Chapter Three

MODISTE WOULD NOT ACCEPT RETURNS of custom-made lingerie. Monsieur Breckman’s taste could not be faulted; he’d chosen a basque in pale blue satin, edged with sheer black lace, as well as two sets of brassieres and panties, in red and in black. The items were finely made and crafted for a tall, thin woman with small breasts.

Monsieur Breckman was going to have to keep his lingerie. Acacia hoped he’d enjoy them.

She returned everything else, including an enviable pair of diamond earrings from Cartier. At each of the boutiques she visited, she made a point of introducing herself to the manager, some of whom she’d met previously via telephone. Acacia’s success as a concierge was linked with her outlook: she approached her tasks not as toil but as opportunities, cultivating friendships and always being polite and professional.

At the end of her shift, she changed into jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. Yusuf, one of the doormen, was kind enough to walk her to her vehicle and wait until she departed. She was confident in her ability to take care of herself, but her confidence was wedded to wisdom. Having an escort could deter a potential attacker.

It was summer in Paris. The weather was warm, and the sun was still shining as she sped down the tree-lined Avenue George V and turned right on the Champs-Élysées, moving in the opposite direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Acacia revved her motorcycle as she weaved in and out of traffic on the multi-lane avenue.

She could have avoided the heavy traffic on the Champs and taken a more efficient route, but she didn’t. She enjoyed the view along the avenue and suffered the traffic because of it.

The wind whipped her face and fluttered the curls that had escaped her sturdy helmet. With a glance or two of appreciation, she shot past the Grande Palais, the Petit Palais, and approached Place de La Concorde before heading south toward the river Seine.

Acacia had to fight to keep her eyes off the river and on the traffic in front of her. The Seine was mesmerizing. She’d spent hours walking its banks and bridges, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone.

Boats carrying tourists traveled up and down the river. But the Seine was high this summer, owing to two weeks of heavy rain. As she approached the Pont des Arts, one of her favorite bridges, she saw a tourist boat turning around. The bridge was too low for it to clear.

She nodded to the Louvre on her left before she continued to Pont Notre Dame, crossing over to Île de la Cité and heading to the Left Bank.

Before she left the island, Acacia took a detour alongside Notre-Dame cathedral, slowing her speed to an almost unacceptable level. The thirteenth-century structure was smaller than one might expect, especially if one had seen it in films. But it was very impressive, with its twin towers and intricately carved portals on the western façade.

Acacia wasn’t a Christian, but she made a note to herself to attend Mass at the Cathedral the next time she was able. The aesthetic experience fed her soul, and she couldn’t admire the rose windows from her motorcycle.

She turned away from Notre-Dame and headed north so she could drive by the historic house of Héloïse and Abélard. Acacia disliked their story. In her estimation, Abélard was manipulative and controlling, and Héloïse had been foolish and co-dependent. But Acacia honored their love, even if she couldn’t understand it. So with a hand on her heart, she paid her respects to the lovers who had been dead since the twelfth century.

She circled back to Petit Pont and crossed to the Latin Quarter, where she lived. She smiled at some of the buildings of the Sorbonne, her former university, before turning onto Rue Soufflot and parking her motorcycle.

Acacia lived in a small studio on the third floor of an old but beautiful building on the corner of Rue Saint-Jacques and Rue Soufflot. A friend’s parents owned the studio and because of her friendship with their daughter, they blessed her with affordable rent. Acacia had lived in the flat since she was a student.

There wasn’t an elevator in the building, but few if any of the older buildings had them. Acacia trudged up the staircase, carrying her backpack.

“Hey.” Kate, Acacia’s American neighbor, greeted her in English as she approached.

“Hi.” Acacia paused as Kate locked the door of the flat she shared with her roommate, Violaine.

“What’s happening?” Kate pushed her riot of red hair back from her face. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been working. How are you?”

