The Paris Widow, page 23
He lifts his hands, spreads them in the air. “Strangely enough, no one is taking credit. But the chatter I’m hearing is that he’s become a risk. The French police officer you spoke to is not the only one chasing him. That British man you met, Alexander Finneas Pearson, he works for MI6.”
I nod, not all that surprised. “Makes sense. Finn knew about my criminal file, and he said to tell Adam to call him, that he could help. And moving stolen artifacts across international borders will get plenty of foreign intelligence involved, including the MI6.”
I think of the SIM card, sitting in a locker in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and the lieutenant colonel’s words pound through my head on repeat, that the illegal artifacts trade is a billion-dollar business. The third-largest international criminal activity after drugs and weapons. How many of the contacts would be willing to kill Adam purely out of risk of exposure? Dozens, probably. The MI6 was closing in, and Adam was keeping score.
“Yes, but if the authorities were indeed circling him, that would be a business killer. These clients of his, many are also clients of mine. If they hear even a vague rumor the police are watching, they will scatter.”
That’s because criminals are allergic to the police.
But Sully also hides and launders money for plenty of perfectly legitimate clients—at least they look that way on the surface. People with respectable jobs, who come from respectable families with recognizable names. Musicians and A-list actors, corporate CEOs and politicians. Not just the top 1 percent, but the top 1 percent that run the world. They see Sully’s services as a way of preserving their wealth, not a borderline illegal method of avoiding creditors and taxing authorities.
Like Margot Fazzari, for example.
“What about Margot? Did you dig into her?”
He nods in that guarded way he does, a gesture that’s not quite a yes. “Apparently, Adam had something that belonged to her, something very valuable. He was supposed to deliver it to her on Capri, but he didn’t show.”
“An artifact?”
“Multiple items, it sounded like, including a golden ring. Margot is not your husband’s biggest fan.”
Golden ring. Two words that shoot a hot warning up my spine. “If it’s a ring shaped like a belt buckle, I had that ring, Sully. I wore it for days before giving it to a woman, a friend of Adam’s. She was supposed to bring it back to the owner in England, but she was killed before she could leave Paris.”
“The Dutch art detective.”
“You know her?”
“Only by reputation. She was well-connected and very, very smart. Her death has everyone talking. Specifically, why she and Adam were working together to return a ring that he’d already sold to Margot.”
So Adam screwed over Margot. Took her money and didn’t deliver the ring.
I shake my head because even then. “Would Margot really kill for an eighty-thousand-euro ring?”
“With people like Margot, it’s not about the money. What does she need with money? She has more than she could ever spend. But for Margot that would be a great betrayal. She wouldn’t like getting fooled.”
Still. Would Margot really risk everything—her freedom, her reputation, her business and wealth—for a tarnished band of gold? I can’t make it make sense in my head. Not for a stupid ring.
But.
The SIM card holds Adam’s meticulous record of every one of their transactions. Pictures, prices, bank information, the works. If Margot found out he’d kept notes of her crimes, if she knew the MI6 and French police had him in their sights and he was carrying around evidence that could take her down, too... Now, that would be worthy of murder.
“I can see your mind turning, Stella. Does this have something to do with where you’ve been all afternoon? You’ve had a very busy day.”
There’s no use denying it, not to this man. Sully knows me too well, and he knows I’ve found something I can use as insurance to keep myself alive. Not only that, but because he’s been tracking me, he knows where I’ve stashed them.
I smile. “Always be prepared. You taught me that.”
Sully purses his lips, his gaze heavy on mine.
“Yes, but Margot is a Fazzari. She is... How does your government say? Too big to fail. Margot will take whatever steps necessary to protect her dynasty. She has her own version of Mustafa, and he is ruthless.”
“Let me guess. A Moroccan man they call Aljazaar.”
Because now I’m remembering something else Kat told me that day in the museum. She said that Aljazaar works for Adam’s client, a woman. And yes, okay, so there were hundreds of women in the contacts on the SIM card. There’s no reason to automatically assume this particular client is Margot.
Except for her yacht in the bay of Capri.
Except for her apartment here in Paris.
Except for all the ways this mystery keeps pointing back to her.
It’s all been leading to Margot. I can feel it.
Sully confirms it with a nod. “You would be wise to stay away from that man, Stella. He is very dangerous.”
“And I’m stubborn.”
“Some might call it reckless.”
“Maybe. But I can’t let this go. Not until I see Adam. Not until he looks in my eyes and tells me the truth.”
The driver pulls to a smooth stop, and I look out the side window. We are back on the tiny one-way street in Saint Germain where Mustafa had found me. I spot him a little farther up, leaning against a parking pole.
I turn back to Sully, who reaches across the console for my hand. His skin is warm, soft.
“Stella, aşkım.” His use of our old endearment—aşkım, my love. “Please be careful. Do it for me. You do not want to back Margot into a corner.”
“I’m not planning to back her into a corner.” I lean over and give Sully a lingering kiss, a thank-you and a goodbye wrapped in one, then pop open the door. “I’m planning to give her what she wants.”
