Miles Davis’s low growl amped to a high-pitched bark. With the broom she prodded the envelope, feeling around. “Back off’ was smeared in brown letters—a deep dark brown. She looked closer. Dried blood.
She stepped back.
Her poking had dislodged the contents of the unsealed envelope. Something gray slid onto the black-and- white diamond tiles. Mottled and furry. The odor, strong and rank, filled her hallway.
At first she thought a stuffed animal had emerged, but it was the biggest gray rat she’d ever seen. At least it would have been if the head had been attached to a body.
She turned cold inside. The head was as big as a kitten. She hated rodents, fat or skinny.
She scanned shadowy corners but saw only the dusty niched statues that spiraled the wall of her staircase.
No one.
She had to get rid of it. The putrid stench filled the landing. She pulled a pink TATI plastic shopping bag from her coat rack and shoved the dripping head into it with a broom. Using the broom handle, she carried the bag at arm’s length down her marble stairs.
She watched for an attacker but figured they’d gone—the “message” had been their goal. Miles Davis barked, keeping up the rear under the dim hall sconces. By the time she dropped the bag in the trash, a slow anger burned over her fear. Her thoughts skipped back over the events since Anais’s call. Did this have a link to Sylvie or Anais?
Her evenings hadn’t been this eventful in a while, she thought. A dead woman and a dead rat all in one night.
BACK IN her apartment the musty smell lingered. Outside her bedroom, at the far end of her hallway, stood a small yellowed statue. Beside it lay a pile of what looked like tea-stained bandages. She froze. Voodoo … evil spirits.
The rustle behind her caused her to turn and swing.
Yves jumped aside, wearing her father’s old bathrobe and a smile. She almost beheaded the marble Napoleonic bust in the hall beside him. He leaned against the door frame, his tan body and damp hair silhouetted in the bathroom light.
“So that’s how you greet someone, after a long flight, who’s brought you priceless Egyptian artifacts?”
She took a deep breath.
“Just unannounced ones,” she said, setting the broom against the wainscoting. “Did I give you a key?”
“Your partner Rene had an extra one,” he said. “Maybe you should check your messages,” he said, coming closer. His dark sideburns snaked to his chin.
“I’ve been a little busy,” she said, realizing she was still barefoot and in a faux-fur coat.
“Something’s spoiled,” his nose crinkled.
“Rat tartare,” she said. “Someone’s trying to scare me.”
“Scare you?” he asked. “Aimee, what’s the matter?”
She almost told him right then about the explosion and the rat. But she hesitated. He was dangerous to her psyche. A soul shaker and troublemaker.
Yves searched her eyes, sniffed her breath. “Busy enough to have a drink around the corner?”
She shrugged.
“Why haven’t you come to Cairo?”
But that wasn’t totally true. It had to do with commitment. Her inability to commit made it difficult to visit another continent.
“If I remember correctly, you moved, Yves. Not me,” she said. “Then you pop into my life and disturb my concentration.”
“Maybe I need to disturb it more.”
“I haven’t heard from you for ages,” she said, rubbing her legs in the frigid hallway. “Suddenly you appear. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
Yves turned away. There was a lot more she could say, but she didn’t feel like addressing his back.
“Like you, I’ve been busy,” he said, turning around and edging closer. The fresh scent of her newly laundered towels clung to him. “Civil wars and guerrilla encampments in remote outbacks don’t leave me a lot of time for chitchat.”
“Chitchat?”
She’d dealt with a dead rat and found a live one in her apartment.
“I’ve got no excuse,” he said. “Forgive me?”
“That’s all you can say?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“How sorry?”
She couldn’t believe she’d said that.
“Let me show you,” he said, with a small smile. “After all, I have a lot to make up for.”
She ran her fingers through her hair. They came back sticky.
“I need a bath. Want to scrub the motor oil off my back?”
“Good place to start.” He took her in his arms, noticing the bloodstains and scrapes on her legs. “I suppose you’re going to tell me about it.”
“Later,” she said with a half smile. “We better catch up first.”
AIMEE WOKE UP WITH a start to pounding on the door and Miles Davis barking.
Alone.
A sheet of papyrus was pinned to the pillow with “Charged your phone—try to keep out of trouble, Yves” written on it.
She’d fallen into bed with him again. Sometimes she amazed herself.
The pounding got louder. She pulled on a suede button-down shirt from the chair, grabbed a pair of black velvet jeans from her armoire, stuck the cell phone in her pocket, and stumbled barefoot to the door.
“Mademoiselle Leduc?” said a smooth-faced plainclothes
Her heart pounded. Maybe this was a bad dream. She wanted to shut the door in his face, go back to bed.
“You are Mademoiselle Leduc?”
“I think so, but after coffee I’ll know for sure,” she said, scratching her head. “And you gentlemen might be …?”
“Sergeant Martaud of the Twentieth Arrondissement,” he said. “But of course we’re happy to accommodate you at the
Her words caught in her dry throat. A sinking feeling came over her. The talisman poked out of her backpack on the claw-foot marble table in plain view. She reached out and slipped it under her blue faux-fur coat which was lying on the chair.
The sergeant opened his suit jacket with a flourish. In one fluid movement he removed his badge from a vest pocket, displayed his photo ID, then slipped it back in. She figured he practiced this in front of a mirror before work.
“Identities are so important,” Sergeant Martaud said.
“Sergeant Martaud, I’m particular about my coffee.” she managed a smile. “Almost obsessive, my colleague
