Chapter Text
***October 12, 2025***
Harry Cavanaugh's Tennessee drawl woke Bobby fully as he took refuge in the bedroom while Alex hurried downstairs to prep breakfast for the family and their guests. Her sister and family were expected in an hour to join them at the Italian festival that afternoon.
He deliberately exaggerated the drawl when he heard Bobby's voice. "Wal, Mestur Goren, what kin I do for y'all?"
"Get off it, Harry," was Bobby's response. "Even a thickhead from Brooklyn like me knows 'y'all' is plural."
Cavanaugh guffawed. "Try tellin' that to Hollywood! Now, what's so desperate that you're callin' me on a Sunday morning?"
"You working?"
"Not at this precise point in time. You sound like a pressure cooker about to blow, Wonder Boy, so...what's cooking?"
"Our sanity and Olivia's mental health."
Cavanaugh dropped the drawl, his voice suddenly all business. "Somebody's bothering Miss Olivia? Spill it."
Bobby left out nothing, and when he was finished, he could hear Cavanaugh's harsh breath and practically see his flushed face and hand rubbing his chin as he absorbed the details.
"You say this dude's Swiss? A banker?"
"The girl's father? Yes, but defying the stereotype, no. I've done my homework on him: CFO of a high-powered internet technical firm, Netsure Global, headquartered in Basel. Laudatory prose about him all the way. I've been up half the night doing research. There's no lack of intel on him or Netsure Global; I'm drawing a blank with his home life. Most sites mention only that he's married with a daughter."
"Surely you're used to that with Bureau work," Cavanaugh objected. "You know these swank execs are terrified of kidnap attempts, and we knew why, because there are always humps out there willin' to take it on."
"Yeah, they keep the kids low-key--I understand--until they're adults, at least, especially if they join the firm. Look at the way Jules Copeland pushed his grandson into the spotlight the moment Henry came on board. But the wives or partners of these execs usually share the stage," Bobby objected. "The exec either pushes her as some domestic goddess who supports his global vision or he brags about her success in her own field, whether she's executive of another big firm, is a doctor or a Ph.D., or runs a quaint bookshop in the Village while donating books to literacy programs. Benoit's wife is...is a virtual ghost--but she didn't used to be. There were photos of her online, but they're gone--someone's worked very hard to erase almost every reference to her. A man whose business is the internet has to know how to get rid of those trails. I found one reference to her name being Dora. Another stated her heritage was French. Via Olivia, she has a twin brother, one whom her daughter adores. Also, per Olivia, Benoit and his wife don't currently live together--sounds as if they're separated or divorced. Min mentioned that Callandra said she lives in South Beach. But no records--property tax, rental agreement, credit cards, driver's license--hell, not even a dog license. Not in South Beach, not in Chicago. Nothing."
"All right. If it's that deep, I'll probably need at least a week for input, especially if I need to investigate the other side of the Alps. The Swiss are as closed-mouthed as the St. Bernard Pass in January. I've got a connection perfect for the job. Send me a text if you get any further info."
"I will. I'll owe you, Harry."
"Doin' this for the little miss," Cavanaugh said carelessly, "and that long-suffering wife of yours, Wonder Boy. Remember that."
"Love ya, too, man," Bobby responded in his best Brooklyn twang.
***October 15, 2025***
"They got to her," was the wail.
The voice on the other end of her cell phone was placid, soothing. "Who 'got' to whom, mon cheri?"
"I did as you said. I warned her to be careful, that they were after her. I told her you had all sorts of inside information. I made it sound as dangerous as possible. I had her scared, I know I did. She has this 'thing' with lawyers--I didn't understand half of it--some tutor with a brother in a big law firm in Boston, and someone called 'Cariso' or 'Sonny' --whatever!--and a woman named Emmy--so when I said the information was from you, an attorney, she really bought it! She said she even told her parents they were liars--to their faces. I even suggested she come to boarding school with me--like I'd really want an infant like her tagging after me!--and it worked for a while. Then Sunday, she had a long talk with her 'Papa,' as she calls him. He told her they would have to lock him up before he'd let her be taken away. And her mother, too. Now she won't listen anymore."
"The possibility was always there, cheri. You must keep at it."
"I'm trying to keep up, but I think it's no use. Yesterday, she even invited that tacky Black girl to sit with us. She's so middle-class. Her mother's someone's secretary!"
"You mustn't fail at this, cheri. I promise you, if you can do this for me, soon you will be among finer girls at Les Belles Filles or St. Charles, or perhaps Surval. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes! Finally, someone civilized to talk to, instead of hearing about books, books, books! But what about Richard? Have you talked to him?"
"Of course. I speak to him weekly. He misses you so much."
"Truly? He still loves me?"
"So much, mon petit."
"And Mother?"
The voice on the phone grew grave. "That is a different, a sad turn of events. Your father will not permit anyone to speak to her."
"I hate him. He lies about her," came the tearful voice. "All he worries about is that stupid fever I had years ago. I don't believe a word of what he said happened. Mother wouldn't have done what he said."
"Of course not, cheri. Your mother and I are of good breeding. No mother would do such a thing to her daughter."
He then coaxed, "You will keep working for your future, cheri? Tempt the little one with sweets or..."
"Paper is her true love!" she said in disgust. "I would need to buy her a library, or the Louvre. Looking at a bunch of dusty relics and old mummies...how vanilla!"
"That can't be all," came the persuasive voice. "If I can manage acceptance at an exclusive girls' school and provide your Richard for you, certainly there must be something else you can work out that she wants."
"Just to be older. She's worried about being the infant she is," was the scornful response.
"Then that is her weak spot. You must appeal to it." The voice was soft. "Your maman misses you, too, Callandra. Will you not do anything to see her?"
***October 17, 2025***
7:10 a.m., Milbury, Connecticut
"Mother," Olivia asked tentatively, "may I have a new dress? For a party?"
Alex, already startled by the use of 'mother,' fumbled with her spoon, then recollected her own adolescence and replied with amusement, "I suppose we could spring for a new party dress. Who's invited you? Cerise?"
"Callandra," was her surprising response. "It's on Halloween night."
Randall looked up from his egg roll-up. "So you don't want to go out trick-or-treating?"
"That's for babies," said Olivia, although a wistful look flashed across her face.
Randall gave her a sideways look. "Huh. After all the fuss you made last year."
"She has a right to change her mind after a year," Alex countered. "Is this a school party?"
"Callandra said 'special friends,'" Olivia responded proudly.
Bobby was considering her with grave eyes. "Are you sure you want to accept? When we talked last weekend, you weren't even sure you two were actually friends."
"I've tried to step back, Papa, not be so...'invested' is the word Mother used...in her drama. I listen most of the time. I like hearing stories about her mother in Florida and about her life in Chicago. She went to so many parties given by the girls at her school! I told her about our visit to Chicago there during the book tour. Do you know she's never been to a Korean barbecue? Sometimes she talks about her brother Stéphan, who’s at Loyola, and Richard, his friend. I'm learning so much about uni life, so I'll be prepared, though it seems so far away."
