulty gaining a visa to the United States. As the months wore on my colleagues convinced me that I was being foolish. I was offered a position in Germany, and I made my reputation there.
“But when I learned the granddaughter of the incomparable Georges LeFleur was asking about La Fornarina, my old suspicions were rekindled. I spent a great deal of time at the Barberini, studying their painting. I am now convinced I was right all along. Bring the masterpiece to me, Ms. Kincaid, and I will make your grandfather’s troubles go away. He will spend his days painting in peace, no longer sought by Donato Sandino. There are many noble families in England alone who would wish to employ him.”
“And if I can’t bring you La Fornarina?”
He gave a very Italian shrug. “As you can see, Georges LeFleur’s work dominates this room. I flatter myself that I can recognize his forger’s signature as easily as his talented granddaughter can. He is too well known, Signorina, especially since he published his memoirs.”
I swore under my breath. I had begged Georges not to publish his memoirs, but he’d ignored me, delighted with the project and convinced of his invincibility. For once I hated the thought of being able to tell him “I told you so.”
“Georges LeFleur will be found, and he will be charged. For a man his age, it might well be a death sentence. But perhaps you can save him, eh?”