Chapter Six

HOTEL VICTOIRE WAS A FIVE STAR HOTEL that enjoyed an excellent reputation and attracted a wealthy clientele. However, some of its guests took pleasure in testing the concierges with ridiculous requests, simply for amusement. Monsieur Breckman’s need for a relic of St. Teresa appeared to be one of those requests.

Acacia wasn’t in the mood to devote her time and attention to indulging him, especially since he’d threatened her. Instead, she spent most of her day assisting guests with genuine needs.

During her breaks, she hid in the staff room, poring over Marcel’s journal. To her frustration, she found nothing out of the ordinary. Many of his entries were written sparsely, with full names and details omitted. Since she didn’t know what she was looking for, the search seemed hopeless.

At the very end of the day, she turned her attention to relics.

Some of the relics of St. Teresa were housed in Avila, while some were housed in the town of Alba de Tormes. The Church would never sell the first-class relics. However, one could acquire a third-class relic—a piece of cloth that had been touched to a first-class relic—quite easily. Somehow Acacia knew a piece of cloth was not what Monsieur Breckman had in mind.

At the end of her shift, she changed out of her uniform and made her way to the sumptuously decorated hotel bar—its walls paneled with gleaming wood—where she’d set up a tab for the staff on Monsieur Breckman’s account. As on most evenings, hotel guests populated the bar. With the exception of the bartender, Acacia was the only staff member in sight.

“Good evening, Carlos.” She greeted the bartender in Spanish as she sat inconspicuously at the very end of the bar. “Where is everyone?”

Carlos greeted her with a wide smile and replied in Spanish. “Everyone from the day shift already stopped by. I have something special for you.”

She gazed at the rows of bottles wistfully. “What is it?”

“Champagne.” Carlos retrieved a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal that had been chilling and presented it to her.

Her eyes widened when she saw the label. “Are you sure?”

“The guest chose this vintage personally. And he told me to give you the bottle.” Carlos winked.

She shook her head at the extravagance, but she wasn’t about to reject the gift. “I want to share.”

“I’m on duty.” He looked around the room.

She placed a finger to her lips.

Carlos opened the bottle and poured a glass for Acacia. Then he lowered the bottle below the bar and poured himself half a glass.

Acacia lifted her champagne. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, beautiful.”

She closed her eyes as the tiny bubbles filled her mouth. The taste was almost magical—there was fruit and spice and something almost floral. It was an unexpected delight.

She opened her eyes and sighed. “It’s very good.”

“It should be, for the price.” Carlos turned his back to the room and sipped the champagne discreetly.

“That’s good,” he said as he turned around. He placed his glass out of sight and reached under the bar. He handed her a gift bag. “For you.”

“For me? Why?”

“It’s from the guest.” Carlos nudged the bag closer.

Acacia reached into the bag. She retrieved a finely made brioche, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow. A tag indicated the treat came from Guy Savoy’s restaurant.

“Is there a note?” She looked into the empty bag.

“No, but Monsieur Breckman delivered it himself when he chose your champagne.” Carlos smiled and moved to the other end of the bar to fill a waitress’s order.

Acacia thought back to her earlier exchange with the guest, and his surprise at her remark that she’d never visited Guy Savoy’s restaurant. It was thoughtful of him to bring her a treat from the famous chef.

Then she thought of his insulting words about her profession and the way he’d threatened her.

She put the brioche back in the gift bag.

She wasn’t a psychologist. It wasn’t her job to try to analyze guests and their behavior. Breckman’s recent actions were at odds with the way he’d been described in the guest records. Clearly, brioche and top shelf drinks were his way of making amends. But no gift, however generous, was enough to cause her to forget what he’d said.

She took her time sipping the exquisite champagne and chatting with Carlos before finding a doorman to escort her and the carefully concealed bottle of Cristal to her motorcycle.

At the end of her shift the following evening, Acacia approached the penthouse suite. Two bodyguards flanked the entrance. She stated her name, and one of them repeated the information into a communication link inside his shirtsleeve.

Rick opened the door, unfriendly and unsmiling as always.

She lifted her eyebrows at him.

Without a word, he led her down the hall and into the living room.

Monsieur Breckman stood in front of a round, glass table. An unframed painting lay on top of the glass. He held what appeared to be a white sheet, which billowed from his hands like a cloud and came to rest on the backs of the chairs that had been pushed flush against the table.

The sheet dropped over the chair backs, obscuring the painting from view, but not coming into contact with it.

Before he covered it, Acacia caught a brief glimpse of the work. It seemed familiar. She took a step forward.

The guest turned and blocked her path. “Mademoiselle?”

Acacia found his expression unsettling. His dark brows were knitted together, and he examined her closely.

