26

“Lara Krall has an older brother named Timothy. Isn’t that interesting?” Kriven said as Nico walked into his office. “He’s a photographer of sorts. He’s listed on a few photography websites but doesn’t have a site of his own. I found some other tidbits, too.”

“And where does he live?”

“He lives at 32 Rue des Vinaigriers in the tenth arrondissement. It’s between the Boulevard Magenta and the Quai de Valmy. She headed over there a half hour after you left her place.”

“I’ll let Becker know right away.”

The powers of the French police were spelled out by law and strictly enforced. Like police anywhere else, they could make arrests when someone was caught committing a crime or when there was probable cause. But many other situations required an order from the investigating magistrate. In this case, it was up to Becker to issue an order to take Timothy Krall into custody for questioning. They’d put him in a cell to scare him.

Alexandre Becker drew up the papers, and Nico got everyone moving. With Kriven, Plassard, and Vidal, they drove off in two cars toward the Boulevard du Palais and the Pont-au-Change. They crossed the Place du Châtelet with sirens wailing and lights flashing. On the sidewalks, the crowds turned and stared. Children excitedly pointed at the cars speeding by. The Boulevard de Sébastopol belched thick traffic, as always, but they managed to navigate around the cars. At the Boulevard de Strasbourg, they turned toward the Gare de l’Est to bypass the Rue du Château-d’Eau. The street was usually crowded and so narrow that traffic was often at a standstill. Just ahead, Indian restaurants offered basmati rice and beignets for a few euros. The police cars split up at the Saint-Laurent church. The Boulevard Magenta, nearly a hundred feet across, let them speed up and dive into the Rue des Vinaigriers. There, they finally slowed down; the narrow artery, lined with stores and restaurants, felt like a village. They drove through the Rue Lucien-Sampaix intersection. A drugstore was on one corner, and a bakery and candy store were on the other. They were in the heart of the tenth arrondissement, with its two main train stations, the Canal Saint-Martin, the boulevards, and the neighborhoods that had given birth to the French can-can.

Nico and his men parked by Poursin, which had made copper and brass buckles since 1830, and its old-fashioned window displays. Farther off, number 32 was between the Philippe bookstore and the Santa Sed, a Chilean restaurant with its metal gate still lowered. Nico saw a school desk in the bookstore and thought of how the shop was probably filled with as much treasure as Ali Baba’s cave. His eyes met those of a customer seated on a couch. Then he turned toward number 32, its wine-colored door filthy and damaged. The building was in need of a facelift.

“On the fifth floor,” Kriven said as he entered the dark hallway.

Plassard bounded ahead, ready to draw his Sig Sauer SP 2022 automatic. Nico climbed the stairs more slowly. The cops would grab Tim any minute now. He’d have to pack a bag and put in a few clothes and toiletries before spending his night elsewhere. Perhaps he would never return to this place. According to Kriven, Lara’s brother had dreamed of being a great photographer. But he had failed. He did shoots now and then for overbooked wedding photographers and managed to sell a few prints to pay the rent. But he also needed help from Lara, and Nico surmised that this was the cause of frequent fights with her husband, Gregory Weissman. Weissman considered her brother a loser. He hated him.

The filthy and damaged door on the Rue des Vinaigriers was a far cry from the pomp of the Place des États-Unis and the celebrity of Samuel Cassian’s banquet-performance. It was also a far cry from Jean-Baptiste’s exhibition in New York.

Tim was hurtling down the stairs. Nico heard the man gasping for air. He had to be searching for a hiding spot.

“David!” Nico shouted.

There was a silhouette, a backpack. Tim seemed to be having a hard time figuring out what to do. Hide or run? A moment later, he made his decision. He dashed outside, with Vidal nipping at his heels.

Nico started running, and the other two men followed. They reached the drugstore and bakery at the corner of the Rue Lucien-Sampaix. Across the street were Le Flash, a convenience store, and the Deux Singes restaurant, which offered a ten-euro prix-fixe lunch. Tim seemed to be losing steam and was looking desperate. Finally, they closed in on him. “Police! Stop!” Nico shouted a few feet from the fugitive.

Tim seemed to be deaf. Nico grabbed his shoulder. The suspect tried to extricate himself, but Captain Vidal, who had just caught up, took aim at him.

“Calm down,” Nico said.

Clearly afraid and confused, Tim collapsed on the concrete.

“Timothy Krall?” Nico asked.

The man did not reply. His hair was dripping with sweat. There was panic and hate in his eyes. Kriven grabbed his arms, and Plassard searched his pockets. He took out his wallet and found an ID card.

“Timothy Krall,” he confirmed. “Thirty-one Rue des Vinaigriers, 75010 Paris. It’s him.”

“Timothy Krall, we’re taking you into custody,” Nico said.

He was this much closer to keeping his promise. But would it be close enough to save his mother?