The Benoits must be divorced, they had both decided when Olivia continued to retell more stories about Callandra's vivacious, socially-active mother, who loved to surf, spearfish, and deep-sea dive, activities which seemed at odds with the scholarly, almost pensive Mr. Benoit they had met. It explained much about Callandra's attitude problems.
Bobby asked abruptly, "This isn't the same Richard, I hope. Didn't you mention Callandra had a 'thing' for a boy named Richard?"
Olivia wrinkled her nose in distaste. "It must be two different Richards, Papa. That would be awf'ly cringe if Callandra liked someone so old. Stéphan is 20, after all!"
"It wouldn't speak well of Richard, either," Bobby pointed out, then asked, "If it's just Callandra's friends, won't they all be older? You might not have the same interests."
"Cerise is older than me, and her friends would be older, too," parried Olivia.
"Cerise has known you longer and might invite people you know," Alex pointed out.
"I can manage, Mother, I know," Olivia said eagerly. "Callandra says the house has some jolly historical items. It's from the 1920s. And one of the girls invited has a mother who teaches history at UConn."
Bobby smiled to himself. At least her interest in history hadn't been quenched. "What time would the party be?"
"Six. She says it's a proper supper party."
"Not even a costume party for Halloween?" Randall asked, surprised.
"No," Olivia replied with dignity. "A big girl's party."
"Big girls have no fun," her brother mumbled, finishing his milk.
"You'd have to leave at eight thirty," Bobby directed.
"So early?" she squeaked.
"You're only twelve, Min," he said gently.
"But..."
"You'll have enough time to enjoy supper," Alex coaxed. "Do you have an idea of what kind of dress you'd like?"
Olivia whipped out her phone. "This! Callandra said it would look jolly on me."
Bobby saw Alex's face flicker at the photo. "That would be more than we could afford, Min." Then she paused. "But I wouldn't let you wear it anyway."
"But Callandra says she has one just like it," was Olivia's surprised answer. She'd expected the price objection, but Alex's look of disgust at the dress made her blink. "It's so fashionable. We could find a less expensive one."
"If you're eighteen, or if Callandra's parents don't care that she looks like a streetwalker, that's fine," Alex said crisply. "But I won't have you in a demeaning outfit like that, even if you were Callandra's age. I want you to have more self-respect."
Bobby cleared his throat. "If everyone's finished with breakfast, it's time to go."
"But Mother-"
"No," said Alex firmly. "Randall-"
But he had already grabbed his backpack and was heading for the door. Olivia tossed a resentful look at both Bobby and Alex, but rose and followed him.
Once she was out of earshot, Alex shook her head. "I see my estimate of problems at thirteen was too conservative. In Vice, I saw pimps dress their girls in less provocative outfits than that one," then mimicked in her best Bette Davis imitation, "'Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night.'"
. . . . .
Olivia simmered throughout the ride, and when they were finally out of the car, Randall turned to her and said, like a slap in the face, "Serves you right."
"There's nothing wrong with the dress," Olivia defended, and pulled out her phone to show him. It was a lightning glance, then he said bluntly, "Mom's right. You'd look like a hooker."
When had Randall turned against her, too? "Maybe I want to be treated a little bit more grown-up! You don't like being treated like a baby--you complained about it often enough last year," Olivia challenged him.
"So next are you going to st-start painting your eyes like a raccoon and slopping on lip gloss and cr-crap on your face?"
"Girls want to look pretty," Olivia faltered.
"You are pretty," Randall countered, "like M-Mom. You don't need all that slop."
Olivia was torn between being embarrassed by his compliment and trying to explain how she wanted to fit in with the older students. She should have taken it as a warning when Randall began to stammer, but instead she snapped, "You always take Mother's side, and so does Papa."
They were at Randall's homeroom door now, and he jarred to a halt. "M-Maybe because you had it so good and I remember h-how bad it can be."
"My parents died!" she hissed, so that no one would overhear.
"So d-did my m-mom and h-having a dad i-in j-jail is as g-g-good as dead!" he whispered right back, his face reddening and stammer worsening. "Except f-for those f-few d-days y-you-" He stopped to take a deep breath and control his voice. "-those f-few days you were scared of h-having to live with awful M-Madame, you went from one m-mom and dad who l-l-loved you to another. You didn't have a d-dad on your b-back about r-reading, and then go to jail, and then your mom g-go missing, and three horrible f-foster families and ev-ev'ry thing you love stuffed in a g-garbage bag. If you did, you m-might understand-"
Only then did they see Kenny Shepherd staring at them, his guileless blue eyes enormous. = You're fighting. = he signed frantically. = You're not supposed to fight. You love each other, like Ivy and me. = (Ivy was his younger sister.)
Abruptly,, he wasn't the shy, stammering Randall of a year earlier. "Look what you've done! You upset him. Go to homeroom and stupid Callandra."
Olivia saw a distressed Kenny sign, = Calling people stupid isn't nice... = before Randall raised placating hands to soothe him, and she fled.
Halfway between buildings, Olivia stopped to look again at the photo of the dress. Maman had talked about self-respect, too, even when she was in primary school. Her face would be so serious, her voice low, often with pain in it. "Your self-respect, darling, is the most important thing in your life."
Was her war with Callandra really over? Or was her classmate trying to take the piss out of her?
. . . . .
"You know," Alex said to Olivia as they were cleaning the table after dinner, "we can still get you a new dress, in a more mature style. Just not that particular dress."
Olivia looked up at her hopefully, only to see Randall make a face. Bobby spotted it too and bent down to whisper in the boy's ear, to which Randall ducked his head and doggedly finished collecting his share of dishes to put in the dishwasher, then said in a low voice, "I'm sorry about this morning, 'Livia. I didn't mean the things I said. I was mad at Callandra, not you."
Olivia chewed her lip. "I...didn't think you meant them. And I didn't mean to upset Kenny."
"Randall," Alex said with a smile on her face, "you could use a new dress outfit, too. Something with room to grow into. I had to let down your suit pants for Captain Cragen's funeral, remember?"
"Does that mean we'll see DonJohn?" Randall asked speculatively. "I liked him."
"Mother!" Olivia protested. "Please. I don't mind about other clothes, but I don't want a new dress from Goodwill."
"I think we can check out Goodwill to say hello to DonJohn and see if there are any accessories or jeans or blouses," Bobby counseled, "but new clothes for a special occasion would be appropriate for each of you."
Olivia's relief was obvious.
"I'm not trying to impress some snooty rich girls," Randall countered.
"You don't know they're snooty," retorted Olivia. "Or rich. One's mother is a teacher. They don't make masses of money."
