Chapter Seven

ACACIA WAS CAUTIOUS. She worried about making mistakes and drawing attention to herself. Monsieur Roy had already warned her to be careful with highly valued guests, which indicated her position at the hotel was not entirely secure.

For these reasons, she was the picture of decorum as she bade her colleagues good evening and entered the room that housed the staff lockers. She changed into casual clothes and forced herself to behave as if nothing were wrong.

Inside, her stomach rolled.

Acacia checked her backpack and breathed a sigh of relief when she realized Marcel’s journal was still hidden. Putting the bag over her shoulder, she fled through the back hall past the kitchen to the receiving doors. She burst through them into the alley where trucks and vans delivered supplies. She needed privacy to think, and as expected, the alley was empty.

She used her cell phone to search for information about the famous theft from the Musée d’Art Moderne. A few clicks on her web browser and she was staring at Matisse’s La Pastorale, one of the stolen masterpieces.

She’d only caught a glimpse of the painting in Breckman’s suite. But her memory seemed to match the image on her phone.

Still, she took her time searching, looking for news of the stolen painting’s recovery. There was no such news. Indeed, none of the paintings stolen from the Musée that fateful evening had ever been recovered.

She put her phone in her pocket and hugged her backpack.

She recognized the painting. The painting had been stolen. Was this what Marcel’s creativity had produced for Monsieur Breckman? Was this why Marcel had been attacked?

She squinted at her watch in the dim light that shone from above the receiving doors.

Monsieur Breckman was leaving in the morning, provided he didn’t change his mind and depart sooner. He was returning to Monaco, presumably with the painting.

I’m a concierge, not a policeman.

Acacia gave careful consideration to the thought, but discarded it. Although she still carried a Brazilian passport, France was her home, and she loved it. The theft of paintings from the Musée had been a national scandal. She wasn’t going to allow a rich businessman to leave the country with one of its treasures. She just needed to find a way to report him without making herself conspicuous.

You need to speak to Monsieur Roy.

This thought had merit. But what if she was wrong? The hotel manager would not take kindly to her accusing a highly valued guest of theft, especially on the heels of angering him with her vagueness about Marcel.

If the painting were a reproduction, wouldn’t Monsieur Breckman have said so? Why would he handle it with white gloves?

A loud bang sounded behind her.

Acacia whirled around, hands lifted, feet planted in a fighting stance.

“Sorry.” One of the kitchen staff held up his hands. He was holding a package of cigarettes and a lighter. “I just came out for a smoke.”

Acacia straightened and gave the man a tense smile. “I’m heading back in.” She brushed past him and went inside, looking over her shoulder as he propped open one of the doors with a crate.

He sat down, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. He blew a plume of smoke toward the heavens, and his shoulders relaxed.

Acacia envied him.

She gathered her thoughts and realized she had to do something about the painting, even if she just shared her suspicions. Unfortunately, the last person with whom she wished to speak was precisely the person she needed to call.

She walked down the empty corridor to put some distance between herself and the open door. She was careful not to come too close to the kitchen, for fear of being heard.

She dialed a number and waited for the line to connect.

“Ma belle.” The man answered on the second ring, his voice a caress.

“Luc.” Acacia’s breath left her body in a rush. She looked around to ensure she was still alone.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Luc’s tone changed immediately.

“I—” Acacia paused and backed into a corner.

“Caci? Are you hurt?”

She closed her eyes. The sound of her old nickname in his earnest, concerned voice caused her insides to twist.

“I just finished my shift, and I think…” She paused, uncertain. “It may be nothing. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

Footsteps emanated from the phone, along with the loud clang of a door being shut.

“Are you at the Victoire?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “How did you know where I work?”

“I had drinks with Yves and Véronique the other night. What might be nothing?”

Acacia grew flustered at the thought of being the subject of a conversation between her friends and her ex-boyfriend, but she pushed the concerns aside. She had more important things to worry about. “I think one of the guests has a piece of stolen art in his room.”

The footsteps came to a halt. “Stolen from where?”

“The Musée d’Art Moderne.”

