In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (12 page)

“I
am
her friend.”

“Yes,” murmured Helena, “of course you are.”

“Are you saying I’m not?”

“I didn’t say anything of the kind.”

“You’re muttering again, Helena. Really, it drives me
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up a wall. Is it so difficult to come right out and say things?”

“Oh, please,” moaned Marie.

A knock on the door cut short the argument. Nina’s son, Anthony, entered, dressed with his usual offbeat flair in a shirt of electric blue, a leather jacket. “Ready to leave, Mum?” he asked Nina.

At once Nina rose huffily to her feet. “More than ready,” she sniffed and followed him to the door. There she stopped and gave Marie one last glance. “I’m only speaking as a friend,” she said. “And I, for one, think you should stay in Paris.” She took Anthony’s arm and walked out of the room.

“Good heavens, Marie,” muttered Helena, after a pause.

“Why do you put up with the woman?” Marie, looking small as she huddled in her bed, gave a small shrug.
They are so very much alike,
thought Beryl, comparing Marie St. Pierre and Helena. Neither one blessed with beauty, both on the fading side of middle age, and trapped in marriages to men who no longer adored them.

“I’ve always thought you were a saint just to let that bitch in your door,” said Helena. “If it were up to me…”

“One must keep the peace” was all Marie said.

They tried to carry on a conversation, the four of them, but so many silences intervened. And overshadowing their talk of bomb blasts and ruined furniture, of lost artwork and damaged heirlooms, was the sense that something was being left unsaid. That even beyond the horror of these losses was a deeper loss. One had only to look in Marie St. Pierre’s eyes to know that she was reeling from the dev-astation of her life.

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Tess Gerritsen

Even when her husband, Philippe, walked into the room, Marie did not perk up. If anything, she seemed to recoil from Philippe’s kiss. She averted her face and looked instead at the door, which had just swung open again.

Claude Daumier entered, saw Beryl, and halted in surprise. “You are
here?
”

“We were waiting to see you,” said Beryl.

Daumier glanced at Richard, then back at Beryl. “I have been trying to find you both.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Richard.

“The matter is…delicate.” Daumier motioned for them to follow. “It would be best,” he said, “to discuss this in private.”

They followed him into the hallway, past the nurses’

station. In a quiet corner, Daumier stopped and turned to Richard.

“I have just received a call from the police. Colette was found shot to death in her car. Near Place Vendôme.”

“Colette?” said Beryl. “The agent who was watching Jordan?”

Grimly Daumier nodded.

“Oh, my God,” murmured Beryl. “Jordie—”

“He is safe,” Daumier said quickly. “I assure you, he’s not in danger.”

“But if they killed her, they could—”

“He has been placed under arrest,” said Daumier. His gaze, quietly sympathetic, focused on Beryl’s shocked face. “For murder.”

Long after everyone else had left the hospital room, Helena remained by Marie’s bedside. For a while they said very little; good friends, after all, are comfortable
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with silence. But then Helena could not hold it in any longer. “It’s intolerable,” she said. “You simply can’t stand for this, Marie.”

Marie sighed. “What else am I to do? She has so many friends, so many people she could turn against me. Against Philippe….”

“But you must do something. Anything. For one, refuse to speak to her!”

“I have no proof. Never do I have proof.”

“You don’t need proof. Use your eyes! Look at the way they act together. The way she’s always around him, smiling at him. He may have told you it was over, but you can see it isn’t. And where is he, anyway? You’re in the hospital and he scarcely visits you. When he does, it’s just a peck on the cheek and he’s off again.”

“He is preoccupied. The economic summit—”

“Oh, yes,” Helena snorted. “Men’s business is always so bloody important!”

Marie started to cry, not sobs, but noiseless, pitiful tears.

Suffering in silence—that was her way. Never a complaint or a protest, just a heart quietly breaking.
The pain we
endure,
thought Helena bitterly,
all for the love of men.

Marie said in a whisper, “It is even worse than you know.”