"I don't have time for that stuff," Randall said with dignity, "because-"
"Because you're going to be too busy being a profiler?" guessed Olivia. "Profilers do get weekends off, you know."
Finished with their kitchen chores, they wandered into the hall, bickering back and forth, and when Alex judged they were far enough away, she gave a smothered snort. "It'll hit him soon enough."
Bobby smiled reminiscently. "He'll be thirteen in January. I was thirteen when it hit me."
"Do tell," Alex said, wiping her hands and then standing before him with her head tipped up and hands on her hips.
Her mischief was apparent. "I...uh...shot up in junior high--middle school--legs sticking out of my jeans, and my wrists had parted company with my cuffs. My dad was missing in action--most of the time that was 'good riddance' anyway--and my mom...she was really struggling--the schizophrenia meds back then were a mess. So not a lot of cash for clothes for a kid my size. Remember once I said I worked in a restaurant one summer, cuttin' up chicken?"
Alex nodded, recalling both the story and the case attached to it. "Well, my Uncle Sal knew this guy, ran an Italian place--not like they have now, y'know, swank Michelin three-star places like Toniolo's or Marea--but the kind with the checkered tablecloths and wine-bottle candles that served good, filling stuff: chicken cacciatore and ground pork lasagna and spaghetti and meatballs-"
"Bobby, we just ate, and you're making me hungry again!"
"Sorry...anyway, this dude, Galanis--back then the Greeks ran the best Italian places--he hires me under the table because I'm too young for working papers. I tell him why I need the job, and he takes one look at my wardrobe, and says, 'Bobby, lemme clue ya on somebody,' and when I got my first week's pay, he sent me with a note to the garment district where his cousin Vassilius ran a job shop. Vassi let me pick through the seconds, get some stuff for school and hanging out, pennies on the dollar, so I could save most of my wages for a new suit.
"Galanis worked me hard, and I did it all, because he looked after me, too, and I got the new clothes and wore my hair in the latest style--I did the Redford cut 'cause I didn't like long hair-"
"And it curled, didn't it," Alex said with a grin, "like it did when we first met? Bet you had to beat the girls off with a stick."
"Who said I wanted to beat 'em off?" Bobby teased.
She laughed. "And who was this paragon you got chicken fat under your fingernails for?"
"Regina Casey. Redhead. Sat next to me in English class. Looked impressed when she figured I'd read more than the teacher and that I was willing to debate him on what I read."
"Tall, pretty, and well built," observed Alex, "if the few of your other girlfriends I met are examples."
"And smart," Bobby amended, then bowed his head to kiss her forehead. "Smart and beautiful, just like my best girl."
***October 22, 2025***
"I thought you were supposed to call me with updates, Wonder Boy," was Harry Cavanaugh's growl when Bobby answered his cell phone.
"Hang on," Bobby called as he rinsed his hands. Once done, he put the phone on speaker so he could clean up from breakfast while talking. "No call because no updates. And no more notes in the mailbox."
"But you still think Callandra and the notes are connected. She's certainly not sending them," was the skeptical voice.
"Nope, her handler is. Two-pronged attack. How's your search going?"
"Have a guy on it. Ambruster--you know him?"
"Retired cybercrime whiz. Why him?"
"Shattered his hip a month ago. Goin' stir-crazy at rehab. I handed him a full-access laptop, so he's happy as a pig in swill."
"Full-access? 4chan and all the good places?"
"On the nose. Anyway, you were right. Benoit used to puff up his wife online, lots of photos of her--face obscured or turned--skin-diving and snorkeling, including in South Beach."
"Say again?" Bobby asked casually as he loaded the dishwasher.
"Snorkeling at South Beach?"
"No, the other one: 'You were right.'"
A pause. "I could hang up right now."
"Sorry."
"Like hell you are. Benoit kept his kids' doin's off the web--particularly after a drug-related scare with a pusher named Richard Malvern before his son Stéphan started college--but he posted regularly about his aquatic adventures with his wife--until three years ago. Then--silence. Not petered out, but door slammed shut. In the last three years, he's taken all the older material down as well, but that didn't stop Ambruster. What you put on the Web is truly forever."
"So...something happened three years ago."
"I'm jaded enough to suggest that the missus ran off with the scuba instructor."
Bobby snorted. "God knows Eames and I saw enough of that in Major Case. No...not that...she's sick. I'm sure of it." He was gesturing with his hands, although Cavanaugh couldn't see him. "Hey--you'd want your kids to know their mother was terminally ill, wouldn't you? Even if it upset them, so they could say goodbye?"
"When did I cross the line from 'world's most despised supervisor' to cretin?"
"So she's very sick, but not terminally ill, not yet...and he doesn't want it known by anyone, especially not his kids. Ashamed of it, maybe? That explains the blackout. Or...he doesn't want Callandra to know about it, because it will emotionally affect her. Something devastating." Bobby stopped what he was doing, rubbing his knuckles against his cheek. "Failing from some chronic condition, maybe, that would be painful for Callandra to see."
"No wonder the kid's upset."
"And open to doing anything that gets her in touch with her mother, since her father has cut her off. Otherwise, she might have harassed Min for a few days and then quit. Ambruster find anything else?"
"He's certain Dora Benoit's in Switzerland. At which hospital, sanatorium, rest home--and under what name--that's up in the air. So...no more notes, but the war's still on?"
"The tactics have changed again, and it's more difficult to parse. Callandra is now Min's advisor for all things 'older girl,' and she's pushing hard. Olivia hasn't abandoned her books yet, and Alex is enjoying surfing fashion catalogs with her, while Randall and I are getting some bonding time, but he looks like he's lost his last friend. Olivia's primping so much for her 'supper party' on Halloween night that last night he accused her of turning into Isannah." When silence followed, Bobby supplied, "Isannah's the vain little sister who's lured away by Lavinia Lyte's wealth and attention in Johnny Tremain, still Min's favorite book. As you can imagine, she took it as an insult."
"As he meant it, I'm sure." Cavanaugh's voice turned indulgent. "She jumped the 'grown-up' express, huh? Val did that. Horse mad from See'n'Say age. "The horse goes 'neigh,' Breyer horses, horse books, ridin' lessons, boots, hardly out of ridin' clothes even at Christmas...then came...Ronnie Doreman, I think the kid's name was. Poof! Made a U-turn so fast I practically got whiplash."
"I want one of those Time Turners from Harry Potter--just to get her back to nine. What happened to Valerie? She ever turn back?"
"Met a guy who liked horses. They board and train now, up near Ellenville. Sometimes you can have both. So you're still letting Olivia go to the party?"
"And dropping her off and taking her to the door, and talking to her father. One whiff of something wrong and she's gone." Bobby paused. "Alex forbade me to put a wire on her."
Cavanaugh snorted. "Now, listen carefully: you call me with anything new."
"You have my word on it. That goes for you, too--in the middle of the night if you have to."
