22

Amsterdam, the Netherlands. January 19

Avril Avars was lost. Though she spoke fluent English and scraps of Arabic from her Moroccan heritage, she did not understand a word of Dutch. And as the sheets of rain pelted the streets, she had trouble finding any locals willing to stop long enough to offer directions to the Hotel Zanbergen. The soggy map in her hand offered nothing but confusion. So Avril wandered the narrow sidewalks, crossing bridge after bridge over the many canals, while trying to make sense of the few addresses she could spot on streets that had remarkably similar polysyllabic names that all ended in gracht.

Avril knew she had overstepped her authority by leaving Limousin. Detective Valmont had vociferously tried to talk her out of the trip. Twenty-four hours earlier, he had sat in her office with his feet on her desk. “Avril, I don’t object to the odd trip to Saint Junien or Felletin, but isn’t Amsterdam a bit beyond our jurisdiction?”

“Possibly, but who else is going to check?”

“I do not want to jump to conclusions, but I would imagine that the Dutch have some kind of organized police system,” he deadpanned.

“Simon, you don’t even believe Yvette Pereau is actually missing,” she said with a sigh. “Imagine what our colleagues in Amsterdam would think if I tried to explain this to them.”

“Exactly what I think,” he grumbled. “There is no evidence of a crime here.”

She sighed. “That is why I have to go.”

Valmont jerked his feet off the desk and sat up straighter in his seat. The flippancy gone from his face, he studied her with unusual intensity. “I know you hate loose ends,” he said. “But listen to me for a change, Avril. We found the woman. She went off on a little sex romp. She was bored and lonely and had a drunk for a husband. It’s no crime. Why not let this one sit for a while, yes?”

Avril did not argue further with Valmont. She had tried to follow his advice, spending her day searching for some trace of Pauline Lamaire or confirmation that Yvette Pereau had simply gone off with her lover. But she found neither. She even tracked down Yvette’s former lover, Pascal Etellier, who had not seen her in years. With an attitude that verged on scorn, Etellier said that Yvette was so racked by remorse after their brief affair that he could not imagine her doing it again. Avril also spoke to Yvette’s mother; she confirmed everything the husband had said. Unlike André—who, crushed as he was by the Dutch hotel receipt, at least accepted that his wife might have run off with another man—her mother was adamant Yvette would not have behaved so impetuously. The woman’s tangible worry fueled Avril’s determination. She caught the first flight out earlier this morning and, four hours later, now found herself lost, drenched, and hungry in a Dutch downpour.

Stepping off a bridge onto a busy corner that she had already passed at least once, she spotted the small sign for the Hotel Zanbergen hanging from an old brick building squeezed in between two others.

Inside the lobby, wallpapered in burgundy and warmed by an open fireplace, Avril asked to speak to the manager. Five minutes later, she stood at the registration desk interviewing Maarten Van Doorn. Middle-aged and cadaverous, Van Doorn wore a dark suit and had a thick thatch of greasy blond hair and heavy-framed glasses. To Avril, he looked better suited for undertaking than hotel management. However, from his eager-to-please and efficient manner, Avril soon recognized the qualities that must have made him an excellent manager.

They commiserated on their respective cities’ abhorrent recent weather, and then Avril established the purpose of her visit. She passed Van Doorn the out-of-date snapshot of Yvette Pereau that the husband had lent her. The manager studied the photo for a few seconds. “This is the woman,” he finally said in his impeccable French.

“You’re sure?”

Van Doorn nodded.

“But you see so many guests…”

“Of course, Detective Avars. At the Zanbergen we pride ourselves on the personal service we offer. I try to greet every new guest myself, when possible.” His business smile faded. “But with Mme. Pereau, it was something more.”

“What was that, Mr. Van Doorn?”

“She seemed…” He frowned. “Exceedingly tense to me.”

Which might fit with someone about to embark on an affair, Avril thought, slightly deflated. “And she was alone when she checked in?”

“Yes.”

“I was led to believe she was with a man,” Avril said. “A man who was not her husband.”

“Ah, yes. There were one or two noise complaints in the early morning hours from neighboring rooms,” he said diplomatically. “To be honest, that…ah…revelation came as a surprise to me, considering how anxious Mme. Pereau was when she checked in.”

“Really?” Avril said. “In my experience, adulterers are often nervous in public places. I would imagine especially so in hotel lobbies.”

He chuckled knowingly. “Detective Avars, I’ve worked in the hotel business my whole life. To a certain extent, affairs drive our industry here in Amsterdam. I try not to judge, but I think now I can spot a tryst from across the lobby. Usually, only one person checks in. And while it is true he or she might be nervous, it is somehow different. There is guilt, to be sure—often they avoid eye contact, not wanting to be recognized—however, there is excitement and anticipation, too. Mme. Pereau acted nothing like that.”

“You think she was afraid?”

