The Book of Lost Fragrances

Fifty-four

10:49 A.M.

The driver met Malachai at the mansion’s front door. Holding his umbrella aloft, he protected the psychologist from the drizzle. As they walked the few steps from the street to the car, Leo tipped the large black silk umbrella forward, transforming it into a shield, and whispered, “That detective insisted he wait for you in the car. I had no choice.”

They’d reached the Mercedes. Leo opened the door.

Malachai slid onto the soft leather seat and feigned bewilderment when he saw Marcher. Since he’d arrived in Paris, he had anticipated the possibility of an encounter like this. Hoping against hope that he’d be able to avoid it, he was mildly surprised it had taken this long for the French authorities to ambush him.

“Inspector Marcher. Usually you visit with Jac. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Good morning, Dr. Samuels,” the detective said in his accented English. “I was hoping to catch up with you. I’ve asked your driver to take us to my office.”

“It’s not a good time for me. I have an appointment,” Malachai said. “Is this official?”

“I apologize in advance, then. You might be a bit late.” He avoided answering the question.

Malachai started to protest but was interrupted by the detective’s phone. Pulling it out of his pocket, Marcher looked at the number. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

The drizzle intensified. The traffic came to a standstill. Malachai stared out the window and listened to the detective’s one-sided conversation. Tried to translate. He was certain the police had found a witness to a crime in the Marais. But he doubted that the woman was requesting the police buy her a monkey in exchange for cooperation. Despite everything, Malachai chuckled at his mangled translation.

Swollen raindrops hit the window and blurred the scene.

The detective hung up. Shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have to follow up on that call. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

As Marcher punched in the number, Malachai glanced at the clock on the dashboard. They’d gone five minutes out of their way. Now they were stuck in traffic. This was a disaster. The plan he, Jac and Griffin had worked out last night required Malachai to get to the museum by eleven fifteen. It was going to be his last chance to talk L’Etoile into selling him the memory tools instead of giving them to the Dalai Lama.

If he was late, Malachai would have lost yet another chance at the golden ring. How many more chances would there be?

His nerves were getting the better of him. Pulling a deck of playing cards out of his jacket pocket, he shuffled the deck. No matter that the cards were worth thousands of dollars, they were made to be played, appreciated, enjoyed. As he manipulated them, their golden edges sparkled.

Malachai glanced at the dashboard again. Another minute had evaporated. The traffic was still congested. The detective was still jabbering away.

The reincarnationist swallowed a sigh. He had no more patience for gendarmes and Interpol inspectors, FBI agents, Art Crime detectives and New York City policemen. Since 2007, he’d been on the receiving end of far too much attention from the authorities. But once you were on their radar, you couldn’t escape.

Possessing one of the memory tools would be the culmination of Malachai’s career. So he’d followed the rumors wherever they’d led him whenever a potential tool surfaced. And even though he wasn’t the only one to covet the ancient artifacts, over and over he’d found himself at the center of international incidents and investigations. He couldn’t blame them that he was often the first to be suspected and the last to be exonerated.

Once more, Malachai checked the clock on the dashboard. Two more minutes passed. He had only ten left before he had to be at the Orangerie. How long would Marcher’s questions take? How much was there to ask him? He hadn’t done anything illegal since arriving in Paris. Hadn’t seen anyone but Jac and Griffin. Leo the driver. No crimes he knew of had been committed since he’d been here. He’d been in New York the night Robbie had disappeared and the murder had occurred.

For once, Malachai was almost thankful that the FBI had his residence and office under surveillance. They’d probably already confirmed he’d been safely ensconced in his apartment and hadn’t left America until forty hours later.

As Leo navigated the sluggish traffic, Malachai checked the time yet again. What if he just opened the door and ran out? Left the stupid little detective in the Mercedes. Catch a cab-no, no cabs in the rain. Could he get to the Orangerie on foot?

Outside, the sky darkened. The charcoal clouds thickened. What was left of daylight disappeared and was replaced by an ominous gloom.

Leo turned a corner. The stone buildings on the narrow street were cast in shadows. A boom of thunder. A heavy wave of raindrops hit the rooftop with enough force to reverberate inside the car.

Even for someone who believed in the impossible, Malachai knew he was too far away and it was too late for him to make it to the museum on time.

The detective closed his phone. “Since we didn’t get a chance to chat at all, I’d like you to come upstairs with me.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter? Speaking to the police wasn’t on my agenda for this morning.”

“Yes, you mentioned you had somewhere to be. Would you like to tell me where your appointment is?”

“Was. Where it was. I’m too late to make it now.”

“Where was the meeting?”

“It’s a private matter.”

Marcher’s eyebrows rose. “That makes it sound suspicious.”

“No, it makes it sound private. I’m not a French citizen. I haven’t been involved in any crimes committed while I’ve been in Paris. At least to my knowledge. Or am I wrong?”

“You are in Paris because Robbie L’Etoile is missing, correct?”

“Yes, because both he and his sister are friends of mine, and I wanted to offer support.”

“Robbie L’Etoile is a prime suspect in a murder.”

“That happened days before I arrived.”

The chauffeur inched ahead.

“I’m going to have to insist you come upstairs.”

“Even though I just told you I am in Paris offering support to a dear friend.”

“I’m sure your support is of great value to Mademoiselle L’Etoile. But the murder was a result of a robbery attempt that does have something to do with you.”

“I think you are mistaken.”

“The fragments of ancient Egyptian pottery, which are now missing along with Monsieur L’Etoile, are inscribed with poetry that references reincarnation.”

“Just a coincidence,” Malachai said and smiled sadly. Let the detective believe that. Malachai knew better. There were no coincidences.