***October 31, 2025***
"It's beautiful," Alex said admiringly as she pulled the Pilot up in front of the Tudor-style home located in the upscale Winfield community east of Waterbury, on the outskirts of Cheshire. It was a handsome, rambling brick-and-stucco edifice, with shuttered, smaller windows and a square-shaped bay window that revealed a large, luxurious living room. At right was a matching three-car garage with a golden weathervane on top depicting a Minuteman.
"There's a rose garden in the back and an inground pool with a pool house," Olivia said as they looked over the meticulously-tended front yard with old oak trees and holly bushes, avoiding the inevitable "Callandra said" prefix. "I'll take some photos of it with my phone."
"Well, perhaps Callandra's father will show us around when we say hello to him," Bobby proposed.
Olivia, unbuckling her seat belt, looked horrified. She'd been collected until that moment, wearing a new burgundy red wool dress, cut in an adult style that made her look several years older, combined with a swept-back hairstyle, some lip gloss, and the tiniest hint of blush, and kitten-heeled dress shoes. Alex had lent her a pocket-sized black formal purse with a chain strap in which she had her cell phone, mints, a few Kleenex, and some cash tucked into a hidden pocket.
The only fly in the ointment had been Randall, sitting next to her in the back seat, looking disappointed and unhappy.
"You're walking me to the door?" she exclaimed.
"You didn't expect us just to drop you off at the gate, did you?" Alex tilted her head, surprised.
"We've heard so much about Callandra that we want to meet her," added Bobby, regarding her with a patient stare. "And we did enjoy talking to her father."
Olivia started to roll her eyes, then sighed. "I s'pose it's polite, but the other girls will think I'm an infant."
Alex glanced around the street as she emerged from the car. "It's ten till six now. I would have expected the other girls to be showing up, too."
Her mother had a point. The big faux lanterns on either side of the front door were illuminated, and the brightly-lit living room seen from the street seemed inviting, but otherwise the street was quiet save for a dog barking, some late crickets chirping erratically due to the chill, and a car radio playing a hip-hop song. She didn't even see any trick-or-treaters, for there were very few porch lights lit in the neighborhood besides the Benoit house. Probably too posh to do Halloween, she thought with a sniff.
"It's not my fault," she said with dignity, taking the shawl wrap she'd also borrowed from her mother, "if everyone else has no manners."
Randall, in a long-sleeved flannel shirt, corduroy pants, and his ubiquitous Chucks, unwound himself from the seat, snorted, and muttered, "Yeah, like the hostess."
"Randall," Alex said sternly, "be fair, please."
The four of them strolled through the open iron gates leading to the front sidewalk, Bobby lagging when his cell tweedled a text alert. He stopped to check and froze in place when he read Harry Cavanaugh's message: "Olivia still going to that party? Don't let her go alone. I managed to dig up Dora Benoit's maiden name. You already know-"
"Bobby?" In the twilight descending after sunset, Alex could barely make out the change to his face.
Everybody lies. Sometimes. "Didn't mean to get distracted. Message from Shard about the game tomorrow."
Alex knew it was for the children's benefit, waited for him to catch up, and her worst fears were confirmed when he whispered to her, "Don't let Olivia or Randall out of your sight."
The knocker was an impressive specimen cast in the shape of a horse's head, and Randall perked at the brass boldness of it. "Can...I mean, may I?"
"Hammer away," Bobby said, his face shuttered.
Randall struck the knocker enthusiastically, and in a moment, they saw a swirl of bottle green through the narrow sidelight of the front door. A few clicks, and the door opened to reveal Callandra.
Alex restrained herself because the teenager was dressed in the identical dress she had refused to buy for Olivia, a single-strap, clinging bottle-green frock with a plunging neckline and a slashed hemline. A single string of freshwater pearls encircled her throat, and her earrings matched them. Her long hair was arranged in a stylish chignon with curled tendrils framing each ear, and her green shoes, pointed-toe pumps with three-inch stiletto heels, matched her dress color exactly. Alex knew she might have gone clubbing in her college days in a similar outfit--but for a fourteen-year-old? No.
Callandra turned scarlet as Randall, after ducking his head initially, slowly looked back up, his eyes appraising the snugness of the dress. His mouth moved, and Bobby very subtly bumped his elbow. Randall gave a fake smile and said, "Hello, Callandra. Mom and Dad w-wanted to meet you."
Nice save, Alex thought to herself. Aloud, she said, "Olivia has told us all about your beautiful house. We'd hoped to say hello to your father and check a little of it out while you girls started your dinner party."
Callandra, pale, looked rattled and blurted out, "My father isn't here..."
Bobby caught her eye, and she blushed to the tips of her ears. His voice was even, but very firm when he responded, "Callandra, I'm afraid we can't permit Olivia to stay at a party with no adult supervision..."
"But, Marta Trenor, our cook, is here," Callandra protested, then swallowed and adopted a more ingratiating tone. "In the last two months, Marta has been just like family! And Kerstin Soren, our maid, moved here with us from Chicago--Dad trusts them to chaperone when he's away on business. My uncle will be here soon, too. You'll let her stay, won't you? We've been looking forward to this ever so long!"
Her entreaty was so sincere that Alex and Bobby flickered glances at each other. I see now how she gets her way.
The foyer they occupied was spacious and old-fashioned, with beautiful 19th-century wallpaper in the Hudson River style and walnut woodwork. Just under the sweep of the curving staircase was an impressive grandfather clock with a reverse glass painting of a schooner under full sail over the dial. The minute hand now clicked on the twelve, whereupon the clock rang with Westminster chimes, followed by individual strikes of the hour: one... two... three... four... five... six.
"Your other guests seem to be late," Alex observed gently.
Callandra swallowed and abruptly looked several years younger. "Well...actually, Elaine had to bow out. She let me know early this morning. She's...sick with COVID. And Jessica's always late...and-"
Bobby said nothing, but rested his hand lightly on Olivia's shoulder. Alex lifted her eyebrows. Randall stared at his sneakers, but his eyes kept darting sideways warily.
"Why don't we sit down, Callandra?" suggested Bobby, gesturing to the open arch to the living room. "Would you like to call Ms. Trenor or Ms. Soren to be with you?"
Callandra lifted her head haughtily. "I'm not a child, Mr. Goren. My mother taught me to receive visitors properly. Please come this way."
The living room was indeed impressive, with a Georgian fireplace and reproduction William Morris furniture. Vintage artwork--old English hunting prints and paintings of the Alps--tastefully adorned the walls, and a beautiful red-and-brown Oriental rug centered the space.
"Please take any seat," Callandra requested graciously, lowering herself in a ladylike manner in one of the spindle-legged armchairs upholstered in a matching burgundy-background Morris Desert Flower pattern. The rosy hues gave the room further warmth. Olivia sat closest to her on the matching sofa with Bobby in the middle and Randall at his side, while Alex sat gracefully in the matching armchair. Then there was silence broken only by the fire crackling.