Luc’s voice grew muffled. “What makes you think it’s stolen?”

“It looks like the Matisse.”

“None of those paintings have surfaced. Are you sure?”

“No. No, I’m not. I just saw it for a moment, before the guest covered it up. It wasn’t in a frame; it was just canvas on top of a table. But he handled it with white gloves.”

“The paintings from the Musée were cut from their frames. What’s the name of the guest?”

“Pierre Breckman, from Monaco. He’s a regular at the hotel, but I’ve never met him before.”

Luc grunted into the phone, and Acacia heard his fingers tap against a keyboard. “Tell me everything you know about him.”

“He’s thirty-eight. He’s a wealthy businessman, but I don’t know what kind of business he’s in. He comes to Paris several times a year and stays at the Victoire. He was involved with Silke Rainier, a model, until recently. When he’s at the hotel, he deals exclusively with Marcel, the senior concierge.”

“What does Marcel do for him?”

“Football tickets, dinner reservations, shopping. The guest mentioned a meeting Marcel was supposed to set up. But before the guest arrived, Marcel was attacked.”

The tapping stopped. “What?”

Acacia checked her surroundings once again. “Marcel was attacked a few nights ago, while he was walking to his motorcycle after a shift. He’s in a coma.”

The sound of a desk chair rolling and striking something solid echoed in Acacia’s ears.

“You could have called me.” Luc’s tone was censorious.

“Why would I call you? The city police told us Marcel was mugged.”

Luc huffed. “I’m in the BRB.”

“That’s why I’m calling about the painting.” Acacia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

The Brigade de Répression du Banditisme, or BRB, was a special law enforcement unit under France’s Ministry of the Interior, outranking the Paris police. Art thefts were part of their jurisdiction.

“The BRB also deals with armed robberies, Caci. Most muggings don’t result in comas.”

Acacia heard the sound of quick footsteps through the phone.

“I’m not your problem anymore,” she said softly.

Luc ignored her remark. “You say the mugging occurred just before the guest and his painting arrived?”

“Yes.”

“When you saw the painting in the guest’s room, how did he react?”

“He covered it up. He told me my discretion would be rewarded. Then he had one of his bodyguards escort me to the hall.”

Luc swore. “Did they touch you?”

“No.”

“Did they threaten you?”

“No, but he implied I should keep my mouth shut.”

The sound of footsteps quickened. “Are you at the concierge desk?”

“No, my shift is over. I’m hiding in the back hall near the kitchen.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Go to the lounge. Sit at the bar and order a drink. Don’t allow yourself to be alone.”

“I need to tell the hotel manager what’s going on.”

“Fine.” Luc’s voice was strained. “Tell the manager agents are on their way. No one is to approach the guest or his suite unless he tries to leave the hotel.”

“You’re sending agents?” Acacia looked around frantically. “I just wanted to ask you about the painting.”

“I have to report this. You’ve provided a lead for one of our major cases, not to mention the fact I’m concerned for your safety. Art thieves, like muggers, are usually petty opportunists; buyers of stolen art are far more dangerous.”

Now it was Acacia’s turn to swear.

Luc interrupted her. “Tell the manager the guest will probably try to remove the painting, if he hasn’t done so already. When did you last see him?”

“About twenty minutes ago.” Acacia kept the phone to her ear as she moved down the hall and toward the lobby.

“It may be too late. Can you see other people now?”

“Yes, I’m entering the lobby. I’ll head to the night manager’s office.” She rounded a corner and shifted her backpack awkwardly on her shoulder.

“Has anyone else connected with the hotel been the victim of a crime recently? Or had an accident?”

“Not that I know of. Monsieur Breckman has a large security detail with him. They’re armed.”

“How many men?” Luc’s voice lifted and Acacia heard a door close.

“Six.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“I don’t know—hand guns.”

“Stay with the manager or head to the bar. Act as if nothing is wrong. If the guest or one of his men approaches you, call me. I’m on my way.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Stay there,” he commanded. “I’m in my car.”

He disconnected, and Acacia stared at her cell phone, wondering what she’d just done.