27
TRISTAN
We hardly spoke for the first two hours of the flight. The attendants brought out food. We didn’t eat. They offered champagne. We didn’t drink.
I backtracked my night, going through who I came in contact with, noting the time and as many details as I could recall. I arrived at the Sanctuary at eight thirty. I walked through the rooms as I always do. Then I spotted Henry around nine. I spoke with her for only a moment before Wood gave me the sign that Usenko and Naz had arrived. I remember looking at my watch while explaining to Usenko we would meet in three days’ time in New Orleans. That was at nine twenty. I left them and went to find Henry. She was on the second floor, watching the show unfold. The show…the show…
I tapped my fingers to my lips. “Henry, did Lucette have a tattoo?”
Henry nodded her head, her eyes still puffy from the hours of tears. “I thought you’d never met her. How could you know that?”
“Because I saw her naked. Twice.”
Henry adjusted the travel pillow under her head. “What do you mean? Twice?”
“She was the woman covered in water and oil. The Ram’s head.”
Henry nodded.
“But how would I have known that?”
“I don’t know. Because you’ve met her?”
“No. Henry. I’ve never met Lucette. Never. You only told me you were at the Sanctuary because you knew I’d be there. You never said you knew one of the performers. I thought Wood put you on the list.”
“No, Lucette put me on the list. Wait. You said twice. How did you see Lucette naked, twice?”
I went back to recounting my evening in my head. “What?”
“You said you’d seen her naked. Twice.”
“Yeah. Once in the cellar. Pierre was screwing her brains out against a rack of champagne. I was down there with Marcel. He had to leave. I started nosing around. I stayed long enough to see her fully nude because…well, I wanted to make sure Pierre wasn’t fucking you. She was blonde and had a distinctive tattoo—a dragon eating its own tail. The same tattoo I saw on the woman on stage last night being taken by a man with ram horns.”
Henry’s eyes teared up again. “Yes. Lucette had an interesting sexual appetite.”
“Did Pierre know about this side of her life?”
She shrugged. “I never thought he did, but—”
“But what?” I asked, leaning into her. “At this point, Henry, anything you can think of—anything you can remember might help.”
“I never thought he knew. Pierre didn’t really want Lucette. He wanted to use her, but he definitely thought of her as property—his property. She thought of herself as a performer and not a prostitute. She always said it was a way to quench her sexual thirst without feeling bad about herself.”
“So working there is something she would never tell him about.”
“I didn’t think so,” Henry said. “But then I saw him last night.”
I leaned into her words. “What?”
“Yes. I couldn’t see his face because of the mask, but I know that stupid swagger of his, not to mention the nervous tic he gets when he’s worried or angry. I told you this last night. But it doesn’t matter. You signed papers with René.”
I furrowed my brow. “Wait. What?”
She stood from her seat, taking the chair directly across from me on the jet. “Just what I said. He was at the Sanctuary last night with that buyer. The American.”
“How do you know this for certain?”
She looked away, fidgeting with her hands. “I’d know Pierre anywhere. And the American was wearing the same bad suit he had on at the café, not a tuxedo. He was the same balding man with the same twangy talk. Like a cowboy. I saw his face when he took his mask off to take a drink of his whiskey. He said he hated France.”
“Cowboy?”
She nodded.
“What in the hell is Pierre up to?”
I looked to my watch and had a thought. Then grabbing my duffle bag from the seat behind me, I hurried to the bathroom without saying a word. Inside the bag, I unzipped the lining, taking out the bloodstained shirt.
I took off my t-shirt and tossed it aside. Then slipping my arms through the sleeves, I closed it over my chest and buttoned two buttons. Buttons.
Looking down at the left side, it was soaked in dried blood from the edge of the French fold to the cufflink hole. Pushing the sleeve back, I looked to my watch—the watch I never took off. It was pristine. There was no blood on the dial. No blood spatter on the brown leather band.
Taking off the shirt again, I folded it up, and placed it back inside the zippered compartment.
I got dressed and stared at my face in the mirror. Was this the work of Usenko? The mole? Or was it Pierre looking to put away the only reason that could stop his sale of Lebleu?
My phone buzzed.
WOOD: Where the fuck are you? Are you aware of what’s going down?
There was also a missed call from my boss, Nick Daniels. I knew it was only a matter of time before General Michaels made his call too. Everything was about to come crashing down around me. But I couldn’t stop pushing. The frame for Lucette’s murder meant only one thing—I was so close to what I wanted to know, I could taste it.
Slipping the phone into the pocket of my leather jacket, I heard the rustle of paper. I shoved my hand inside, pulling out a small, white note. Folded twice, the handwriting was shaky—my father’s. There was a name and location: Helen Stone, New Orleans.
