Deadly Jewels (34 page)

Still, why not? If Aleister Brand really did want to bring Hitler back from the dead, why would a little thing like killing dozens of people at City Hall bother him in the least? “He was in the military,” I said to Julian.

“What?” He squatted down beside me. “What did you say?”

“He was in the military,” I repeated. “Aleister Brand. Gabrielle told me. Maybe he was in ordnance. Maybe he learned this there.”

Julian said, “Let's let them figure out who did this, and why, okay?”

I looked at him. “We know who did this,” I said. “We know why he did this.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What aren't you telling me?”

Julian sighed. “I just found out myself,” he said. “Marcus Levigne has, as of this morning, also gone missing.”

I stared at him, trying to figure out what that meant. “He's in a wheelchair,” I said slowly. I felt like we'd had this conversation before.

“Not at the moment. He left it in his office.”

“He left it in his office?” I absorbed what that meant. Was that the thought that had been following me—had I picked up on it, somehow, when we were together? Did Marcus Levigne have a tell I'd copped to without even being conscious of it? “What's his angle?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Money? A diamond like that … the price would be incalculable.” He sat down on the curb next to me. “Maybe we've been looking at this wrong, Martine,” he said. “Your magician … maybe he's just in it for the money, too. Skinheads, splinter groups, they can always use funding.”

“We're assuming that whoever killed Patricia has the diamond,” I said. “But they can't both have it—Aleister Brand and Marcus Levigne.”

“So we need to find out who does.”

I shook my head. “I have to talk to Gabrielle.”

“Then I'll take you.”

I looked at him. “You really don't have to babysit me, you know. I'm perfectly fine.”

“Sure. You always sit down in the middle of the street.”

“It's not the middle of the street.”

“Listen, LeDuc.” He sounded thoroughly exasperated. “Someone just tried to kill you. Spectacularly, with a whole lot of collateral damage. What do you think he's going to do when he learns it didn't go off as planned? Call it a day? You're stuck with me, or with somebody I choose, until this is over.”

I was beginning to think it would never be over. Had it really been less than a week since I'd jumped on François's sightseeing tour? And what was he going to say in his narrative, today, when he drove past City Hall? In fact, with Ivan and Margery and the kids on his tour, or someonelike him … “Oh,
hell
,” I said suddenly.

“What?”

I was fumbling for my phone. “I have to tell Ivan I'm all right.”

“It just looks like a fire drill,” Julian reminded me.

“I can tell you're not married,” I said, then stopped, stricken. “Oh, Julian, I'm sorry. I didn't think—”

“It's okay,” he said. “I didn't get much practice at it, anyway. Call away.” He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants.

I got voice mail. “Just checking in to see how your morning's going,” I said cheerfully. “We had some excitement at City Hall, but it was all a false alarm. I'll tell you about it later. Have a great tour.”

“You good now?”

“Okay,” I said, pushing myself up off the curb. Julian grabbed my arm and helped me the rest of the way up. “I'm going to see Gabrielle. You're welcome to come along.”

“I think that's an excellent plan,” said Julian.

“We'll see if
she
does.”

*   *   *

The next day, Maurice had news for Hans.

“They're moving the contents of the vault,” he said, puffing nervously on a cigarette.

“Why?”

A lift of the shoulders. “Who knows? Who cares? They don't consult me on these things, eh?”

Hans thought about it. “Where are they going?”

“Another vault. The gold and the hatboxes.”

“Hatboxes?”

“With the jewels. They're what you're interested in, right?”

“Who told you I was interested in them?”

Maurice actually looked frightened. “No one! No one, boss, sorry!”

“Don't talk about this to anyone,” hissed Hans. He had to think. “When are they moving?”

“Don't know. Listening at keyholes, that's how I knew, eh?”

“You have to find out,” Hans said. “I need to know exactly when, and where.” He got up close to the other man. “I don't need to tell you what will happen if I'm disappointed,” he said. “Don't disappoint me.”

“But—”

“It's not just your wife, you see,” said Hans. “You'll lose your career. Your home. It's a bad time to be looking for a job. And you're not exactly qualified, are you?”

“But—”

“Do it,” said Hans, and watched him scuttle away.

So it was coming to this. He went slowly to the telegraph office, to send word to Kurt; with his handler coming up from New York—as he was bound to do—then he was going to have to do something about Livia.

He wished to God he knew what.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

She didn't.

She lived in one of the newer high-rises downtown: glass and steel, parking garage under the building, all the modern conveniences. When I buzzed her apartment and told her who I was, a disembodied voice that sounded remotely like hers was clear. “I do not wish to talk to you.”

Julian sighed and buzzed again. “Madame, this is
détective-lieutenant
Fletcher, Montréal city police department. Please allow us in to talk to you.”

The door clicked and opened. “Fourteenth floor,” the voice said coldly, and there was another firm click as the glass door closed behind us. “She'll warm up to me,” Julian assured me in the elevator. “People always do.”

“Really? Then why haven't I?”

“You're just playing hard to get.”

Gabrielle Brand stood framed in the doorway to her apartment. Still the aging flower-child look: if I wasn't mistaken, she was wearing Birkenstocks. “I thought I would not have to speak to you again,” she said to me.

“Madame Gabrielle Brand,
détective-lieutenant
Julian Fletcher,” I said.

“Madame.” Julian proffered his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she shook it. “May we come in and speak to you, please?”

She shot me a look, but stood back and allowed us to enter. The apartment was spacious, with brilliant views of the city; but entering it was a little like going back in time. Oriental rugs on the floor, some thin, clearly valuable. Subtly patterned wallpaper; mirrors with gilt edging; oil paintings in still more gilded frames; heavy dark furniture. She'd brought her old-world sensibilities with her to the new world.

