Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Nicole’s passport had been missing from its cubbyhole in the kitchen desk, but Claire had forced herself to be calm. To be sure, she thought she’d seen it just a couple of days ago. But she hadn’t been looking, its presence or absence hadn’t mattered then, and her perception of time might be unreliable.

But she knew where her passport should be. And it was most definitely gone.

Maybe, just maybe, in a moment of mindless distraction, she’d taken both of them and put them in her purse. Lord knows she’d had enough on her mind in the last few days to compromise the concentration of an automaton. Perhaps she’d been sleepwalking.

She raced through the empty apartment, grabbed her leather purse, and upended it on the pale rose Aubusson carpet that graced the formal salon. Lint and shreds of cigarette tobacco littered the floor, and a pen landed, making a small black spot. Claire stared at it in horror. No one else would notice the spot, no one but Marc. It would be the first thing he saw when he walked in, and her panic grew.

No passports in her purse, nothing. She flipped through her large wallet, hoping it might be tucked in there, but there was nothing, the little leather pockets yielding only more lint. She started to put it away when she realized something else. Her American Express card, her one link with financial freedom, was gone.

She heard the sound of the muffled moan, and knew it came from her. She’d seen the card yesterday—she had no doubt at all of that. Someone had been in the apartment, in her purse, removing the broken Limoges cup, the passports, her one way of escape. That someone had to be Marc.

“Stop it,” she ordered herself sharply, her voice unnaturally loud in the still apartment. “He’s just trying to frighten you. The American embassy will get you a new passport, American Express will get you a new card. You aren’t trapped.”

Brave words. But how was she going to get another passport for Nicole? Even if she spoke French, how would she be able to convince the suspicious French bureaucrats that she had the right to replace a French child’s passport, had the right to take her out of the country?

Could she leave her behind? Claire thought back to the small form curled up on her bed, her shy, ultimately defiant awakening, the surprisingly peaceful breakfast they’d shared. Their relationship had passed to a new level last night, one of reluctantly admitted trust. No, Claire couldn’t leave Nicole behind.

“First things first,” she said out loud, her voice deliberate. Was Marc hiding somewhere in the apartment, someplace she couldn’t find? She wasn’t about to go searching again. Twice she’d searched this apartment in the last two days. She didn’t want three to be the charm. She didn’t want to open a closet door and see Marc’s face there, watching her.

She dumped the contents of her purse back inside, shoveling everything in, stabbing herself on the pen. It was cold and damp and raw looking outside, but Claire was afraid to open the hall closet to fetch her raincoat. She ran back to the bedroom, to the closet she already knew was empty, and grabbed what she could find, a heavy wool sweater that would repel the rain. It didn’t matter that it would go oddly with the thin challis dress and leather pumps. All that mattered was that she get the hell out of the apartment and get her passport and American Express card replaced. And then she’d worry about Nicole.

Rocco sat in the dark corner of the café, drinking his coffee. This was his home territory, everyone knew that the table was his, that the café was under his protection, and everyone stayed out of his way. He sat there, smoking, thinking, left in peace because everyone was too afraid of him to bother him. Even Bobo behind the bar moved very carefully when he came over to refill Rocco’s cup.

It had been a strange meeting yesterday afternoon. Odd indeed to see him after so long, to still feel the same pull, the same excitement. Marc Bonnard had always had it, that magic something that drew people to him. It was no wonder he’d been able to lead a motley band of downtrodden orphans into a revolt against their tormentors.

What had been surprising was the violence that had erupted from Marc’s lily-white fingers. In Gilles and himself it was to be expected—they were rough boys from the slums of Paris. Gilles had been sent away by a weary grandmother for torturing and killing animals, cats and dogs and the like. Rocco had, at age thirteen, been the oldest and already a hardened criminal. He was an adept pickpocket, and he’d killed a man just before his own rattled grand-mère had sent him down. The man had caught him with his wallet and started yelling for the police. Rocco had had no choice. What had surprised him was how easy it was. And what a feeling of power it had given him.

His father’s mother had soon deprived him of that power. Whether she’d suspected his criminal activities or not, she’d had enough of an unwanted boy watching her every move. She still plied her trade every now and then, when she could find someone unfastidious enough to want a fat, fifty-year-old whore, and a grandson got i

n the way. So she’d sent him away from his beloved streets of Paris, to the Marie-le-Croix orphanage and the tender mercies of Grand-mère Estelle and Georges.

He’d paid her back for it, the moment he’d returned to Paris. The memory still had the ability to make him smile.

But Marc’s preorphanage upbringing had been different. Middle-class, respectable, his childhood was all that Rocco’s wasn’t. He didn’t know how Marc’s parents had died—Marc would never talk about them. But his grandmother, a well-dressed bitch with a mink coat, had dropped Marc off not long after Rocco had arrived. And she’d never come back.

Still and all, it had been Marc who’d talked them into resisting. Marc who’d planned the fire. Marc who’d honed the kitchen knives for them, passing them out that night so long ago. And it was Marc who’d struck the first blow, a savage grin on his angelic boy’s face. Marc who’d taken the first bite.

That was a memory Rocco wasn’t comfortable with, and he lit another cigarette, shuddering slightly. He’d always considered himself a tough kid, a hard, remorseless man, but there were certain things that had the ability to shake even him.

Marc hadn’t changed. He was still almost unnaturally handsome, with mesmerizing dark eyes and a charming, ready smile. He seemed perfectly at ease, doing his best to make Rocco feel as comfortable, but it had all been in vain. Too many years, too many strange and terrible things, lay between them. Rocco sat far away from him on the park bench and wished he’d never come.

“So my belle-mère wants you to murder her?” Marc had said gently, his upper-class accent making Rocco want to puke. “And frame me? Bless her heart, I didn’t know the old bitch had it in her.”

“She’s sick. Probably dying anyway,” Rocco said, looking at his rain-soaked boots rather than the man next to him. “She had too many pills by her kitchen sink, and her eyes were yellow.”

“I expect she would like to take me with her.” Bonnard’s voice was dreamy, musing. “I’m afraid we’ll have to thwart that final wish of hers, much as it grieves me.”

Rocco only nodded, staring at his boots.

“I must say, I appreciate this, old friend,” Marc continued softly. “While part of me deplores the necessity of our meeting, another part welcomes it. I’ve wanted to compliment you on your artistry. It’s always been easy to tell which has been you and which has been poor Gilles.”

“You heard about him?”

“And Yvon. So our ranks are diminished, Rocco. We must be careful.”

Rocco nodded, not raising his head. “Shall I take care of your mother-in-law?”

“I think not. I will reserve that pleasure for myself.”