The Hypnotist

FIFTY-FOUR

Paris, France

After three intense days of negotiating, on Saturday afternoon Darius Shabaz’s lawyer contacted the FBI and agreed to their terms: his client was willing talk to them in exchange for leniency, but only if they would come to Paris. Seven hours later, Lucian and Matt Richmond were on the last Air France flight out of Kennedy Airport. They arrived, groggy and needing showers, early Sunday morning and took a taxi to their hotel on the Left Bank.

“Who made these reservations?” Lucian asked as the cab approached 9 rue de l’Université and he saw the hotel’s name in brass letters on the marble lintel of the front door.

“Someone in the office, why?”

“Its name…” Lucian pointed to signage that read Hôtel Lenox.

“Yes?”

But the cab had pulled up in front and there was no time to explain.

While Richmond paid the driver, Lucian grabbed their luggage out of the trunk. It wasn’t until after they’d checked in, dropped their bags in their rooms and met up again downstairs for coffee that Richmond had a chance to find out why Lucian had been surprised by the hotel’s name.

“Frederick L. Lennox was an industrialist and a founding member of the original Phoenix Club. Elgin Barindra has found quite a bit of correspondence from him to Talmage. I think copies are on your desk somewhere.”

“I haven’t gotten to that stuff yet…”

Lucian laughed. “You never will. Your desk is like a black hole.”

The waiter arrived with café au lait and croissants. While Richmond stirred in two heaping teaspoons of sugar, Lucian continued his explanation in between sips of the hot coffee.

“Lennox wanted to examine the Sanskrit list of Memory Tools that the Memorist Society owned and he planned on going to Austria to see it. There’s no correspondence confirming whether or not he ever did, but we do know he bought a sculpture found in Persia that he believed contained a Memory Tool. He bequeathed the statue to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“Are we talking about the same sculpture Darius Shabaz wanted?”

“Might be. Lennox donated over a hundred pieces to the Met, all of them from the Middle East.”

“But there could be a connection between Hypnos and the Phoenix Foundation? Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“It’s in the notes-”

“On my desk. I know. I know. Crazy coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and since no one but Doug and I and your desk know about it, it’s just another coincidence that we’re booked in here.” Lucian broke off a corner of the flaky croissant and ate it. “It really does taste better, doesn’t it?”

“The coffee, too. So Lennox thought Hypnos was a Memory Tool? Do you think that’s why Shabaz wanted it? We’ll have to find out if he has any connection to Malachai Samuels.”

Lucian took another bite of the croissant. He needed to think through how to answer and make sure that his response only referenced facts uncovered by their investigation as opposed to information he had gleaned in the strange regression sessions he’d had with Iris Bellmer. In his memories he couldn’t see the treasures in the crypt; he didn’t know if Hypnos was there. He only could see the actions he-Fouquelle-took and the terrified faces of the couple who owned the house.

“I don’t think Malachai Samuels knew about any of this until Elgin Barindra found the letters from Lennox to Talmage.”

“Any details about what that Memory Tool is?”

“Nope, nothing. Malachai must be going crazy.” Lucian couldn’t help himself; he smiled.

Richmond drained his coffee and observed his partner over the rim of his cup. After a few seconds he asked, “What else is going on with you?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve been working with you for five years. You’re always wrapped up in work to the point of distraction. You use it to keep the demons away. I get that. Lots of us do. I don’t want to pry. But you’re in deeper than usual on this one. Are you all right? Really?”

“Never better.”

“You’re holding back.”

“Don’t you know me well enough to know I’d never hold back anything that mattered to a case we’re working on?”

“I’m not talking about the case. I’m talking about you. What’s wrong with you? Have you looked in a mirror? You look exhausted all the time. Worried. You’re always drawing. I know it’s a habit, but it’s habitual. You’re popping painkillers like Tic Tacs. What the hell is wrong?”

“Other than the headaches-it’s just work. We’re closing in on one, maybe two cases. We’re doing our jobs. We’re rescuing paintings. It’s just work.”

“Nah. You’ve got secrets, man. More than before, and that’s saying something. And you’re in some kind of trouble because of them.”

Lucian was tempted. It would be a relief to talk about the strange dreams and drawings, the regression sessions that had opened up horrifying nightmares, to tell him about Emeline and the crazy idea he was fighting-and at the same time embracing-that she and Solange were connected. Matt was someone he trusted, literally, with his life.

“Let’s get going,” Lucian said, standing up, brushing croissant crumbs off his hands. Now wasn’t the time to update Matt on his personal hell.