"Callandra, what was supposed to happen here tonight?" Alex finally asked.
She swallowed hard, but responded truthfully, "A dinner is planned, but only for Olivia and me. My uncle is supposed to arrive at 6:30. He wanted to talk to Olivia."
"But you said...you would be introducing me to some nice girls tonight," Olivia objected. "And why would your uncle want to talk to me? He's an adult, and I'm just a girl." She balled her fists, and her eyes blazed. "You've made such a flap about your father lying to you and about how Mama and Papa were lying to me, and you lied to me."
"He's...he said he was planning to tell you the truth," Callandra proclaimed.
Alex saw Bobby's expression flicker, although his face betrayed nothing. It had been in the text message, she knew, what he couldn't mention now in front of Callandra.
"Has he also had notes delivered to our mailbox?" Bobby asked coldly.
Callandra seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't know anything about notes. He just said he didn't think it fair that Olivia didn't know the truth."
"Truth about what?" Olivia was erect in her seat now, her face nearly as frigid as Alex's.
Callandra's lower lip trembled. "About your mother. My father lies to me about my mother, and they-" and she glared, "-lie to you about your mother."
Olivia looked up to her left at Bobby's tense face, then across at Alex's. To their surprise, she just quirked her lower lip. "My maman confessed to me about herself long before I came to live here. She said she had done wicked things, things so bad she was ashamed to tell me of them, and that she wanted...she wanted me to be better than that. Be the best person I could be." When Callandra was taken aback, she added with a quick upward jerk of her chin, "I expect Mama and Papa were waiting until I was a few years older to tell me the details. But...I already found out, so there's nothing your uncle can tell me that I don't already know." She gave Callandra a scornful look. "It's not like I can't use a search engine. You really must think I'm an infant."
So it's 'Mama' again, Alex thought, not 'Mother.' But she only said gently, "So you found her online?" just as Bobby sighed, "Min, I'm sorry."
She looked up at him, and he confessed, eyes grieved, "Those 'things' your mother did...you loved her so much, and, even as intelligent as you are, I thought you...that a few more years of emotional maturity might help you understand better why she acted as she did."
Olivia nodded, then signed, = I'm sorry I didn't tell you. = to Randall, who was watching her intently as he fidgeted. "It's not like I haven't searched online before. It took ages, though, and do you know how many women are named 'Madeleine Haynes'?"
"I can imagine," was Bobby's sober reply.
"After a while, I'd be bored and give it up," Olivia admitted. "The night of the funeral, though, I couldn't sleep. So I tried again, with a different search engine. And went on so much longer than usual. So many pages. Finally I found a collection of student papers from the New York School of Criminology. From ages back, nearly twenty years! One was a study of a woman who was named..." Olivia stopped, looked at Callandra, then amended with her chin up, "a woman whose background sounded similar to Maman...so I started to read."
Bobby looked so distressed that she added quickly, "The rest was behind a paywall, so I didn't read far, Papa. Just the abstract and the table of contents. I didn't...I didn't want to read any more after that anyway. But...it made sense then, about how odd you sound any time you tell people that you and Maman were friends. You see, she did that, too...when I was here the first time. After we met in Washington, DC, and Papa Marcel came to fetch us home, remember? I think it was a problem with Maman's passport? I asked how she knew you, and she gave an odd laugh. She said you were old friends from her years in the city. 'A funny kind of friendship, darling,' she said. That's when she told me you were good people--Mama, because she was totally honest, and you, because...because you made her understand the truth about herself."
Now she stamped her feet on the plank floor and told Callandra fiercely, "But you aren't about truth at all! You needn't have lied to me, especially that rubbish about being taken away. I tried my hardest to make you feel welcome, and all you've done is trick me or lie to me."
If Callandra had hoped to make Olivia collapse in tears that evening, she had just been foiled. Instead, her own face abruptly crumpled with fury and chagrin. "You stupid little bitch! Why couldn't you have just come as I asked and let Uncle Theo talk to you? Then I would have done what he asked me to do and wouldn't have to stay here in this nothing place in a school full of freaks. He promised that if I brought you home, he would talk my father into sending me to boarding school in Zurich, and I could see Richard again-"
A man's disapproving baritone voice interrupted her. "If Théo told you that, then he was badly mistaken, Callie. I told you that you would never see that boy...no, that corrupt man...again."
"When will you stop calling me that? Callie is a baby's name! I'm a grown woman! And Richard loves me!" Callandra shouted at her father, whose broad-shouldered body filled the entryway. "You took me away from him. He said when I was old enough, he would marry me!"
Lucas Benoit, his eyes dark and unhappy in his oval, bearded face, said tightly, his French-accented voice stern, "As in Richard the 19-year-old drug-dealer who almost ruined your brother's university career, making overtures to my 13-year-old? Do you think I would permit that to happen? He was grooming you, Callie, nothing more. One of the reasons I'm home today instead of on Sunday is to let you know that this Richard has seduced another girl your age just recently. This time, the girl gave evidence, and he's been arrested. I'm happy to know I won't need to worry about his influence on you any longer."
"You're lying," Callandra raged. "He hugged me when you sent Mother away! He kissed me and told me he loved me!"
"I have the news articles, Callie," Benoit said with a sigh. "And several Instagram reports. I know you believe those."
Callandra sat back in the Morris chair, tears cutting a path through her carefully made-up face, and her father moved toward her, only now recognizing their guests, "It is you, Mr. Goren, the man who edited the book about Mr. Volpe? And your wife, Ms. Eames? These must be the children you spoke of. I do not understand why you are here."
"Callandra invited Olivia for supper," was Alex's tactful response, "and we were talking with her until her uncle arrived, and admiring your beautiful house."
She watched Bobby's eyes flicker again.
"But I had no idea Callandra was familiar with you," Benoit replied, puzzled. "And Théo is expected? I thought he was still a recluse after that debacle on the BBC last year."
"Callandra never mentioned me?" offered Olivia, surprised. "But we sit next to each other in home room."
"All she ever tells me of her school is how unhappy she is there, even though the uncle she speaks so highly of recommended this place to live and your school," was the crisp reply. "I had no idea you were her classmate, and would have been happy to know that my Callie was friends with your children, Mr. and Mrs. Goren. They sounded charming when you talked of them."
"Babies," Callandra muttered.
"Enough, mon cheri. Unfortunately, she won't be able to return to St. Gregory's, nor will we be able to stay in this wonderful house much longer. We must get back to Zurich, where Callandra's mother is hospitalized."
"Incarcerated!" Callandra snapped back, standing bolt upright. In her high heels, she was nearly as tall as her father. "There's nothing wrong with Mother! You put her there. She's not crazy."
"You told Olivia your m-mother was in S-South Beach," Randall said abruptly. "That's in Fl-Florida. I heard you. It's another l-lie. You told 'Livia and Cerise..."