* * *
The Maybach pulls away from the curb, and I slide the burner from the bag Mustafa just handed back to me. Margot’s cell goes straight to voicemail, just like I knew it would. Women like Margot do not answer unknown numbers, ever, for any reason. I wait through a generic recording in Italian, followed by a beep.
“Hi, Margot. It’s Stella Knox. I have something that belongs to you.”
Two seconds later a text hits my phone.
Tonight, 9 pm. 1 Rue des Saints-Pères. Try not to get arrested this time.
Thirty-Two
There’s nothing special about the door for 1 Rue des Saints-Pères except for its size, a giant slab of wood covered in glossy black paint tucked behind a brass-and-iron gate. I step back, searching the facade for a bell, when I hear a buzz, followed by a sharp click of a lock disengaging. The gate slides open, disappearing into the French stucco wall.
My gaze lifts, searching the corners of the vestibule, and there it is, of course—the subtle blinking light of a camera. I’m being watched.
“Step inside the vestibule, please.” The voice is low and male, bleating from a speaker next to the bell. The accent is not French. Not Italian, either.
The gate is all the way in the wall now, opening up a space of about five feet before a pair of arched oak doors. I step into it, and the gate glides back out of the wall, clicking closed behind me. Trapping me here—an extra layer of security and a stark reminder that no one gets in or out of this place without express permission.
Once the gate is back in place, there’s a second or two of dead air before the locks in front of me start disengaging—multiple locks, a good half dozen of them, one by one. Slowly.
Finally, the heavy door swings open to reveal a man. I take in his wavy hair and piercing eyes, his fashionable clothes and the Rolex strapped to his wrist, and my mouth goes dry. I try to breathe, but I can’t because look. Look what I missed.
Lucas smiles and gives me a little bow. “Bonsoir, Stella. Tu es en retard.”
Good evening, Stella. You are late.
By a full seventeen minutes, and every single one of them was on purpose. It’s a trick Sully taught me, one that establishes dominance. Never let the opposition think they have the upper hand.
But still. I didn’t notice what was right in front of me. That French of his is perfect. Too perfect.
I wet my lips with my tongue, somehow finding my voice. “You’re not American, are you?”
He shakes his head, though he doesn’t look the least bit sorry about it. “Non. I am not.”
“You’re not French, either.” It’s more a statement than a question, because France is not the only country in the world where people speak French. He raises a brow, and I can’t believe I missed it before now, the wickedness simmering just under the surface. “You’re Aljazaar.”
He smiles, a hardening of his lips into a thin, tight line.
“Is your name really Lucas?”
“Lucas Matéo Fournier, at your service.” He doesn’t bother trying to sound American this time, just lets his accent fly. “Now please. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
I step inside, thinking it all makes sense now. Why this man pretended to work at the embassy, why he fed me all that nonsense about strange American expat cravings. He smelled my fear and desperation and said everything I needed to hear: that he was on my side, that his job was to be my advocate—and I swallowed it, no questions asked. He manipulated me, the fucker, and I readily believed him.
It’s also why he gave me Adam’s phone, because Lucas didn’t think Adam died in that bombing, either. He knew if Adam would reach out to anyone, it would have been me. I wonder if Lucas was there the day of the bombing, watching Adam and Kat race out the square, or saw me when I chucked the phone in the Seine. I wonder if it was even really Adam’s phone Lucas gave me.
He motions for me to follow him into a bright foyer, a generous space with high ceilings and checkerboard tiles and an elaborate staircase with a simple red runner. Pretty, but not particularly impressive, and without one stitch of furniture. No rugs or decor or so much as an Ikea print on the walls. Just a big, blank space to serve as a checkpoint on the way to upstairs.
I unwind my bag from my shoulders and hold the strap in a fist, raising both arms to my sides. “I’m not armed. Not wearing a wire, either.”
He takes the bag from my fingers and drops it on the bottom step. “Still. I’m sure you’ll understand if I check.”
I stand as still as I can while Lucas feels up every inch of my body, and this isn’t some standard pat-down, nothing like Mustafa’s or the hurried check you get at the airport. This is him running fingers up and down my limbs, pressing into my armpits and my crotch behind the seams of my jeans, getting entirely too familiar with the skin underneath my bra and the edges of my panties, probing every fold and every crease, dipping into collars and hems and waistbands. His jacket falls open as he works, giving me a clear view of the gun on his hip—a move I’m certain is on purpose. I stand perfectly still and remind myself to breathe while he searches every inch of my body, because I have zero doubt that he’d use it.
On me.
On Adam.
Yet another reminder of why I’m here, because of my husband. Because this man with his hands all over my body wants to hurt him in service of the woman waiting somewhere upstairs. If Adam were here right now, nothing I could say or do would matter. He’d tell me that to keep him safe—to stay safe myself—I should be anywhere but here.
Sully’s voice runs through my head. Margot will take whatever steps necessary to protect her dynasty.
But Adam and Margot and Lucas don’t know that side of me. They don’t know that when I’m backed into a corner, I can be ruthless, too.
