Prologue
Paris
Lisette ran over to Mark on the Pont de la Concorde.
“Where have you been?” he said, glancing at his watch.
“I am sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I came as fast as I could. Traffic was horrible.”
“Lisette, one hundred million dollars is riding on this little project --”
“Oui oui, I know. You do not have to remind me.”
“Come on. We need to hurry. The buyer’s probably there already.”
He put his arm around her slender waist and they struck off for the Left Bank. A gentle breeze tousled her blond hair and teased him with a hint of Chanel. As they hurried over the bridge, a party boat glided by underneath them. Laughter echoed in the lush summer night, and lights strung along the boat sparkled on the dark water of the Seine.
“Where is the meeting?” she asked.
“Not far,” he replied as they reached the end of the bridge. “Beinecke rented an apartment on a little street just off Saint-Germain, under an assumed name.”
“Who is this Beinecke person? You told me once, but --”
“He’s an old college friend of mine. We’ve worked together several times. A little while ago he held a cocktail party in his gallery … discreetly mentioned to a couple of longtime clients that a previously unknown Vermeer just surfaced from a private collection.”
“Who is the lucky buyer?”
“I don’t know. I did the painting. He handled the client side. All I know is that it came down to just two bidders. One is from Venice. He didn’t say where the other is from.”
A few minutes later, they reached a narrow one-way street lined with three and four-story houses and shops.
“Okay,” he said, looking around, “this is the street. The apartment should be just ahead, in the next block.”
They hurried down the narrow sidewalk. The houses facing the street were quiet. A few lights glowed behind shuttered windows. In a small bistro, a waiter polished wine glasses as a few diners lingered over espresso.
“You didn’t bring any of your equipment,” Lisette noted.
“Beinecke told the bidders I already performed chemical analysis of the pigment and binder. Tonight I’m just supposed to give the winning bidder verbal assurance by summarizing the results. Your role is to draw on your vast scholarship of Vermeer to confirm what I say. Beinecke said the two bidders aren’t Vermeer specialists. Should go without a hitch.”
“He didn’t give them your real name, did he?”
“Of course not. My name tonight is Reynolds. Yours is Dumont.”
He took a pair of glasses out of his suit pocket and handed them to her.
“Here … wear these.”
“But I don’t need glasses.”
“They’re just low-power reading glasses. They’ll make you look more intellectual.”
A motor scooter buzzed by.
“This is the place,” Mark said, stopping in front of a three-story row house. He took a deep breath. “The apartment is on the second floor.”
He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Lisette followed him up the creaking stairs. In the dim stairwell, Mark paused in front of an open door. A wedge of light glowed on the landing.
“The door’s open,” Mark said warily. “That’s strange … Beinecke’s usually more cautious than that.”
He pushed on the door and then gasped.
A body lay in the center of the small room, surrounded by a dark pool of blood.
“Dieu!” Lisette exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hand.
Mark glanced behind the door and then ran over to the body and turned it over. A knife appeared, stuck deep in the man’s chest.
“Jesus!” he whispered, “it’s Beinecke.”
“Is he … dead?”
Mark clasped Beinecke’s wrist, searching for a pulse.
“Yes,” he confirmed as an icy trickle of sweat ran down his neck. “He’s dead. His body’s still warm, too … this happened just a little while ago.”
“Mon Dieu! If we had arrived a few minutes earlier --”
“Yeah …”
Lisette stared at the empty easel standing in the center of the room.
“Mark! The painting … it is gone!”
He glanced at the easel.
Sure enough, the fake Vermeer he’d worked on for six months had vanished.
“We need to call the police!” she exclaimed.
“And tell them what? That a Vermeer I forged was stolen?”
“But --”
Mark looked again at the body of his old friend. His eyes remained wide open, staring, a mute scream frozen on his face. The silver pommel of the knife stuck in his chest was in the shape of a grinning skull.
“Come on,” he urged, “we need to get out of here.”
“But Mark --”
“The neighbors may have heard something. We can’t afford to be seen here. Besides, the killer is out there somewhere … he may even be watching the house right now.”
“There is something in his pocket,” Lisette said, stifling a sob.
Mark pulled a slip of paper sticking out from one of his friend’s suit pockets. There was only one word on it: “Don” and what looked like the first few digits of a phone number.
A police siren wailed in the night.
“Let’s go,” he said, staring at the blood on his hands.
She backed up slowly toward the door, still stunned.
“Did you touch anything here, Lisette?”
“I – I don’t think so --”
“Think harder, damn it! It’s important.”
“No … no, I didn’t touch anything.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to wipe my prints from the door here and from the door downstairs. We’re going to walk down the stairs casually -- as though nothing happened. When we get outside, we’ll go in opposite directions, walking at a normal pace … unless, of course, someone is out there waiting for us.”
“Merde!”
“Then I’m going to check into a hotel, and I suggest you do the same. Whatever you do, don’t go back to your apartment tonight.”
She nodded.
“Mark … I am so scared --”
“We’ll be all right. The people that did this got what they wanted and are probably far away by now. The only thing the police can get us for is forgery, and Beinecke was too careful to leave clues lying around.”
Trembling, Lisette left the room.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Mark said to the lifeless body on the floor. “I promise I will find out who did this to you.”