"L-l-l..." Callandra taunted, and Olivia spat out, "Don't you make the fool of my brother!"
"Callandra!" Benoit remonstrated with a weary expression.
"Olivia, Randall..." Alex touched his arm, and they both fell silent.
Now Benoit explained in an even voice, "Callie is correct. Her mother isn't crazy. She's...indisposed...ill, being cared for at a mental health center. There is no shame in it--and I should have been more forthcoming with her long ago. I simply did not know how to begin."
"My mother spent her later life in a mental health center," Bobby said sympathetically. "We're...sorry t-to hear about your wife."
"Thank you," Benoit said sadly. "Callie knows it is not her mother's fault. But it is safer for Dora there. She...can no longer cope with the outside world."
Callandra complained, bitter, "But now Dad thinks I'm crazy, too. He wants me to see a shrink."
Benoit sighed. "I do not think you are 'crazy,' Callie. But you are troubled."
"Well, that's nothing," Olivia said offhandedly. "I see a shrink. I hated it at first, but I had to, because of adoption rules. Randall, too. I like talking to her. It's nice to have someone who makes no judgments. She guides you instead. It wasn't what I expected at all."
Callandra glared at her. "Maybe for freaks like you and your brother!"
"Callie..." Benoit pleaded, then apologized to them. "She wasn't like this in the past."
"Maybe you should go to family therapy," Randall said frankly. "Stéphan might need to talk, too."
"I think Mr. Benoit can decide that for himself, Rand," said Alex hastily, with an apologetic flash of her eyes to Callandra's father, but he only smiled ruefully. "I shall take that under advisement, petit maître."
Callandra scowled. "Where is Uncle Theo? He should have been here by now. He'll know what to say, how to figure this out, and explain about Richard."
"I don't think you'll be seeing your Uncle Théo tonight or in the future, Callandra," Bobby told her. "Did you know that he's a wanted man in France? The FBI picked him up this afternoon on orders from our State Department. He'll probably be extradited in the next few days."
"Uncle Theo? Wanted? You mean, by the police? But he's a prominent attorney! He works with the police. I'm not crazy, everyone else is!" Callandra pulled away from her father, tossed a resentful look around the room, and stalked out. They could hear her heels tap-tapping in sharp anger on the hardwood floor of the foyer and then up the stairs.
Benoit offered Bobby his hand. "I regret that the girls' dinner has turned out so badly. We'll be sending a moving crew in next week. Callandra and I will travel to Zurich on Sunday. She'll be continuing her education online until I can find a school there." He paused, pain flickering over his face. "Her mother deteriorates each day. She progressed from latent to tertiary more quickly than the doctor expected. I...have no idea how to tell her these things. Things a parent should never have to tell their child."
"Is there any hope?" Bobby asked as Alex blinked at Benoit's words.
"It was found too late," Benoit said regretfully. "Thank heaven it does not seem to have been passed to Callandra. I will need to be tested at regular intervals, and will ensure Callandra is as well. Please forgive any mischief she has done. Between her refusing to believe the news of her mother, and the attentions of that...what is the word?"
"'Pervert?'" Alex answered distastefully.
Olivia had sidled next to Randall, and they stood looking at each other with unvoiced questions. Bobby gazed at them tenderly and then sighed. "Monsieur Benoit, I've been a father only for a little over two years now, and...I've made certain mistakes myself, so perhaps it's not my place to be giving you advice. But you need to tell Callandra everything, however much it hurts. Falsehoods are a poor foundation for a parent/child relationship. Let's say I know this from experience."
Benoit seemed unoffended and nodded and smiled. "I should go tend to my daughter. At least, make a start. You say Théo has been arrested?"
"In connection with a case in Paris, yes," Bobby said evasively.
"I believe I can guess which one," Benoit said dryly. "Théo's taste in women was never the best--he was very like his father. As they say, I wish we had met under better circumstances."
"The same," was the regretful response.
When they had made their farewells--once the front door closed behind them, Alex said grimly, "Well, I certainly don't regret that the girls' dinner turned out 'badly,' thank you very much!"--and were walking back to the car, they found the street busier now, more lights illuminated at the front doors of the neighborhood, the squeals of children heard, and car doors slamming. Halloween was in full swing.
"I never thought I'd give up trick or treat for this," Olivia said, shaking her head. "Papa, I don't understand."
"And she said we were freaks," Randall said in awe. "What's with her?"
How much do we say? Bobby's eyes clearly telegraphed to Alex.
"Callandra's mother," Alex said carefully, since the full text of Bobby's message was still an unknown, "is very ill with-" She searched her husband's face for some hint, only to have Bobby grimace. "-a disease she's had since childhood. It sounds as if the family refused to discuss it, as if it was-"
Olivia saved her. "Shameful? Like Paulette's cleft palate? Was her grandmother a religious zealot, too?"
"I don't know," was the honest answer, "but it was left untreated, like Paulette's lip. It's lain dormant in her body, and now it's active again...and..."
"You wanted the truth, Min," Bobby said heavily as he unlocked the doors to the Pilot. "There's little any drugs or treatments can do for her now. There was also a risk Callandra might inherit the disease, although it appears she escaped it."
Olivia turned back to the house, where the living room lights had just winked out. "Should I go back then, Papa, just a minute, and say I'm sorry? I know she lied to me, but maybe that's why?"
"She and her father need time alone," Bobby counseled, "and I truly think she's done accepting your overtures. Between her uncle and that young man-"
"The perv," Randall said sourly, getting in the car behind Alex.
"Exactly. He fed her false promises-"
"To get into her pants," was the dour answer.
Alex asked sternly, "Rand, where do you pick up these things?"
"Eighth grade has phys ed right before the seniors," Randall griped, "and sometimes they're there before we finish. Sometimes they pick on us if Father Lashinsky doesn't catch them first. But we always hear them talking. That boy...you know the boy, 'Livia--Ethan, the one Callandra mentioned in the bookstore who was so handsome. You should have heard what he said about her making cow eyes at him, that she was a baby, but he put up with it because maybe she'd let him get in her pants."
"He sounds like a delightful boy," Alex said sarcastically. "Maybe you shouldn't be talking about this in front of your sister," and she tossed a look at Bobby that clearly said, And this is a Catholic school!
"Mama, you're out of touch," was Olivia's reply. "The girls talk like that, too."
"Just call us Ma and Pa Kettle," Bobby murmured as Alex started the SUV.
"Who?" both children asked in unison.
Bobby coughed, then asked hesitantly, "Is anyone else hungry?"
"I'm starved," Randall declared.
"I'm hungry, too," Olivia admitted wearily. "And I want to change clothes. I look nice, but I feel all stiff. Does being older mean you have to be uncomfortable?"
"Not always," Alex chuckled as she pulled out onto the road.
"You oughta be a boy and have to wear a tie," Randall complained.
"We could go home to change, then see what Shard and TJ are offering for Halloween," coaxed Alex.