“How can it possibly be any worse?” Marie didn’t reply. She just looked down at the abrasions on her arms. They were only minor scrapes, the af-termath of flying glass, but she stared at them with what looked like quiet despair.

So that’s it,
thought Helena, horrified.
She thinks
they’re trying to kill her. Why doesn’t she strike back? Why
doesn’t she fight?

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Tess Gerritsen

But Marie hadn’t the will. One could see that, just by the slump of her shoulders.

My poor, dear friend,
thought Helena, gazing at Marie with pity,
how very much alike we are. And yet, how very
different.

A man sat on the bench across from him, silently eyeing Jordan’s clothes, his shoes, his watch. A well-pickled fellow by the smell of him, thought Jordan with distaste.

Or did that delightful odor, that unmistakable perfume of cheap wine and ripe underarms, emanate from the other occupant of the jail cell? Jordan glanced at the man snoring blissfully in the far corner. Yes, there was the likely source.

The man on the bench was still staring at him. Jordan tried to ignore him, but the man’s gaze was so intrusive that Jordan finally snapped, “What are you looking at?”

“C’est en or?”
the man asked.

“Pardon?”

“La montre. C’est en or?”
The man pointed at Jordan’s watch.

“Yes, of course it’s gold!” said Jordan.

The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth.

He rose and shuffled across the cell to sit beside Jordan.

Right beside him. His gaze dropped speculatively to Jordan’s shoes.
“C’est italienne?”
Jordan sighed. “Yes, they’re Italian.” The man reached over and fingered Jordan’s linen jacket sleeve.

“All right, that’s it,” said Jordan. “Hands to yourself, chap!
Laissez-moi tranquille!
” The man simply grinned wider and pointed to his own shoes, a pair of cardboard and plastic creations. “You like?”
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“Very nice,” groaned Jordan.

The sound of footsteps and clinking keys approached.

The man sleeping in the corner suddenly woke up and began to yell,
“Je suis innocent! Je suis innocent!”

“M. Tavistock?” called the guard.

Jordan jumped at once to his feet. “Yes?”

“You are to come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You have visitors.”

The guard led him down a hall, past holding cells jammed full with prisoners. Good grief, thought Jordan, and he’d thought his cell was bad. He followed the guard through a locked door into the booking area. At once his ears were assaulted with the sounds of bedlam. Everywhere phones seemed to be ringing, voices arguing. A ragtag line of prisoners waited to be processed, and one woman kept yelling that it was a mistake, all a mistake. Through the babble of French, Jordan heard his name called.

“Beryl?” he said in relief.

She ran to him, practically knocking him over with the force of her embrace. “Jordie! Oh, my poor Jordie, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, darling.”

“You’re really all right?”

“Never better, now that you’re here.” Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Richard and Daumier standing behind her. The cavalry had arrived. Now this terrible business could be cleared up.

Beryl pulled away and frowned at his face. “You look ghastly.”

“I probably smell even worse.” Turning to Daumier, he said, “Have they found out anything about Colette?” 114

Tess Gerritsen

Daumier shook his head. “A single bullet, nine millimeters, in the temple. Plainly an execution, with no witnesses.”

“What about the gun?” asked Jordan. “How can they accuse me without having a murder weapon?”

“They do have one,” said Daumier. “It was found in the storm drain, very near the car.”

“And no witnesses?” said Beryl. “In broad daylight?”

“It is a side street. Not many passersby.”

“But someone must have seen something.” Daumier gave an unhappy nod. “A woman did report seeing a man force his way into Colette’s car. But it was on Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

Jordan groaned. “Oh, great. That would’ve been me.” Beryl frowned. “You?”

“I talked her into giving me a ride back to the hotel. My fingerprints will be all over the inside of that car.”

“What happened after you got into the car?” Richard asked.

“She let me off at the Ritz. I went up to the room for a few minutes, then came back down to talk to her. That’s when I found…” Groaning, he clutched his head. “Lord, this can’t be happening.”

“Did you see anything?” Richard pressed him.