“Exactly so! Almost as if…” He stopped and frowned again. “As if she needed help. I asked her as much, but she insisted she was fine.”

“Did you see Mme. Pereau after check-in?”

“Not that I remember, no. Though I wasn’t here the morning she checked out.”

Van Doorn turned to the plump plain-faced blonde beside him whose name tag pinned to her red blazer read KALIE. She had been typing at a computer since Avril arrived, oblivious to—and possibly not understanding—the French conversation beside her. Van Doorn showed Kalie the photo of Yvette and addressed her in Dutch. She studied the photo and then viewed the manager warily. They launched into an unexpectedly long discussion. By the end of it, the clerk’s voice had dropped to a near whisper and her face had flushed slightly.

The manager turned back to Avril. “Kalie was here that morning, but Mme. Pereau did not check out herself. Apparently, a gentleman paid in cash for the room and charges.”

“Oh?” Avril glanced over to Kalie, whose cheeks were still colored. “But there is more?”

“Yes.” Van Doorn cleared his throat. “The rest is almost…gossip. I am not sure how reliable it would be.”

Avril grinned. “I will put a star beside it in my report.”

Van Doorn nodded, appeased. “One of our chambermaids—who is not working today—told Kalie that she inadvertently walked in on…something…in the room.”

“Walked in on what, M. Van Doorn?”

“Apparently, there was no do-not-disturb sign on the door. And the maid was in the middle of her late-morning cleaning in that section. It was perfectly understandable that she should enter.”

“Of course, she was only doing her job,” Avril said, trying to cloak her impatience. “I understand. What did she see?”

“There was a woman. Naked.” He cleared his throat. “And she was handcuffed to the bed.”

Avril gripped the edge of the desk. “Handcuffed?”

“That is right. And there was a very large man standing over her.”

Her stomach knotted. “And the maid didn’t report this to anyone?” she said.

“Oh, no, no, no!” The manager waved his hand and smiled apologetically. “You misunderstand, Detective Avars. It was clearly a…consensual act. A sexual game of some sort.”

“I see.” Though her mental image of Yvette Pereau did not jibe with the concept of someone who dabbled in bondage, in her professional experience Avril had learned never to jump to conclusions about people’s sexual practices. Again, she felt a slight letdown that this lead was not panning out better.

Kalie said something to Van Doorn in Dutch and pointed at the photograph. He nodded and turned back to Avril. “It is interesting, though.”

“What is?”

“The maid had seen Mme. Pereau on the day she checked in. She told Kalie that woman in the handcuffs was definitely not her.”

Not Yvette! Avril thought as her grip tightened on the desk. “Where was Mme. Pereau?”

Van Doorn turned and asked Kalie. The young clerk merely shrugged in response.

Avril pointed to the photo. “Has Kalie seen Mme. Pereau since?”

The manager asked in Dutch, and the clerk shook her head blankly.

“M. Van Doorn, would you please phone the maid for me and see if I could arrange a time to speak to her myself?” Avril asked.

“Of course,” Van Doorn said in his accommodating tone. “Excuse me a moment, while I find her number.”

He disappeared into a back office. Avril waited, bubbling with the excitement of a fresh lead, though concerned for its implications. Questions swirled in her head. Who was the woman having sex in Pereau’s room, and where was Yvette? Were the disappearances of Yvette Pereau and Pauline Lamaire related? Could it be some kind of serial sex crime?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar tinny Chopin melody ringtone of her cell phone. She stepped away from the desk and dug the phone out of her purse. The call display read PARIS but did not provide a specific number.

“Bonjour,” she answered.

“Maman?”

“Frédéric!” Avril said, warmed by the sound of her son’s voice. They had not spoken as often as she would have liked since their pre-Christmas clash in Montmagnon. “How is school, my love?”

“Not good, Maman.”

Something in his tone immediately launched her anxiety. “What is it?”

“Maman, they say that you have to stop what you are doing!” he said in a ragged voice that was nothing like his usual flowing delivery.

Her heart leaped into her throat. “Doing, Frédéric? I don’t understand.”

“Your investigation, Maman,” he labored to say. “About those missing women. They told me to tell you to stop looking for them.”

Avril fought off the tears and clutched the phone tighter against her head, desperate to keep her son on the line. “Frédéric, who is they?”

“They say they will not harm me if you cooperate,” he said as if reading from a script.

A clamp squeezed around her heart. The anguish was excruciatingly reminiscent of the moment she received the call about Antoine’s crash.

Frédéric, my baby! Oh please, please, God, anything but this!

Somehow she managed to maintain a calm tone. “Everything will be okay, Frédéric. Are you all right?”

“I have to go now.”

“Frédéric, let me speak to them!”

“Maman, it’s the only way. Stop your investigation. Please!”

“Anything! Just let me speak to—” Before she could get out another word, the line went dead.