"Wings would be good right now," Olivia said diffidently, while Randall chimed in, "And potato skins! Too bad TJ doesn't do poutine," then ventured shyly, "'Livia, we could put face makeup on real quick..."
Olivia was still thinking about her aborted evening. "Papa, why do you suppose Callandra's uncle wanted to talk to me?"
Only Alex could hear Bobby's uncomfortable swallow before he returned casually, "I have...um...no idea, Min. Callandra did tell him that she was fond of you--perhaps he wanted to see if he could encourage you to go to boarding school with her. She'd already made the offer to you."
"I s'pose..."
Randall suddenly straightened up in his seat, then asked shyly, "'Livia, look! Isn't that girl dressed as Tendi from Lower Decks?"
"Yes, she is," and Olivia pointed, "and there's a Boimler with her," she added as they passed a knot of children in costume.
Bobby's mouth twitched. There was hope if Star Trek still had the pull to distract them.
Alex coaxed as much speed out of the Pilot as she could, wanting not her dinner, but the chance to get Bobby alone.
. . . . .
"Why don't you take Sam outside, Rand," Alex suggested as they pulled into the driveway, "while Min is changing?"
"That means they want to talk," Olivia said loftily as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "Take your time, Randall. I'm going to text Cerise and Jacob and apologize for being stupid."
Bobby turned to her swiftly. "Not stupid, Min. You were trying to be kind. There's no stupidity in kindness."
Father and daughter's eyes met, and he saw understanding in hers.
"Scoot!" Alex advised.
"You're not going to drag me upstairs by the ear, are you?" Bobby proposed softly as the children pelted inside. As they crossed the sun porch, Randall re-emerged with Sam on his leash, and the collie greeted them with enthusiasm before heading for the screen door.
"Backyard only," Bobby reminded.
"Yes, Dad."
Alex murmured crisply, "I'll consider it if you don't hurry up."
In the bedroom, she locked the door and pulled him to the far wall, querying in a hushed voice. "'Dormant'? 'Tertiary'? In this day and age, Callandra's mother has syphilis?"
Bobby nodded. "She and her brother caught it in the womb. Normally, it affects the child or children in some way after birth, but Dora and Théo managed to be among the rare two who reached adulthood without any outward symptoms or flags. Harry said he spoke to a specialist who called it 'one in a million' rare. Apparently, Dora's health has been declining for the past few years. At first, she laughed off memory problems as 'due to her crowded social calendar.' Things escalated. Benoit finally had her confined to the clinic the day she locked Callandra out of the house in 25-degree weather. Her daughter was in a bathrobe and flannel pajamas, and had a fever of 103. She was partially delirious, so she remembers none of this, but she had wandered outside, and her mother locked the doors and left to go shopping. Luckily, the housekeeper heard Callandra crying and pounding on the door and let her in. When they asked Dora why she left, she said her daughter was in her crib, with the nanny in charge, so there was no need to worry."
"And the carrier?" Alex asked, troubled.
"Father. He was like my old man," Bobby responded disdainfully, "except that mine was smart enough never to go bareback. Papa Everard liked his ladies but refused to give up the 'complete sensation' and hid the initial symptoms, with the result that no one knew about the infection until he began showing signs of tabes dorsalis. The infection was hidden from everyone; the latest physician who suspected otherwise was paid off by Uncle Théo, who didn't want the information to ruin his career."
"But this Théo character...setting his sights on Olivia-"
"Harry does indeed know where all the bodies are buried, and, if he doesn't, he knows who to contact, in this case, an ex-Bureau cybergenius named Russell Ambruster. Lucas Benoit didn't want his wife's illness known because the knowledge might affect the children. He took almost perfect care to cover her personal information once she was under treatment--that slowed down Harry's inquiry. Thank God there was a breakthrough tonight. Eames...Théodora Benoit's maiden name was Achard."
Alex's mouth fell ajar. "Her twin...Madame Pepin's attorney?"
"Lover and Laurent's biological father." Bobby rubbed his neck, troubled. "Harry isn't certain whether Théodore Achard is also showing symptoms of tertiary infection or if he's simply driven by resentment. When he was arrested, he made certain inflammatory statements about a child who had 'ruined his life,' as well as the adults associated with her. He was after all of us, Alex."
"But...Olivia had nothing to do with what happened to him or to Madame," Alex protested.
"But what better thing to do when your cozy life has fallen apart--your wealthy lover exiled, your career in ruins because of your association with her--than blame someone else? Then you become the victim instead of taking responsibility for your own mess."
"That bastard! He was behind the notes, wasn't he?"
"Yes. He hired teenage boys. Kids like Rafe and Cesario, and the other boys at Big Brothers, whose families have limited income. They'd come by after dark. The one we caught on camera was eighteen, riding his younger brother's bike. When he saw the camera, he must have warned the next person to take extra precautions, so we didn't see who dropped the fourth one. And then the notes stopped because Achard changed tactics."
"What about Laurent? And Noémie and Françoise?"
"We can call in the morning, but I suspect Laurent is probably safe. Remember their visit last spring, after Madame had her fall from grace, and he joked about the extensive physical Énergies du Bouclier had given him, complete with blood tests? Surely it would have come up-" He drew in a breath. "Alex, there's more, but...let it drop for now. Let's eat, wind both of them down, and ease Min's fears. Do a little trick-or-treating at the Crystal. TJ's probably got swags of candy--how he spoils those two! And it will show the kids they have nothing to worry about. Olivia's had enough stress since September."
"What about...the other thing?"
He didn't have to ask, and wiped his face with one hand. "I dunno. I can't think right now. Play it by ear?"
Alex looked dubiously at him, but nodded, then disappeared into the bathroom to "fix her face." Bobby changed into a nondescript, loose grey work shirt that his mother had gifted him many years ago, one that he had refused to discard for sentimental reasons, and a worn pair of jeans. When Alex emerged from the bathroom, he had ruched up his hair with gel and was brushing some of her eyeshadow around his eyes, lids, and cheeks to give himself a grotesque appearance. "What are you supposed to be?"
"I dunno. A hick farmer taken over by aliens, maybe? If I walk funny, it should work."
She favored him with a weak smile, then darted into their closet, emerging after a few moments wearing her sun hat with a wildly patterned scarf tied around the crown and a multicolored, shattered-glass patterned blouse over her slacks, carrying three beach bags, each a different color. His guffaw drew attention from the hallway. Olivia called through the door, "Grown-up talk all done?"
"Yes, Min," he said, still chuckling. To their relief, Olivia revealed herself with a black mask over her eyes, cat whiskers marked on her face with charcoal pencil, and a headband with black-glitter cat ears. She was now wearing a black sweater and dark pants.
"Mama!" she said, scandalized. "Are you supposed to be Ms. Tascioni?"
"Quickest thing I could put together."
