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“I don’t have a lot yet.” I hear the banging of the keyboard in the background. “He uses an alias, Michel Caron, which I traced to a French company called Triomphe.”
None of this means a goddamn thing to me.
“Philippe and Marco Cruz might be cousins,” she adds, with the unmistakable ring of alarm.
Cousins. I sink back in my chair. “How do you know this?”
“I’m not entirely certain. But while I’ve been waiting for the ID, I did some research on Marco.”
“Marco was thoroughly vetted when he started dating Valentina.” Thoroughly vetted. Tamar did the background check herself. It wouldn’t have required much to set me off, but he was clean, as was everyone around him.
His father is a Portuguese citizen whose family has been here for generations. He’s a paper pusher for the local government. There was nothing about him that sent up a single red flag. Marco’s mother is a French citizen who moved to Portugal after she married. She’s not close to her family—it’s only her father. When Marco was a teenager, he began spending time in France with his grandfather, who’s in his sixties. I met him at the wedding. He was shrewd and arrogant, and liked to put on airs. Marco’s a lot like him in that way. But, otherwise, he seemed relatively harmless. I can’t remember any other specifics, but Tamar will have a copy of the report.
“We looked closely at him,” she says, “his friends, his immediate family—everything about them. But we didn’t dig deep into the family history—not of the extended family, anyway. Now with the possibility that a cousin is involved, we should.”
“When you say family history, are you talking about his great-grandfather?”
Marco’s great-grandfather was a criminal who died in a French prison. I learned about him in a European history class, long before I met Marco. He stole valuable artwork for the Nazis during the war, primarily targeting museums and galleries in European countries that were members of the Allied coalition. While Italy didn’t become a member until later in the war, Italian private collectors who were sympathetic to the Allies’ cause were looted as well. Marco’s grandfather was also involved, but he never went to prison.
“Exactly,” she replies. “There’s a professor of art history in Paris that I’d like to reach out to. He’s an expert in stolen artwork from World War II. My former agency consulted with him many times. If he knows anything about the family, it could save us a lot of time.”
“Do it. I’ll be back at the Lodge in forty-five minutes.”
61
LEXIE
I race around the apartment, putting together an overnight bag. Valentina and I are going to make a plan to capture Marco on tape. It’s ludicrous, of course, and I’m hoping after a good night’s sleep she’ll see it too. If not—I don’t even want to think about the choices I’ll be left with. They’re atrocious.
I have to get her to see reason, and soon, before something bad happens to either her or to an innocent person—another innocent person. Like the party planner. We didn’t even get to discuss her today, but with what Valentina shared, I fear she’s dead.
I grab my phone and text Rafael: I’m going to stay with Valentina tonight. She can use the company.
Rafael: At her apartment?
Lexie: Yes.
Rafael: Great idea. I’ll be working late.
Lexie: I’ll miss you.
Rafael: I miss you every second you’re not close enough to touch.
My heart clenches.
Rafael: Neither of you should leave the building tonight.
My heart unclenches. He’s so damn bossy.
Lexie: Yes, sir.
He must be swamped, because he would normally have some quick, dirty retort.
I reread the thread with a twinge of wistfulness. I need to protect our relationship. You can start by being honest with him.
I wasn’t entirely forthcoming, but I didn’t lie.
I’m staying next door for many reasons. Valentina shouldn’t be alone. Despite her outward poise, she must be dying inside, or at least she will be when she stops focusing on vengeance and begins to think about all the implications. She’s teetering on the edge—but I think it’s because she hasn’t slept since her world bottomed out. It’s certainly not helping.