I look at Aljazaar, this stranger who injected himself into my orbit. All those things he told me that day on the bridge, gazing out at the Notre Dame in the distance. About the lieutenant colonel, all those questions he asked me about Adam. Did you know of your husband’s illegal activities? Were you willfully involved in any of them? All that time he was feeling me out, seeing how much I knew, planting little seeds that would hopefully lead me—and him—to Adam.
Lucas straightens, swiping my bag from the step. He punches the button for an elevator at the back of the room, and the doors ding open.
“Let’s go. Margot is waiting.”
* * *
The elevator doors whir open, and this is more like it. This is what I was expecting for a house of this size and stature. Walls paneled in silk and hung with ancient tapestries. Rich mahogany bookshelves stuffed with art and gold-leafed books. Elaborate statues arranged among Greco-Roman sculptures plopped on marble pedestals. Paintings from Old Masters hung four and five rows high next to mosaics and religious icons in tempera and gold. A riot of history’s greatest gems and masterpieces, a priceless museum all for one woman. Opulence à la Margot Fazzari.
She stands atop an antique Persian rug in the center of the room and spreads her arms wide, smiling big and open like we’re old friends—which I suppose in some sick way, we could be.
“Stella, amore mia. Finally, we meet in person.”
Even here, in the privacy of her own home at well past nine at night, Margot is painfully put-together. Body-hugging dress a dark forest green over five-inch red-soled heels. Shoulder-length hair shiny and smooth, as fragrant as if she just stepped out of a salon. Smoky eyes and glossy lips and flawless, dewy skin. Margot Fazzari may be forty-six, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty.
She nods to Lucas, still standing in the open elevator, and he hits the button. The doors slide closed, leaving the two of us—just me and Margot—up here all alone.
I stand here, dirty sneakers sunk in Margot’s priceless carpet, and let her give me three air-kisses.
“What tricks you must have, to capture all these men’s hearts. First Sully, now Adam. Tell me, what is it about you that makes them find you so captivating? Are you sure you’re not European?” She laughs, the sound high and merry. “Champagne?”
She turns away before I can answer, stepping to a built-in bar along the far wall. On the other side of the windows, the Seine sparkles in the moonlight, while just beyond, the iconic facade of the Louvre is lit up from below.
“You have a lovely home. It suits you.”
Technically, I’ve only seen two rooms of it, but by now I get the setup. A cross between a palace and a museum, the well-guarded top floors of an eighteenth-century building that runs the length of an entire Parisian block.
She plucks a bottle of Cristal from a silver ice bucket, then fills two cut-crystal flutes. “Thank you, darling. Your husband helped me decorate.”
I nod because I’d already noticed some of his pieces. A bronze statue of a Bacchus, a potbellied boy with one chubby arm held high in the air, which is an exact match to the one on our living room shelf at home. Ditto with the framed Chagall print hanging on the wall, the marble bust on the coffee table next to a carved wooden box. Fakes, Adam assured me—excellent ones I asked Katie to remove from our house just in case. What he didn’t tell me was that he’d stashed the real ones here.
She swipes two flutes from the bar and whirls around in a cloud of perfume. “Let’s toast to old friends. Because we are that, aren’t we, Stella? Friends.”
Margot and I are not friends. We have almost nothing in common, no connected social circles or similar upbringings for us to talk about. The only reason our paths ever crossed is because of Sully and now Adam.
I give her a close-lipped smile. “Are we, though? Because I feel like friends wouldn’t try to kill another friend’s husband.”
She hands me a glass, the crystal so heavy it’s practically lead. “You say that like your husband was innocent, dear. Now come. Let’s make a toast, to us.”
She holds her own glass high, and that’s when I see it—the flash of gold that catches the light. It’s on her pointer finger, a band in the shape of a belt buckle, and I don’t have to wrench it off her hand to know what the inscription says.
Gift of love, to one who wishes love, but in Greek.
I tap my glass against hers, then bury my nose in a sip, golden bubbles with just the right amount of tartness. I need a moment to regroup, to give myself a pep talk, to tell myself that coming here wasn’t a mistake. That while Margot might think I’ve walked into a trap, I am the one holding the literal key. That I won’t become a sacrifice like Kat.
“Let’s stop playing around, shall we?” Margot says. “You said you had something that belongs to me. What is it?”
“Every single transaction ever made between you and Adam. Pictures, prices, banking information. The list is very long and detailed. Adam stored it on a SIM card.”
Despite herself, she looks almost impressed. “A SIM card, how clever. Small. Easy to conceal. A million of them out in the world, and no one thinks of them as anything other than a tiny little plastic thing you shove into a phone. Very resourceful of him to think of it.”
“The most resourceful part is where he hid it. I’ve been carrying it around for weeks now.” I step to the window and press my face to the glass, looking down on the busy street. “When I decided to come here, it was to trade the SIM card for Adam’s freedom. For you to leave him alone. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve seen this place and you, I’ve changed my mind.” I whirl around, my gaze finding hers. “I want the ring, too.”
She holds her hand up to the light, admiring the golden band. “Now, why would I give you this ring? I paid your husband handsomely for it, and then he tried to deceive me, the bastard. Though he deceived you, too, didn’t he? As the French would say, on est dans le même bain. You and I are in the same bath.”