Over his shoulder, she could see a pair of bodyguards out on the terrace. The men had shed their suit jackets, which made the handguns they wore visible in their holsters.

Her heart rate increased. Tension radiated from the guest, who continued to watch her. She began to feel as if she’d intruded on something dangerous.

Instinctively, she relaxed her body and shook her hands out at her sides. She looked around the room and made note of all the possible exits should she need to flee.

“You wanted to speak with me?” The guest removed a pair of white gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Yes, monsieur.” She dragged her gaze from the door that led to the terrace. “How are things proceeding with the tailor?”

The guest crossed his arms. “They’re proceeding well. Unfortunately, I’ve had to cut my visit short. I’ll see him on my next visit.”

“Please let me know if I can be of further assistance on that matter.

“I had difficulty sourcing the relic you requested,” she continued. “Third-class relics are easy to obtain, but according to my research, the Church owns all the first-class relics of St. Teresa. They aren’t for sale.”

“Perhaps,” Monsieur Breckman said slowly. “Perhaps you haven’t been looking in the right direction.”

She was puzzled by his subdued reaction. He didn’t seem surprised by her report. Instead, he looked as if he were waiting for something.

Acacia felt as if she’d been cast in a play and forgotten her lines.

The guest stared at her, and she stared back. She wasn’t looking at his scar. Indeed, she’d almost forgotten it existed. But her eyes strayed to the gloves, which were hanging out of his pocket.

She positioned her concierge journal under her arm. “I would be happy to secure a third-class relic for you.”

“I want a first-class relic. Obviously I don’t expect to acquire it from the Church.” The guest rubbed his thumb across his chin. “As long as there’s a buyer, there’s a market and a means of acquisition. This applies to everything, mademoiselle. Everything.”

“Respectfully, I disagree. The Church owns the relics, and they have a policy—one might even say a theology—that forbids selling them.”

“Again, mademoiselle, you’ve been looking in the wrong direction.” The guest gave her a knowing look. “Marcel was extremely creative in his problem solving. Perhaps you could be similarly creative?”

Acacia resisted the urge to respond with sarcasm. Marcel’s creativity had probably put him in the hospital. She would not make the same mistake.

“I’m sorry, monsieur. As I said, third-class relics are easy to acquire, but first-class relics belong to the Church. If you wish, I can contact Church authorities.”

“There’s little point in doing that.” The guest continued to examine her.

Acacia’s attention was drawn back to the painting beneath its shroud. She visualized it in her mind’s eye. The brush strokes were almost Impressionistic.

What work of Impressionism could Monsieur Breckman have in his possession?

He moved quickly and obstructed her view. “Thank you, mademoiselle. That is all.”

He smiled, and when he spoke again, his voice was smooth as silk. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Rest assured you’ll be well looked after.”

Acacia recognized the coded language of the guest’s last sentence; he’d leave a gratuity. “My colleague François is on duty now. If you need anything, he’ll assist you. Enjoy your evening and safe travels.”

She faced the hall and took a single step. Then, for some unknown reason, she turned toward the painting.

She thought of the Musée d’Art Moderne. A lone thief had broken into the museum a few years prior and stolen five priceless paintings. One of them was by Henri Matisse.

Hadn’t Monsieur Breckman mentioned Matisse two days ago?

Acacia’s eyes narrowed as she envisioned the brushstrokes, hidden from view by the sheet.

Monsieur Breckman crowded her immediately, his arms outstretched. “Thank you, mademoiselle. Rick will walk you to the door.”

Acacia forced herself to make eye contact, her mind a whirl.

The guest seemed to search her eyes. “I believe you told me you pride yourself on being discreet.”

“Yes, monsieur,” she managed.

He leaned forward. “Your discretion will be rewarded.”

Rick appeared beside her. He didn’t touch her, but began to herd her toward the door.

Acacia gave the guest a single, backward glance and focused her attention on the carpet in front of her. She ignored the presence of the other bodyguards as she entered the hall and walked quickly to the elevator. She pressed the button and looked over her shoulder.

Rick remained in the doorway, watching her.

Acacia entered the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. Her thoughts raced.

Monsieur Breckman is a wealthy businessman whose photographs don’t appear on the internet. He was supposed to attend a meeting Marcel arranged, possibly with someone called V. Before the meeting occurred, Marcel was attacked.

Breckman asked me to source a relic and said I should be creative in doing so. Was he asking me to find someone to steal one?

He has a large security detail and what could be a stolen painting. And he wants to pay me to keep my mouth shut.

Once the elevator doors closed, Acacia leaned against the back wall and covered her mouth with her hand.

Monsieur Breckman appeared to be in possession of one of the most famous pieces of stolen art in French history. And he was about to leave the hotel with it.