The Man in the Black Suit

  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 car
pet 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.

  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.”

&
nbsp; “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?”