Private Paris (Private 10)
gether and pursed her lips.
“And this graffiti?”
“In L.A., graffiti can mean a lot of things,” I replied. “But here it strikes me like gang graffiti, meant to define turf in some way.”
Hoskins walked around the tag, considering it, glancing up at the body, and then halting. She looked at Louis. “And you, Monsieur Langlois?”
Louis’s eyelids went heavy. “Jack has said it all.”
She stared at him with her jaw moving slightly, but then smiled at me and extended her hand. “Well, then, I appreciate you coming in, Mr. Morgan. At the moment, we need to clear the theater so the criminalists can do their job.”
I shook her hand, took her card, and gave her mine.
As we turned to leave, she said, “And Louis, I know you said Private Paris has been hired by Richard’s mistress, but that gives you no legal standing to get in the way of my murder investigation. We’re clear on that?”
His eyelids still heavy, Louis said, “Très clair, madame l’investigateur.”
The streets outside the Palais Garnier had been turned into a media circus by the time we exited the opera house. Word of Richard’s death was out. There were white television vans parked beyond the cordoned area. Several reporters recognized Louis and started peppering him with questions in French.
He begged off, telling them that Investigateur Hoskins was the person to find. When we’d finally broken free of them, Louis lit a cigarette and puffed on it violently while using his iPhone to summon a ride through Uber, an app and company that provide on-demand private cars and drivers.
“Two minutes,” he said. “This Uber thing really works, you know.”
I nodded. “I’ve used it in L.A. when I’ve wanted to go out, have a few drinks. On another note, Hoskins really does not like you.”
“Oh, really?” Louis said, drawing it out and dripping with sarcasm. Then he flicked his ash and added, with a tinge of regret, “It is a pity, actually, because I do admire her, and in the art of love she was truly magnificent.”
The Uber car turned up before I could reply. We climbed in and Louis gave the driver the address of our new client, the opera director’s mistress.
When we were rolling, I said, “You did see something in the opera house that I missed, right?”
“Perhaps,” Louis said.
“Want to enlighten me?”
“There is a friend of mine I wish to consult before I draw any conclusions or make any claims.”
“Former cop?”
“A professor of art,” he said. “And an expert on graffiti.”
Chapter 19
16th Arrondissement
11:35 a.m.
LOUIS AND I pulled up in front of a beautiful old building in a chic neighborhood north of Place du Trocadéro. The mistress’s maid, a tiny Vietnamese woman, opened the apartment door before Louis could knock.
She led us into a well-appointed living area where two women sat on a couch, holding hands and struggling not to weep. The younger and larger of the two women was in her late forties, with dark, Mediterranean features. The older woman, a petite platinum blonde with a dancer’s posture, might have been sixty, but if so she’d aged incredibly well.
The younger woman said, “Louis, we are so glad you’ve come.”
“How could I not for an old and dear friend?” Louis said, taking her in his arms for a brief bear hug. Then he turned and said, “This is Jack Morgan, the head of all Private. Jack, this is Evangeline Soleil.”
She greeted me with a sad smile and said, “I wish it were under different circumstances, Monsieur Morgan. And may I introduce Valerie Richard?”
Before the name could register with me, Louis went straight to the woman and clasped her hand in his great paws, and said, “Madame Richard, I am so very sorry for your loss. If Private Paris can do anything, please ask.”