When the wheels touched down in Nola, it was almost midnight. I called a cab from my phone and Henry and I waited outside the main entrance on the curb for it to arrive.
“This is a far cry from the swanky hospitality you showed me upon my arrival.”
Henry yawned, leaning her head into my shoulder. I relaxed at her touch. She couldn’t know or understand the effect she had on me, but it was more than just comforting. It was like being home—only no home I’d ever known.
The taxi arrived and we climbed in the back. The rusty cab smelled like New Orleans.
“What is that?” Henry asked, making a face.
“The odor? That’s New Orleans darlin’. Welcome to the Big Easy.”
“Big Easy,” she repeated. “Is it named after you, Tristan?”
“What?” I let out a small laugh. “Why would you ask that? Because you think I’m easy?”
She nodded. “And big.”
I raised my brow in response.
“Ego,” she added. “Big ego.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
As we drove away from the airport she rolled down the window looking for fresh air. Her hair blew in the night air and instinctively I took her hand, giving it a squeeze. I didn’t know what was in store for us—for me—but I knew I would do anything and everything to protect her until my dying breath.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
She turned to look at me. “Where’s home?”
“Maison de Vignes. It’s in the French Quarter.”
“Vineyard House,” she repeated.
“Oui. I mean, yes. It was Simone’s place. I lived there until she shipped me off to boarding school.”
“St. Thomas More,” she said, surprising me with the name.
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“As I told you before, Tristan. My father accompanied your father on his many trips. He went to Connecticut to see you often. I went with him as well—one time.”
“Really?”
“And then I took over after my father died.”
“But you came with your father?”
“Oui.”
I knitted my brow. “Can you narrow that down a little bit? When? Was I older? Younger? I mean, did you come to my little league game? Or my Prom? Was it a cute year? Or one of those horrible awkward years?”
Her eyes twinkled in the darkness as she smiled. “I don’t think you ever had an awkward year, Tristan. You were one of those blessed children who just got prettier. You never had a gawky or gangly moment.”
“Aw shucks,” I said. She flirt-punched me in the arm, and suddenly couldn’t look me in the eye. “Come on, Henry. Tell.”
She looked to the ceiling of the cab and back to me with a labored breath. “It was the spring of 2002. You were fifteen. I was one day shy of my thirteenth birthday. My father allowed me to come to America with him. It was my birthday present. Your lacrosse team had just won a big championship game—in fact, you’d scored the winning goal.”
“The St. Andrews game,” I whispered, suddenly remembering the girl. The gaze. The moment. I blinked hard. It was her. It had been Henry all along.
I wasn’t a man who believed in things or words such as, fate, destiny or kismet. I grew up believing you made your own luck, you created your own path. And if you found something worth having, you either worked for it or someone else did and you took it. But in that moment in the back of the smelly cab and on the run, I’d become a believer. I’d thought about that girl—that gaze—my entire life, only to have her sitting next to me in this very moment.
I swallowed hard and threaded my fingers into hers, bringing her hand to my mouth for a kiss. She didn’t know it, but I was never letting her go.
“How long until we get to the house of the vines?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact she’d moved a mountain in my mind. “I need a shower and I hope you have something I can wear.”
I could only stare at her.
“Are you okay, Tristan?”
“Oui. Yes. Of course. I ah…I don’t have women’s clothes if that’s what you mean, but I’m sure I can find you something.”
“Something will work.”
We pulled up to the house and I paid the cabbie in cash, letting Henry out of the car to wait on the sidewalk. When I shut the door behind me, I found her looking up at the old home. “It’s beautiful. Very French. I’d only seen it in photos.”
“Well, I guess you could take my American mother out of France, but you couldn’t take the French out of the American.”
“What does that mean?”
I took her hand in mine, leading her to the front door. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
I keyed in the code and held the door for her. “I’ve never had a woman in this house before.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean? All you’ve ever had in your life is a series of women,” she said. “Coming and going, going and coming—you all the time with the women. It’s one of the reasons I told you I don’t do love.”
“Because you think I don’t know how?” I asked.
“Because I think perhaps you don’t want to know how. If you never love, you can never be hurt.”
My lips thinned and I pointed up the marble staircase. “Bedrooms are up there. Showers too.”
She groaned. “I’d love a hot bath.”
“Yeah. I agreed. Me too. Shower, I mean.”
I watched Henry smile for the first time since bedding her at the Sanctuary and I felt the tension release from my shoulders. With only a look, her soulful eyes quieted the riot that was my head.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, breaking the moment. I pulled it out and pointed up the staircase again. “First door on your right. The tub is pretty big,” I said with a wink.
The display showed the office number of FBI HQ in Washington. “This is Bleu,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
“Tristan, it’s Kathryn Miller.”