“Tired. Graduate school is kicking my ass.” Kate pulled her knapsack over her shoulder. “Bernard is having a party Saturday night. You should come.”

“I’d like that.” Acacia smile was carefully neutral.

“You mean it, right? The last time you said you were coming, you never showed.” Kate made a face.

“I was called in to work. I’ll try to make it this time.”

“Great. Bernard throws the best parties, and he’ll be happy you’re coming.” Kate squeezed Acacia’s arm as she passed. “Give Claude a hug from me.”

Acacia chuckled and shook her head. Kate was lively and generous with her friends, of which she had many. She’d even tried to set Acacia up with Bernard, who was a journalist with Le Monde.

Bernard threw the best parties, it was true. He liked food and fine wine and always invited an interesting and diverse array of guests. But Acacia felt no spark of attraction with him, and getting involved with a journalist was far from safe.

She entered her flat. Claude greeted her with a meow and rubbed himself against her legs until she lifted him for a proper hug. He had large, yellow eyes and soft, black fur. She’d found him on the doorstep one wet and rainy night. With the exception of Acacia and Kate, he hated everyone.

“Olá, Fofo.” She murmured endearments to him in Portuguese before she fed him and opened her mail.

After a modest dinner and a generous glass of white wine, she pored over a printed copy of Monsieur Breckman’s guest profile, which she’d smuggled home in her backpack. It was possible he was embarrassed about asking Acacia to return the gifts for his girlfriend and that was why he’d preferred to deal with Marcel. But something about the hypothesis didn’t sit right with her.

“Marcel was supposed to set up a meeting.” Acacia addressed Claude, who was curled up in her lap as she sat at the kitchen table. “But there was nothing attached to Breckman’s reservation. It isn’t like Marcel to forget something.”

Claude blinked his yellow eyes, as if in acknowledgment.

“Unless Marcel tried to set up a meeting and failed,” Acacia thought aloud. “But wouldn’t he have notified Breckman before he arrived?”

Marcel was the senior concierge, and he took great pride in his work. He wouldn’t have forgotten a task for an important guest. And there was the matter of his assault. Acacia was inclined to believe the Paris police over Monsieur Breckman, but his assessment rang true. Marcel had been beaten badly, which didn’t seem to align with a random mugging.

She wondered if Monsieur Breckman spent much time watching American police dramas. He seemed to have a curious understanding of the criminal mind.

According to the smuggled file, Pierre Breckman was a businessman from Monaco. The nature of his business was not disclosed. He’d been accorded a four and a half star rating by the hotel, which Acacia found surprising. Five stars were reserved for royalty and heads of state. Four stars were usually given to celebrities of one sort or another. Pierre Breckman was neither, but clearly—as the management emphasized—he was a highly valued guest.

He was thirty-eight, had a fondness for jazz and Michelin-rated restaurants, and visited Paris several times a year. According to Marcel’s notations, it was not uncommon for Breckman to socialize with the world’s elite. He also enjoyed sporting events such as European football and the French Open.

During his stays at the Hotel Victoire, three different female companions, all significantly younger than him, had joined him in the past five years. Monsieur Breckman was not considered difficult or troublesome, which made his behavior earlier that day puzzling. Understandably, he was sensitive about his scar. But his file didn’t mention tantrums or outlandish behavior.

Silke Rainier, a Swiss model, had been Monsieur Breckman’s latest partner. Their separation must have been recent, as Marcel had included her in his remarks on the current reservation.

Acacia put the printed pages aside. She knew the reservations agents and housekeeping staff could have told her far more than was recorded in the file. But she wasn’t on friendly terms with the former and she didn’t want to make herself conspicuous to the latter, who were notorious for gossiping.

She opened her laptop and Googled “Pierre Breckman,” which yielded only enough information to confirm what was listed in the file. Strangely, none of the entries included photographs.

