Nothing.
I find a wine cellar on the opposite end of the basement from the staircase, but it proves to be nothing but a place to store actual wine.
Frustrated, I return to Mercier’s office. I’ll have to search the rest of the house, too, but if Mercier has been hoarding stolen art and other precious works as I suspect, it makes the most sense that it would be down here.
I move around the outer edge of his office, carefully running my fingers along the wall looking for seams. A check of his cabinetry and shelving units turns up nothing.
Finally, I move over to his desk and start to rifle through his drawers, not exactly sure what I’m searching for. It’s not like I believe he keeps a map in here pointing me to stolen art.
One drawer is locked, and I pull out my lock picks to work on it. Leaning over to get a better look at it, I insert the first pick into the keyhole… and that’s when I see it.
Under the lip of the desk at the corner, there’s a tiny black button no bigger than a pea and set almost flush into the wood so it would have been hard to feel if I’d run my fingertips over the area.
Reaching out, I touch the button lightly and feel it depress. There’s a metal grinding sound. With a soft whoosh, the desk starts to slide to my left.
It keeps slowly moving away from where I’m sitting in Mercier’s rolling chair, until it almost pushes up against a bookshelf.
I’m stunned to find a rectangular opening in the floor with a staircase leading down into a sub-basement area. From what I can see, it’s already lit with wall sconces.
“Bingo,” I murmur, my heart racing over my discovery.
There’s no hesitation. I bolt from the chair and start down the secret staircase.
The first thing I notice is it’s temperature controlled. One would expect a secret area below the basement might be cold and damp, but I get the exact opposite. That says that whatever is down here is particularly important and well taken care of. Frankly, that can only mean it’s the illegal stuff.
At the bottom is a small foyer-type area bordered by stone walls on three sides and a large steel door with a lever knob. There’s no obvious locking mechanism, and I push the lever down.
The door swings open with a tiny nudge. I’m left gaping openmouthed at a tiny art museum. The room is no more than thirty-by-thirty feet with thick carpeting, paneled walls, and a padded bench covered in royal blue velvet in the center. A handful of paintings cover each wall, all professionally mounted and lit. The wall to my left houses the Renoir I’d stolen a few weeks ago, and I don’t waste any time moving to it.
Within five easy minutes, I have the painting tucked under my arm and I’ve navigated my way out of the chateau and back into the woods surrounding the property.
Another twenty minutes puts me back in my rental car and heading into the heart of Paris.
My goal is to return the painting, and I already have a plan for that. An old underground contact is going to rent a low-budget hotel room for me, one that doesn’t have security cameras and does have lazy desk clerks. I’m going to leave the painting in the room, then make a simple call to the police alerting them to its location.
I don’t care to pin the theft on Mercier. He’s got enough on his plate, and I’m sure he’s going down since the police found him in possession of the diamonds. I merely want the Renoir returned to Dennison so I can make my amends.
Pulling out the burner phone I still have on me, I make the call I’ve been putting off all day. My dad answers before the second ring.
“Sindaria?” he asks hesitantly.
“Yeah… it’s me.”
“Oh, thank God. I’ve been going bloody out of my mind with worry,” he yells. “Saint called me hours ago looking for you, and we’re both beside ourselves.”
I grit my teeth because it hurts and pisses me off that Saint got my dad all worked up. He had no right.
“I’m fine,” I reassure. “In fact, I’m going to catch a flight to London today. I’ll be home before you go to sleep tonight.”
“Are you flying under an alias?” he asks.
“Of course.” I have several, and I never travel internationally under my real name. As far as anyone knows, Sindaria Westin has been happily spending her time in London for the last few months rather than held figurative hostage by a French businessman turned criminal mastermind.
“Listen,” my dad murmurs, and I can hear the hesitation in his voice over what he’s about to say. “You need to cut Saint a break.”