“Director Miller,” I said, my voice cracking. It was the head of the FBI. Shit was about to get real. She was the first female Director of the Bureau and she was tough as nails. I liked her tremendously, but I had a feeling at this moment, she wasn’t that fond of me.
“Agent Bleu, we have a problem.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I received a call from Interpol this morning. What can you tell me about this shit show in Paris? I’m going to need to make a statement before the press has a field day.”
“Ma’am?”
“Don’t fuck with me, son.”
“Director, I’ve been working on a project with General Michaels and—”
“I’ve been briefed on this already. What I want to know is why is Interpol looking for you in connection with a homicide at a sex club in Paris?”
I bit my lip. “Ma’am, I don’t really have a good explanation.”
“You better damn well come up with one, because according to the authorities in Paris, they’ve tested a semen sample left on the dead body of a female performer at a sex club, and it matches your DNA—DNA that from what I can see, was given freely to the Paris police.”
I took a deep breath. “Ma’am. I’m being framed. By whom, I don’t know. The victim was a woman who worked for my father. I never met her. I was drugged at some point in the evening and woke with trumped up evidence lying at my feet. All I’m asking is that you buy me some time so I can clear my name before this all blows up.”
I could hear her take a breath on the other end. “Director?”
“Look Tristan, you and I go back a long way. I’ve always liked you and I’d trust you with my damn life. Tell me what the fuck’s going on.”
“I have a theory, but I can’t be sure. I need time. It’s all I’m asking.”
“I’ll hold this at bay for forty-eight hours. That’s the best I can do. After that, Interpol is going to release your name and face as a suspect in a murder.”
“If they do that, all the work I’ve done for General Michaels will be for nothing, and your insider will be free to do even more damage.”
“Well that’s just it, Agent Bleu,” she said lowering her voice. “Word around here is that you are the mole. You’re searching for yourself and that is why we haven’t had a break in the case.”
Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. My heart pounded. I knew it was true, but no one had actually said it out loud—not until now. “I’m not the mole, ma’am and I’m not a killer.”
“All evidence to the contrary Agent Bleu.”
“Well ma’am, that’s exactly how a setup works, isn’t it? But I’m not going down without a fight. I need forty-eight hours. That’s it. If I can’t prove my innocence by then, well…”
“I’ll have no choice but to bring you in.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Forty-eight.”
“Yes ma’am. And Director?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do me one favor?”
“I don’t think you’re in the position to be asking for more, Agent Bleu.”
“Yes, ma’am. I merely wanted to request that you not say anything to my fellow agents or direct superiors ma’am. If I’m going to smoke this out, I need you to trust me.”
“I’m afraid you’re far from trustworthy at this point, Agent Bleu.” I could hear her take another deep breath as she contemplated my future. “Fine. You have forty-eight hours. After that, you’ll be fed to the wolves, and I can guarantee you I’ll be first in line to hand over your ass. You’re not taking me or this department down. Do you understand?”
I didn’t answer her, but asked another question. “Director Miller, is there any way I can obtain a copy of the autopsy performed on the woman slain at the sex club? Lucette?”
“Lucette André.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And if you don’t mind, could you send it to me via General Michael’s secure messaging? I’m not taking any chances.”
“Agent Bleu, I’ve got one decent nerve left after today’s findings, and you’re standing on it.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Stand by for your scrambled transmission.”
She didn’t say goodbye. I knew she was tired of me, even if I was her favorite recruit ever into the Academy. Director Miller had wanted me to date her daughter at one point—an up and coming professor at my alma mater. The girl was beautiful and smart, but I knew myself too well. I’d screw up the relationship with the daughter, causing the Director of the FBI to loathe me. Turns out, Director Miller was probably going to end up hating me anyway.
I hurried to the computer in the study, my mother’s old laptop. I logged into social media and found the photograph and link posted to a fake profile. Pulling the connected image from the screen onto my desktop, I accessed a secure portal and allowed software to strip down the photograph layer by layer to find a PDF of the official coroner’s report on Lucette André.
I printed it off and closed all the files. Then leaning back in the chair, I went over it with a fine toothed comb. I’d gone over and over in my head where my DNA could’ve come from—where my semen might have come from and the answer was simple. My quarters at Chateau Lebleu. I’d made love to Henry twice, tossing the knotted up used condoms onto the floor. They were gone when I returned that night. It made me even more certain Pierre was behind it.
The cause of death was listed as multiple sharp force injuries due to or as a consequence of a transection of left and right common carotid arteries. Her throat had been slashed.
I looked through more of the report and stumbled upon Lucette’s blood work. Among other items including a low iron level, her HCG hormone levels were off the charts.
“Holy shit,” I said aloud. “Lucette was pregnant.”
Deeper into the report, I found exactly what I was looking for—the fetus was intact and approximately 8 weeks.
“You’re going down, brother.”