Private Paris (Private 10)

At first our con

versation had been directed at the death of René Pincus and the tag. The graffiti expert had been getting pictures of the tag in various places in and around Paris. As of early that evening, she’d received pictures of sixty-two different iterations of the tag, but no explanation of its meaning.

I told her about the men who’d shot up the Plaza Athénée, and their interest in the cigarette lighter that Kim Kopchinski kept on a chain around her neck. Michele agreed that it was an odd thing to ask about.

“There’s a lot of danger in your life, I think,” she said.

“At times,” I said.

“Tell me about your life, Jack.”

Usually I play things close to the vest, but Michele looked so radiant, and acted so, well, empathetic, that I started opening up to her. I told her about my fucked-up childhood and my dysfunctional family, especially my dad, who’d been a cop, a private investigator, a swindler, and a crook before dying as an inmate in a California penitentiary.

I told her about my mom’s death, and about my borderline-psycho twin brother, Tommy, and some of the stuff he’d pulled in the past. I even told her about the marines, my time in Afghanistan, and the helicopter crash that still haunted me.

“How terrible it must have been for you and your friend Del Rio to walk away from it when so many others died,” she’d said.

“It was the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” I admitted. “In some ways I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

“We all have such moments in our lives,” Michele said. “These are the times that define us, no?”

“In some ways, I guess how we handle tragedy defines us,” I replied. “Have you had such moments?”

She got sad then, and nodded. “I saw my parents die when I was nine.”

“Jesus. How awful. What happened?”

“A train accident in Italy on their twelfth anniversary,” she said.

Michele was sent to her only living relative, her mother’s older sister, who was divorced and had two children of her own. Her aunt squandered Michele’s inheritance and treated her horribly.

“I found art in school and retreated into it,” she said. “Out of that loss and that mistreatment came my life and my life’s work.”

That’s when the waitress cleared her throat.

“We should go,” I said.

We apologized and left a generous tip. Outside I was more than pleased when Michele put her arm through mine. We walked and talked for another hour. Around two, we were strolling across the Pont Saint-Louis.

“I could talk like this all night with you, but I must go home,” Michele said as we crossed the bridge. “I have an eleven o’clock class.”

A cab pulled onto the bridge and I hailed it. Opening the rear door, I said, “Thanks for the fine company and conversation.”

“I had a wonderful evening.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, see if you’ve gotten any more pictures of the tag.”

“Or I can call you.”

“Either way,” I said, and closed the door, thinking she was a remarkable woman. Gorgeous, yes, but a whole lot more.

After watching the taxi drive off, I headed east, hoping to find another cab on the Boulevard Henri IV. Halfway there, my cell phone rang.

I dug the phone out of my pants, looked at caller ID, frowned.

“Up late, Louis?”

“I was just awoken by Investigateur Hoskins, who needs our forensics help again,” he growled. “AB-16 has struck a third time, and once more they didn’t pull any punches.”