"We'll have to send her a picture. She'll love it," giggled Olivia, and her laughter was the sweetest sound they could have imagined.
Randall reappeared with his scarecrow straw hat. "I'm easy, Mom," and let Alex lipstick his nose scarlet, and draw artificial "cloth folds" on his face with mascara. "There, all set."
"Let's go eat!" Randall proclaimed, clattering down the stairs. Alex followed, but Olivia hung back. "Papa-"
"Yes, Min?"
"I hope Callandra's all right," she said softly.
"Maybe we broke the ice between her and her father, and this time they'll talk," was his wistful response. "And Mignon-"
She looked up with such an earnest expression that he had to pause for a second. "I truly was trying to protect you. We always intended that you know everything as you got older." He paused, swallowed. "Olivia...when you found that th-thesis, why didn't you say anything to us?"
"At first, I was just trying not to get sent away. Callandra said her uncle worked with the police and the government, and that I should watch the news to see how people were being taken away. And then when you said you and Mama wouldn't let anyone take me away, and Callandra and I started talking about being older...I was trying to be grown-up," she said, "and when you and Mama have problems, you just deal with it. So I was, too."
He squatted down in front of her. "But, Olivia--that's what your m-mother and I are here for. For you and...um...Randall both. We love you, and it's what we do, t-take care of you." She put her arms around his neck and hugged him. "You don't have to carry this burden alone. Anytime you want...want to talk about your maman...I was thinking...um...we could get Dr. Allyson to moderate--advise you on how to deal with what you've learned."
She let go of his neck and stepped back, and he stood up again, taking her hand. "Maybe...maybe I don't want to know all of it just yet," she said thoughtfully. "But when I do, Papa, you arrange it, and we'll work it out.
"But...you know what?" she added frankly as they made their way down the steps. "Being older sucks. I think I'd rather stay twelve a lot longer."
He squeezed her hand in agreement.
Postlude
***November 4, 2025***
11 a.m. Geneva, Switzerland
The tall, hefty man in the tailored charcoal-grey suit stood observing the row house in admiration, having consulted the instructions on his iPhone one more time to assure himself of the correct address.
"Septante Rue Des Flocons. How poetic," he said aloud, confirming that the numerals 7 and 0 were indeed on the gloss-black paneled front door in gleaming silver. The house itself was white, with silvery grey stone frames around each deep-set window, built sometime in the later Beaux Arts era. The front steps were of white, tightly veined marble, freshly scrubbed that morning, he was sure, with a pristine black railing. In the window boxes were purple asters; the windows themselves revealed a peep of expensive velvet, linen-lined curtains. Money lived here, he knew, and people determined not to lose it.
With a practiced smile, he mounted the steps and twisted the vintage brass doorbell knob in the center of the door. He straightened his tie as the musical jingle could be heard from inside.
An average-sized, olive-skinned man with white hair and a receding hairline opened the door. He was formally attired in a dark suit, a white shirt, and a plum-colored bow tie. Before him, he saw a tall man not quite as portly as his employer's brother, with receding strawberry-blonde hair and shrewd pale blue eyes. "Guete morge, monsieur."
"Good morning," the tall man returned in plain American English. "I am here to see Monsieur Duplantier, s'il vous plait."
The man in the doorway, Alphonse by name, said stiffly, "I've not been informed of any appointments that Monsieur Duplantier has today. You are required to have an appointment to see him."
"Oh," chuckled the visitor, who then raised his voice so that it projected down the floral-sprigged hallway he glimpsed behind Alphonse, "I'm sure he'll speak to me. Let him know it's about Théodore Achard."
Maximiliano Duplantier emerged from double doors at the right of the hallway, dressed for the day in a dark blue silk long-sleeved shirt, tailored trousers, and Gucci loafers. "Do I know you?"
"No," the American said, "but I know you. In fact, in the last four weeks, I've come to know you intimately."
"Who are you?" Béatrice Piaget demanded as she exited the same room, the study and library. "And why have you invaded my home?"
"I apologize, Madame Piaget," was the gracious reply, "and I promise I won't bother y'all very long. I just came to deliver a message."
"I dare say it's come from the Gorens," came the aristocratic voice of Evangeline Pepin. She stood framed in the doorway to the morning room, still in a quilted robe and fur-lined slippers, a long-suffering expression on her face.
"Now, what would make you say that, Madame Pepin?" was the amused answer. "Was it the fact that Théodore Achard has been extradited to Paris?"
Madame Pepin blanched and stepped backward.
"I don't contradict ladies lightly," Harry Cavanaugh responded, "however, since you have shown yourself to be not much of a lady, I will freely confess that I doubt that neither Mr. Goren nor Ms. Eames would like me to be here. They want this to go away. They want to live in peace with their-" and here he stepped forward until his nose was almost poking Maximilano's pudgy face. "-their legally adopted daughter while processing the final months of steps in the adoption of their foster son, all without anonymous notes about falsehoods, threats of deportation, and the vicious actions of a man willin' to take advantage of his 14-year-old niece with a dying mother, who came close to being sexually assaulted by a pedophile drug dealer. An uncle who was carrying a firearm at the time of his arrest and who freely admits he was encouraged by 'an outside source'...to 'do anything' to remove a child from the confines of her parents' care."
"I know nothing of what you speak," Maximiliano replied stiffly.
"Monsieur Duplantier," was Harry's reproof, his Tennessee accent deepening with scorn, "I work with an outstandin' private intelligence organization, with skilled IT employees who can wrest the tiniest detail of cyber evidence from bits and bytes. I can assure you that every piece of communication you shared with Théodore Achard since August contains traceable digital fingerprints that lead directly back to you. All that information is in a file ready to send to Interpol--should the time come.
"But, as I said, Robert an' Alexandra are much more concerned about the peace of mind of their lil gal. Olivia's a great favorite of mine, so I'm keepin' that file to myself--for now. I can get more intelligence. So many contacts. Servants. Tradesmen. Police. Perhaps even your legal or financial advisors. People you would never know were feedin' me information." He slowly appraised the expensive wallpaper and artwork in the corridor. "Fine house you have, Madame Piaget. It would be a shame to lose it." Béatrice drew in her breath sharply as he finished, "In return, you will keep your meddlin' little plots away from Goren, and Ms. Eames, and Olivia, and Randall Shaw." He paused a beat. "Ah trust ah've made myself cleah?"
"Undisputedly," Evangeline Pepin said coldly, with narrowed eyes, for Maximiliano seemed struck dumb.
"Mind you keep it that way," Cavanaugh warned, then noticed that Alphonse was pointedly holding the door open for him. "Why, I do believe it's time for lil' ol' me to leave. Y'all have...a nice day."
Alphonse shut the door firmly behind him.
Béatrice saw her brother open his mouth to speak. "I don't want to hear it, Maxi. Nor anything from you, Vangie. Next time I'll know better to let fools in my door--especially when they're family!"