craft’s for les connaisseurs, vous savez,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “A certain clientele who appreciate the feel of a hand-bound book, the presentation of prints inside. Salvador Dalí commissioned my work, des gens comme ça.” Apart from his odd sentence structure—as if he translated from Russian construction—he spoke with a pure Parisian accent.
Under her boot she felt something hard and round. A brass button embossed with LEVI’S. Like the brass buttons on the Serb’s jean jacket. Her heart skipped. “What if this fell off the Serb’s jacket?”
“That man you ran over?” Yuri’s teary blue eyes widened. “Blame it on the Serb curse.”
“Meaning?”
“We have a saying about Serbs: An unfortunate man would be drowned in a teacup. But of that man I know nothing. Nothing.”
She doubted that. “I think this button came from his jean jacket. Maybe he trashed this place and came up empty.”
Yuri’s shoulders sagged, and the lines framing his mouth grew more pronounced. A quick scan told her the intruder knew exactly what to look for and where. The leather-bound books lining the shelves were untouched, as was an antique iron book-press on the worktable. An open calendar and notepad lay undisturbed on the desk.
“Life kicks one in the gut and we’re surprised?” he said. “As if one is the exception, not the rule?”
Since when do people refer to themselves in the third person, she wondered. An old-world thing?
“Monsieur Volodya, I’m here to return your money.”
“Keep it. Find my painting.”
“Art recovery’s not my line of work,” she said, suspecting he’d mentioned her mother as a ruse. This smelled off.
“I’ll make up a list, tell you everything.”
Everything? “Tell me how you know my mother.”
His left hand trembled slightly. “Please, in my own way. Give me a moment.”
It was foolish to rush him. Of course he was still in shock. He’d seen a man die, his car damaged, and his home burglarized all within a short time.
“Damien, my neighbor, the political boy, just brought me back from dinner at Oleg’s place. Oleg’s my stepson, as he calls himself. My wife’s child. Not mine.” Yuri’s voice rose, petulant. “Oleg’s wife served burnt blinis, like cement—can you imagine?”
Aimée contained her impatience with effort. “Why contact me to protect your painting?”
“Pour me another.”
Frustrated, she reached for the bottle. His liver-spotted hand clamped on her gloved one with surprising strength. His confusion was gone.
“If the Serb left empty-handed,” he said, “someone else didn’t.”
He knew something. She saw it in his eyes. Suspicion filled her.
“So you claim a painting is missing, but the man who appears to have broken into your house didn’t have it. Strange, Monsieur. And I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with my mother.” She sipped the vodka. “Why do I feel all this is some ruse?”
There was fear in his eyes. He downed the vodka. His hand clenched in a fist, his knuckles white. “I’ve been rude to you, I’m sorry.”
He was wasting time she should have been using to help Saj. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur Volodya, quit the guessing games.” She was angry with herself for getting caught up in this, for buying into his fishy story just because he’d mentioned her mother.
“So help me. I know you’re a detective. I wanted to hire you to protect the painting, but now it’s too late for that. I’m hiring you to get it back for me instead.”
Like she needed to add to Leduc Detective’s workload. They were already drowning. “Like I said, Monsieur, we don’t do art recovery.” She couldn’t resist adding, “You didn’t really know my mother, did you?”
“Of course I knew your mother. The American.”
Aimée gripped his hand. “How?”
“It’s complicated.” He stiffened. “I didn’t know her well.”
Aimée didn’t know her well, either. Sydney Leduc had abandoned them when Aimée was eight years old. “But you knew her. When?” Hope fluttered despite his vagueness.
“Of course, she was much younger then. Changed a little, but … it’s been years.”
Years? Her heart sank. “Where … how?”
“Now I want to make good on my debt.”
“Debt?” Why wouldn’t he give her a straight answer? “Is this about the painting?”
Footsteps crackled over the glass, and a draft of cold air rushed through the atelier. “Monsieur?” It was the flic with the clipboard.
“Please, Monsieur, how do you know my mother?”
“Not now.” Yuri put his finger to her lips. Dry, rough skin.
She’d had enough. She reached into her bag for the francs, about to tell him to forget involving her, when he whispered, “I’m being watched.” He held her