We sat awkwardly on a small sofa behind a marble-topped coffee table. She didn't offer us any refreshment, and it was that, more than anything else, that communicated best her displeasure at our appearance. “So,” she said.

“So,” Julian echoed. “We've paid a visit to your son.”

An expression flitted across her face, impossible to read, banned as soon as it appeared. “Yes,” she said.

I glanced at him and then said, smoothly, “When we met before, madame, you were kind enough to share some history with me. The beginnings of Hitler's involvement with—magic. The esoteric lodges and his ability to—to manipulate energy. You spoke of chaos magic.”

The eyes were flat now. “Yes,” she said, displeased.

“And you expressed some concerns to me about your son Aleister,” I said. “I do not want to cause you any more pain, madame, but we believe that your concerns were correct. We visited him out at Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu. He—it seems that he may have chosen to live there on purpose. That it's a place that might be—sympathetic—to the kind of focused energy you believe that he means to create.” I was floundering a little.

“The crossroads,” she said.

“You knew?” I asked, startled. “About the ley lines? Why didn't you say something before?”

“What would it have changed?” she asked. “I was giving you a warning, Mrs. LeDuc. I told you everything I felt that you should know. About how this happened, how he happened. I hoped you would know what to do with that warning.”

“She did,” Julian said. “And it doesn't matter. We're very grateful to you. And we know how difficult it must have been to—to point the finger at Aleister. We appreciate that. But things are becoming more and more serious. He placed a bomb in City Hall this morning.”

“That's impossible.” The voice was haughty and very sure of itself.

I looked at her with a mixture of amazement and pity. Of course she'd have to say that—it may be one thing to believe your son might practice black magic, but it's another to admit that he'd be willing to blow a public building filled with people sky-high. So infinitely difficult to believe anything that bad of someone you knew. It was unimaginable. An image of Lukas passed in front of me, briefly.

“It would be easy for me to blame myself,” Gabrielle said. “The parents are always the ones held responsible. I understand that when there are—terrible events, inexplicable events—always, they look to see how the person was raised. They look to the parents, to what the parents have taught the child.” She shook her head. “They look for logic where there is none. But it still happens. I have read of these things. Parents of teenagers who shot people have had to resettle, to start new lives, because they were blamed for what their children did. Society must find something: a reason, an individual, something concrete and real to reassure people that what happened is an aberration, and that it can never happen again.” She smiled frostily. “But it always does. Always, it happens again.”

“We're not blaming you,” Julian said, leaning forward, trying to connect. “And you shouldn't blame yourself. People do what they do for many reasons.”

She looked at him frostily. “This is what I am saying. I am not blaming myself.”

He cleared his throat. “And you did the right thing, talking to Captain Levigne.”

“Who is Captain Levigne?”

Julian and I exchanged glances again. “He is a police officer,” I said. “He—he studies hate groups, he keeps track of who might belong to which ones.” The polite expression hadn't left her face. “You have to know him,” I said. “He was the one who gave me your telephone number, who told me about you, who said that we should talk.”

Gabrielle was shaking her head. “I know of no such person. You must understand, with my background, I am not likely to approach the police myself.”

“Perhaps he approached you? And you forgot?”

“Young man,” she said icily, “I may be older than you are, but that does not make me stupid. My memory is perfectly functional. I have never heard that name before.”

I started to say something, but Julian stopped me, his hand brushing my wrist. “No doubt he got your contact information from someone else,” he said smoothly. “It doesn't really matter. What matters, now, is your son. We believe him to be a very dangerous man.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That must be the priority. Stopping him.”

“Before he puts a bomb somewhere else,” said Julian, and at the same time, I said, “Before he summons the New Order of the Black Sun to do—what you told me they will do.” I couldn't make my mouth form the words. “Mrs. Brand—do you have an idea
when
he's planning to do it? Is there something special he's waiting for? A phase of the moon? An anniversary?” I couldn't think of any other milestone off the top of my head. The only thing I was sure of was that it had to be soon: he wouldn't risk the investigation that would surely follow a bomb explosion at City Hall unless he was very close to his endgame. “Anything could help.”

“‘A phase of the moon'?” Now there was no mistaking the expression: pity. “How disappointing, Mrs. LeDuc. I thought that you understood, that you had taken my warning seriously. A phase of the moon?” She made it sound like I'd suggested a child's birthday party. “That would not help.”

“What
would
help,” said Julian, “would be for you to talk to him.”

The china-blue eyes were bland. “And how do you think that would work,
détective-lieutenant
?”

“He's your son. He might listen to you.”

“Listen to me saying what, exactly?”

“It would be good,” said Julian, “if he could turn himself in. That way, no one has to get hurt.”

“Turn himself in to the police?” She was politely incredulous. “What an interesting idea. How do you see that improving the situation?”

“He won't be able to hurt anyone. Detonate bombs.” He glanced at me and backed down. “Conduct black-magic rituals.”

“Chaos-magic rituals,” she corrected automatically. “And it will not matter. You do not understand.” She sighed. “Yes, of course Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu is an excellent location for what he does, for what he plans to do. You are correct about the power building up there, at the crossroads. You are correct that he selected that city, that canal, that warehouse on purpose. But really, the truth is that it does not matter,
ja
?”

“How can it not matter?” I was feeling a little lost, feeling my way slowly through a thick bright fog to find her, to understand what she was saying. It had all seemed clearer, somehow, up on Mont Royal.