Barrow took out a card from his pocket. “If you are interested in parting with this painting, the institute would be grateful.”
The man did not reach out to take the card, so Barrow placed it on the desk.
Ben could tell that Barrow was eager to touch the painting again, but each of them had to settle for one last glance of Cecile Cabot as they exited the office. They were a few steps from the office when the door shut tightly behind them.
“Anyone notice anything odd about that painting?” Ben said outside on the street.
“The entire room was creepy, if that’s what you mean,” said Gaston.
“The woman in that photo looks exactly like Lara.” Ben began to pace slowly, circling Barrow and Gaston.
“Come to think of it, the woman did look familiar, but her hair was white,” said Gaston. “We’re no closer to finding her than we were an hour ago. That felt like a waste of time.”
“We’re retracing her steps,” said Barrow, who seemed lost in his thoughts since seeing the second canvas. He spun on his heels. “Did you see that painting? It was beautiful.”
“I’m less concerned about the painting right now than I am about Lara,” Ben said, annoyed.
“But who let her in?” Gaston put his hands on his hips and looked down the street as if the answer might suddenly appear before them. “As the guy so helpfully reminded us, they were closed.”
“I’d say it was whoever gave her the ticket.” Ben looked at Gaston gravely. “And I don’t have one missing man back home, Gaston—I now have three.” Ben ran his hands through his hair. “And they don’t come back. My fear is Lara may not come back, either.”
Gaston looked weary. “Do you think they’re related?”
“I sure hope not.” He shook his head. “The only one who really has ties to Lara is Todd.”
“It feels a little circumstantial,” said Barrow.
“Except that they disappeared into thin air.” Gaston’s tone was changing, softening almost like a father’s. He knew Lara. This wasn’t some name to him.
“Have you told Audrey?” asked Ben.
Gaston nodded. “I told her you were coming and to give you twenty-four hours. If not, she’s on a plane here.”
“Gaston, I hate to tell you, but my twenty-four hours is about up.”
“I am aware of the hour,” said Gaston quietly. On the taxi ride back to the hotel, Gaston was quiet for a long time. “If anything happens to Lara, I’ll never forgive myself for dragging her here on this caper. I honestly thought she’d be fine. That it would be a nice diversion for her.”
“We’ll find her,” said Ben. As the cab approached, Ben had an idea. “What do we know from the journal entries about the location of the circus?”
“Nothing,” said Barrow.
“Not true.” Gaston turned. “It usually needed a large vacant space—the space in front of Les Invalides… Bois de Boulogne.”
“Exactly,” said Ben. “So we’re looking for a large open space within walking distance of the hotel.”
“But it isn’t like this circus is on the street,” said Barrow. “Even if we find an open space—even if we find the correct space—it won’t help us.”
“But it’s all we’ve got,” said Ben. “If I can get near Lara, I’ll find her.”
Gaston turned to the cabdriver. They exchanged information for a few blocks. The driver took them up the Rue Favart to Place Boieldieu, where the Opéra-Comique had a large courtyard in front of the entrance.
“I don’t think this is it,” said Ben. “Where else?”
The cabdriver set off around the block and down the narrow streets to the Rue Vivienne. They pulled up in front of a building with pillars.
“The Palais Brongniart,” said Gaston. “At night, this place is empty.”
“How long would it take you to walk here from the hotel?” asked Ben.
“About ten minutes.”
“And you’d give yourself five minutes to spare, right?”
“I would have,” Gaston echoed as he paid the driver. The three men walked over to the café across the street and stared at the Palais Brongniart with its imposing columns. “It’s a terrifying building at night. Let’s get some dinner and wait for it to get dark.”
Ben looked at his watch. He was still on East Coast time, but it seemed to be nearing eight o’clock. He was very hungry and tired as hell.
They asked for a table outside. As they were looking at their menus, they heard some commotion inside, near the kitchen. The waiter came by. “Apologies,” he began. “We had a homeless person show up about an hour ago. They’re trying to attend to her while we call the police.”
Ben looked up. “Her?” He leapt from his seat.
“Oui,” said the waiter, pouring water.
Gaston pointed to Ben. “Il est gendarmerie. Peut-il aider?”
The waiter shrugged and pointed back to the kitchen area with the empty bottle.
Ben made his way back toward the kitchen, spinning around the tightly packed café tables. Gaston was behind him, assuring him that Ben was gendarmerie.
“What is gendarmerie?” asked Ben, forming a path among the diners. “I should know.”
“Police force in the smaller towns outside Paris. It fits you.”
The back booth had been cleared and there was a girl lying in a ball with her back to them. The figure was a heap dressed in what appeared to be a pink swimsuit.
“It’s a leotard,” said Gaston. “Like they wear in the circus.”
“She does not know her name,” said the maître d’ in English. He sighed, disgusted.
“Lara.” Ben reached down to touch the woman. Her blond hair was a tangled, dirty mess. He gently turned the woman over and saw Lara’s familiar features.
She gazed up at him with a blank look.
“She’s burning up.” Ben touched her face and then looked at Gaston. “Have them call an ambulance immediately, or we’ll take her to the hospital in a cab.”
Gaston nodded and took off with the maître d’.
While he waited, Ben sat on the floor so he could get a