Googling Silke generated hundreds of entries. Although Acacia didn’t recognize her, photographs of Mademoiselle Rainier were splashed across the internet, including recent images of her sunbathing topless with an American film star on the deck of a yacht. The way she caressed her new man’s unmarred face seemed calculated, if not punitive to Monsieur Breckman, who would no doubt see the photos.

“What a cruel display,” Acacia whispered.

Claude responded by rubbing his head against her stomach, as if in agreement.

While Monsieur Breckman had been busy purchasing gifts for his girlfriend, she’d been topless with someone else. Acacia closed the browser window.

Monsieur Breckman was not the kind of man who would welcome pity. He’d reacted in anger when she’d apologized for staring at his scar. Of course, he’d probably seen the photos of his erstwhile girlfriend. No wonder he’d been so irritable.

But Monsieur Breckman’s interest in the attack on Marcel seemed of a personal nature, as were his questions about Marcel’s associates. Again, she scoured the reservation notes for information about a meeting, but found nothing.

Acacia took her membership in Les Clefs d’Or very seriously and would never disgrace the organization by participating in anything illegal. Not all concierges were as scrupulous. She’d never caught Marcel committing an infraction, but since he was her superior and discreet in the extreme, it was quite possible his compromises had gone undetected.

Acacia slid her hand under the neckline of her T-shirt and withdrew the hamsa amulet she always wore. She never took off this pendant of protection. However, given the antagonism in France toward religious symbols, she was careful to keep the necklace hidden.

Much later, she lay in bed while Claude curled up on top of the blankets next to her feet. She gazed sleepily at a print of one of her favorite paintings, Monet’s Twilight, Venice, which hung over the bed.

The Bridgestone Museum of Art in Tokyo owned the painting’s original. Although she’d never seen it in person, Acacia had fallen in love with it when she began studying Impressionism.

The painting featured the church of San Giorgio Maggiore, an island haven surrounded by water and sky. Monet had used oranges and pinks to convey the light of the setting sun, darkening to blues and greens at the edges of the painting. The church appeared like a floating city, dark and shadowy against the warm light.

She studied the brush strokes, admiring the way Monet had used wavy lines here and there to give the impression of gently moving waves.

If she focused very hard, she could forget everything around her and disappear into the painting. She could feel the fading sunlight dance across her skin. She could smell the scent of the sea.

Acacia was not an idealist. Any ideals she’d had were killed years ago in Amman. Of course, no one in her current life knew about that. She was determined to keep it that way, which was why she hid behind a navy uniform, serving a transient clientele and never letting anyone get too close—not even Luc, her former boyfriend.

Acacia shut her eyes. She didn’t like thinking of Luc and how things had ended with him. She didn’t like thinking about lying next to him in this very bed, his hand smoothing across her naked skin while he whispered to her. She hadn’t had a lover since.

As much as she tried to deny it, Acacia was lonely. Rarely did she admit it and rarer still did she dwell on it. But like many, she longed for love and companionship. She longed for honesty and intimacy, even though she’d lived without them for years.

Acacia opened her eyes and rolled over. Claude meowed his annoyance at being discommoded.

Her position at the hotel paid well, and she received thousands of Euros in gratuities on top of her salary, which enabled her to support her mother in Recife. In addition, she was slowly building her savings—her exit strategy—and hoped someday she could work in a gallery.

By chance, her gaze landed on her work journal, which rested on her nightstand.

Every well-trained concierge kept a record of the requests made by hotel guests. She carried her journal at all times, which was why it was on her nightstand. The contacts and comments inside were too confidential to be left at the concierge desk or in her locker at the hotel.

If Monsieur Breckman had asked Marcel to set up a meeting, Marcel would have recorded the particulars. Indeed, any work he’d done for Breckman would have been written down, with the possible exception of illegal activities. No doubt Marcel had the journal with him when he was attacked, which meant it could be lying on the street near the hotel. Perhaps the police had overlooked it.

Acacia resolved to look for the journal before she began work the next morning.