“Not a thing. But…” Jordan’s head slowly lifted.

“Colette may have.”

“You’re not sure?”

“While we were driving to the hotel, she kept frowning at the mirror. Said something about imagining things. I looked, but all I saw was traffic.” Miserable, he turned to Daumier. “I blame myself, really. I keep thinking, if only I’d paid more attention, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up—”
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“She knew how to protect herself,” interrupted Daumier.

“She should have been prepared.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” said Jordan. “That she was caught so off guard.” He glanced at his watch.

“There’s still plenty of daylight. We could go back to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Retrace my steps. Something might come back to me.”

His suggestion was met with dead silence.

“Jordie,” said Beryl, softly, “you can’t.”

“What do you mean, I can’t?”

“They won’t release you.”

“But they have to release me! I didn’t do it!” He looked at Daumier. To his dismay, the Frenchman regretfully shook his head.

Richard said, “We’ll do whatever it takes, Jordan.

Somehow we’ll get you out of here.”

“Has anyone called Uncle Hugh?”

“He’s not at Chetwynd,” said Beryl. “No one knows where he is. It seems he left last night without telling anyone. So we’re going to see Reggie and Helena.

They’ve friends in the embassy. Maybe they can pull some strings.”

Dismayed by the news, Jordan could only stand there, surrounded by the chaos of milling prisoners and police-men.
I’m in prison and Uncle Hugh’s vanished,
he thought.

This nightmare is getting worse by the second.

“The police think I’m guilty?” he ventured.

“I am afraid so,” said Daumier.

“And you, Claude? What do you think?”

“Of course he knows you’re innocent!” declared Beryl.

“We all do. Just give me time to clear things up.” Jordan turned to his sister, his beautiful, stubborn sister.

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Tess Gerritsen

The one person he cared most about in the world. He took off his watch and firmly pressed it into her hand.

She frowned. “Why are you giving me this?”

“Safekeeping. I may be in here a rather long time. Now, I want you to go home, Beryl. The next plane to London.

Do you understand?”

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. And Richard is damn well going to see to it.”

“How?” she retorted. “By dragging me off by the hair?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“You need me here!”

“Beryl.” He took her by the shoulders and spoke quietly.

Sensibly. “A woman’s been killed. And she was trained to defend herself.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m next.”

“It means they’re frightened. Ready to strike back. You have to go home.”

“And leave you in this place?”

“Claude will be here. And Reggie—”

“So I fly home and leave you to rot in prison?” She shook her head in disagreement. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

“If you love me, you will.”

Her chin came up. “If I love you,” she said, “I’ll do no such thing.” She threw her arms around him in a fierce, un-compromising embrace. Then, brushing away tears, she turned to Richard. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to Reggie, the sooner we’ll clear up this mess.” Jordan watched his sister walk away. It was just like her, he thought, to steer her own straight and stubborn course through that unruly crowd of pickpockets and prostitutes.

“Beryl!” he yelled. “Go home! Don’t be a bloody idiot!”
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She stopped and looked back at him. “But I can’t help it, Jordie. It runs in the family.” Then she turned and walked out the door.

Six

“Your brother’s right,” said Richard. “You should go home.”

“Don’t
you
start now,” she snapped over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you to the hotel to pack. Then I’m taking you to the airport.”

“You and what regiment?”

“For once will you take some advice?” he yelled.

She spun around on the crowded sidewalk and turned to confront him. “Advice, yes. Orders, no.”

“Okay, then just listen for a minute. Your coming to Paris was a crazy move to begin with. Sure, I understand why you did it. I understand that you’d want to know the truth about your parents. But things have changed, Beryl.

A woman’s been killed. It’s a whole new ball game now.”

“What am I supposed to do about Jordan? Just leave him there?”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll talk to Reggie. We’ll get him the best lawyer there is—”

“And I run home? Wash my hands of the whole mess?”
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She looked down at the watch she was holding. Jordan’s watch. Quietly she said, “He’s my family. Did you see how wretched he looked? It would kill him to stay in that place.