The Book of Lost Fragrances

Thirty-three

9:15 P.M.

Whenever he came to Paris, Malachai stayed in the same suite at L’Hotel. He felt at home in the ornate apartment. The gold-and-red brocade curtains that matched the bedspread harkened back to the era of kings and queens. The crystal chandelier always sparkled. The fine French linens were always ironed.

He opened the window and looked out over the rooftops and the bell tower of the church of Saint-Germain. The view hadn’t changed in hundreds of years. The tower was one of the oldest in the city and dated back to the tenth century. Malachai checked his watch. Fifteen minutes after nine. Then he popped the cork on the bottle of Krug that was on ice and waiting for him-a welcome-back note from the hotel propped up against the silver bucket-and poured himself a glass. Champagne in hand, he opened the doors to the small balcony and walked outside just as the church bells began to peal. Leaning on the balustrade, he soaked in the music, the same ethereal chimes that parishioners had been hearing since the Middle Ages and throughout the revolution. Malachai sipped the creamy sparkling wine, shut his eyes and tried to imagine he’d stepped back in time. His imagination wasn’t up to the task. Oh, how envious he was of the children he worked with, who were able to travel back and forth through the ages. He, too, wanted to truly see and taste and hear the past. Be in the past. Walk the streets and interact with the people. Discover the secrets that were otherwise so elusive.

The bells’ reverberation disappeared. Street noises wafted up. A pigeon cooed. Malachai sat on an iron chair and pulled out one of his two cell phones-one to make calls, one to receive them. It was safer that way. Harder to trace.

As lovely as the room was, the balcony was his primary reason for renting the extravagant suite. He could talk freely here and not concern himself about bugs. And that enabled him to travel under his own name, which he preferred. While an alias ensured anonymity, it didn’t engender the attention and service he received when he checked into hotels as himself.

He punched in Winston’s cell.

“I’ve arrived,” he told the ex-agent.

“Good. How was the trip?”

“Uneventful. So tell me, is everything okay at the office?”

“Yes. Everything is status quo.”

Before Malachai had left America, Winston had reported there was no new information in the case. The pottery shards that had disappeared with Robbie L’Etoile were of little importance, historically or monetarily. Their estimated value was $5,000 or less. The French police had listed them with Interpol. But since they didn’t know they might be memory tools, they hadn’t logged them as such. No one had waved the flags that would have placed Malachai under surveillance. Every time he left the country, passport control alerted the FBI Art Crime Team in New York City that he was traveling abroad. But his relationship with the L’Etoile family allowed him to be here with impunity. He’d treated the sister of the man who was missing. He was here to make sure she handled the stress of his disappearance without having a psychological setback.

“Any news on your nephew?” Malachai asked, using their cipher for Lucian Glass. The ACT detective, who had handled the last two memory tool cases, had jeopardized not only Malachai’s relationship with his family but also his reputation with the Phoenix Foundation.

“My nephew’s busy. He’s got less time for me than ever. A new job and a new girlfriend. I can’t compete.”

Malachai smiled. It was always a relief to know Glass wasn’t on his back. At least not yet.

“Good for him.”

After the phone call, the therapist returned to the sitting room and settled down at the antique desk. He had two hours before he was to meet Winston’s colleague.

Using his Montblanc and the elegant hotel stationery, Malachai wrote a note to Jac telling her he was here and offering any help she could use.

The tone wasn’t right. He ripped up the effort. Dropped the scraps of paper into the brass trash basket.

They’d met when she was a gangly teenager and he’d been one of Jac’s therapists. While the gap in their ages hadn’t changed, it didn’t have the same significance as it had all those years ago. She was an accomplished woman now. But still alone, scared and in need.

He read over his second effort. Much better. Folding it, he slipped the letter into an envelope. He called down to the front desk and asked if the bellman would be willing to travel a short distance early the next morning to make a delivery.

The concierge didn’t hesitate. “Bien sûr, Doctor Samuels.”

Everything for a price. Well, almost everything. He’d offered Robbie L’Etoile more for the shards than he’d get from anyone else in the world. And the perfumer needed the money. Desperately. Yet he’d rejected the offer.

Why? What was he going to do with them? Did Jac know? Well, Malachai was in Paris now. He had arranged with his bank in New York to take out a loan against his half of the Phoenix Foundation building to get L’Etoile to sell him the pottery. If he was still alive. If he still had the shards.

Malachai checked his watch. He had a reservation at the restaurant downstairs. Sealing the letter, he put it in the pocket of his Savile Row suit.

Yes, it was a much better idea to write her a note than to phone. Surely the telephones at the House of L’Etoile were bugged. Malachai didn’t need to announce his arrival to the police like that. The FBI would let them know he was here soon enough. Besides, there was Jac to consider. By having the letter delivered, he would spare her the anxiety she must be going through each time the phone rang as she waited to hear news of her brother.

He never connected to patients personally. So why was he thinking about her like this? Almost with emotion.

Walking from his room toward the elevator, Malachai tried to understand. As honest about his faults as his attributes, he was well aware he was an excellent therapist for the same reason he wasn’t a decent friend or lover. Empathy wasn’t his strength. He listened objectively to those who came to him for help. Navigated through their complicated emotional waters without ever drowning in them himself. Years of his own analysis had exposed his narcissistic tendencies-the psychological condition that protected him from feeling for anyone else.

The elevator doors opened. Malachai joined the man and woman inside. He stepped to the left and faced front. The couple was reflected in the highly polished brass panel. They leaned close to each other, their bodies touching along their arms. They were holding hands.

Averting his eyes, Malachai looked at his own reflection. Fifty-eight years old and still chasing the same dream. Never married, he had neither children nor many long-term relationships. His aunt, codirector of the Phoenix Foundation, had a grown son, and Malachai took his relationship with the now-fatherless man seriously. But a cousin wasn’t the same as his own progeny.

The doors opened. The couple walked out. Suddenly feeling tired, Malachai stepped out into the dramatic Belle Époque lobby. Took in the exquisite sun motif in the marble floor. The six-story-high Grecian frieze. The plush fabrics and opulent seats. The lush, low lights. L’Hotel was a romantic spot. He supposed he’d always known that, but he’d never felt out of place there. Until tonight.