still, to keep her nervousness in check.
“His kidnappers used his phone once. To call me on my cell phone.”
Léo’s smile vanished. “Kidnappers?”
“How closely can you track, Léo?”
“Well, during the Occupation the Nazis found hidden British crystal radios transmitting from cellars. This operates on the same basic principal. But the Nazis had roving trucks with tracking equipment to follow the signals and triangulate. Primitive, but it did the job. Stationary antennas have limitations; it depends on the signal and relay time. Keep them talking.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You must. If he’s in Paris—and we don’t have an electrical storm—the longer the phone call, the closer I can pinpoint. If the gods smile, not only the street but the building.”
“ Merci, Léo,” she said. “I’ll owe you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Léo said.
On her way out, Aimée noticed the wheelchair folded by the door, and end of a metal hospital bed peeking from behind a draperied alcove. Aimée wondered when Léo’d last been out of this apartment. But then, she traveled through Paris every night. Riding the airwaves.
EARLY EVENING quiet had descended over the shadowy, intimate, crescent-shaped square near Clichy. Strains of an accordion mingling with a guitar wafted from somewhere above her. Familiar, an old working-class song her grandmother had played. Aimée looked up to see the silhouette of a couple dancing behind a lighted window.
And for a moment, she forgot the drizzle on the pavement and it could have been the countryside. Low stone buildings, a cat slinking around the corner, the church clock pealing the hour. But she couldn’t get away from the awful sound in her head of the bullets’ ricocheting by the phone cabinet where Thadée had been shot. The sickening scene replayed over and over.
Why kill Thadée?
If she couldn’t meet the kidnappers’ demand, René would be next. She looked at her watch . . . already an hour had passed! She willed her fear down; it wouldn’t help her find René.
She remembered the door closing yesterday in the Olf office foyer, her frisson of fear. If she’d been the target and escaped, and now they’d gone for René, it was her fault.
Darkness blanketed the narrow street, the furred glow of dim streetlights the only illumination.
She had to find Sophie, the woman Thadée had named with almost his last breath, his ex-wife. She had to try to figure out where Thadée had gotten the jade—and who might have it now.
She walked past the glass awning to the rear of the courtyard. Under the stone lintel, by an ancient water spigot, a nicked metal sign in old formal French forbade children to play in the courtyard. She wondered when was the last time any children had lived here.
She passed the back stairs, wrapped her scarf around her head, belted her shearling coat tighter, and thanked God she’d worn her good boots. Only a three-inch heel.
Adjoining the old tire factory, beyond the fence, she saw an eighteenth-century limestone townhouse. Preserved, with an air of neglect at the edges. Was this where Thadée had lived? She hit the two buzzers. No answer. Only darkened windows.
Galerie 591 was locked. But a dim light shone through the mottled glass. She called the gallery telephone number. The phone rang and rang.
Aimée knocked on the service door. No answer. Looking in the window, she saw a dimly lit office with state of the art computers on several desks. Beyond lay a room with metal sculptures and paintings strewn across the floor. Curtains blew from an open hall window. Glass shards sparkled on the floor.
Someone had broken in.
She turned the knob of the door. Locked. She pulled out her lock-picking kit, inserted a thin metal skewer into the bronze cylinder-like Fichet lock. A few turns and she heard the tumble of the chamber and the lock snapped open.
Inside, a 1920s-style lamp with beaded fringe cast a reddish glow over the gallery.
“. . .
“His kidnappers used his phone once. To call me on my cell phone.”
Léo’s smile vanished. “Kidnappers?”
“How closely can you track, Léo?”
“Well, during the Occupation the Nazis found hidden British crystal radios transmitting from cellars. This operates on the same basic principal. But the Nazis had roving trucks with tracking equipment to follow the signals and triangulate. Primitive, but it did the job. Stationary antennas have limitations; it depends on the signal and relay time. Keep them talking.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You must. If he’s in Paris—and we don’t have an electrical storm—the longer the phone call, the closer I can pinpoint. If the gods smile, not only the street but the building.”
“ Merci, Léo,” she said. “I’ll owe you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Léo said.
On her way out, Aimée noticed the wheelchair folded by the door, and end of a metal hospital bed peeking from behind a draperied alcove. Aimée wondered when Léo’d last been out of this apartment. But then, she traveled through Paris every night. Riding the airwaves.
EARLY EVENING quiet had descended over the shadowy, intimate, crescent-shaped square near Clichy. Strains of an accordion mingling with a guitar wafted from somewhere above her. Familiar, an old working-class song her grandmother had played. Aimée looked up to see the silhouette of a couple dancing behind a lighted window.
And for a moment, she forgot the drizzle on the pavement and it could have been the countryside. Low stone buildings, a cat slinking around the corner, the church clock pealing the hour. But she couldn’t get away from the awful sound in her head of the bullets’ ricocheting by the phone cabinet where Thadée had been shot. The sickening scene replayed over and over.
Why kill Thadée?
If she couldn’t meet the kidnappers’ demand, René would be next. She looked at her watch . . . already an hour had passed! She willed her fear down; it wouldn’t help her find René.
She remembered the door closing yesterday in the Olf office foyer, her frisson of fear. If she’d been the target and escaped, and now they’d gone for René, it was her fault.
Darkness blanketed the narrow street, the furred glow of dim streetlights the only illumination.
She had to find Sophie, the woman Thadée had named with almost his last breath, his ex-wife. She had to try to figure out where Thadée had gotten the jade—and who might have it now.
She walked past the glass awning to the rear of the courtyard. Under the stone lintel, by an ancient water spigot, a nicked metal sign in old formal French forbade children to play in the courtyard. She wondered when was the last time any children had lived here.
She passed the back stairs, wrapped her scarf around her head, belted her shearling coat tighter, and thanked God she’d worn her good boots. Only a three-inch heel.
Adjoining the old tire factory, beyond the fence, she saw an eighteenth-century limestone townhouse. Preserved, with an air of neglect at the edges. Was this where Thadée had lived? She hit the two buzzers. No answer. Only darkened windows.
Galerie 591 was locked. But a dim light shone through the mottled glass. She called the gallery telephone number. The phone rang and rang.
Aimée knocked on the service door. No answer. Looking in the window, she saw a dimly lit office with state of the art computers on several desks. Beyond lay a room with metal sculptures and paintings strewn across the floor. Curtains blew from an open hall window. Glass shards sparkled on the floor.
Someone had broken in.
She turned the knob of the door. Locked. She pulled out her lock-picking kit, inserted a thin metal skewer into the bronze cylinder-like Fichet lock. A few turns and she heard the tumble of the chamber and the lock snapped open.
Inside, a 1920s-style lamp with beaded fringe cast a reddish glow over the gallery.
“. . .
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