“I have no doubt you’ll find a way to let this fuel you,” he said, “to do some good with what you’ve learned.”

I wasn’t so sure. Right now, it felt like the end of something, not the beginning I’d hoped for. I dug my hands deeper into my pockets as Smith led the way into a small park, a bronze plaque indicating it was the Jardin Catherine Labouré and that it used to house a convent.

The park was mostly dark, trees and vines forming a canopy above our heads, small pinspots of lamplight illuminating patches of ground and empty benches.

“Are you ready to take on the world’s most famous museum, maybe uncover a one hundred-and-eight-year-old secret?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Smith tugged a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat. I told him he had to quit, and he promised he would, soon.

He had just flicked the lighter, his face lit up like a jack-o’-lantern, when I felt the kick, breath knocked out of me, and I went down. A dark silhouette of a man, club in one hand, something shiny and metallic in the other, slashing across Smith’s face, the two of them struggling. I got back up, but the club caught me above the ear—a white flare of pain as I stumbled back, saw Smith swinging and punching and the club tumbling to the ground, but the man kept thrusting and jabbing, seconds seen in fragments like a stuttering film, Smith falling as I got back up, climbed onto the guy’s back, tried to choke him, take him down, hearing voices from far away, “Arrêt! Arrêt!” growing louder and a whistle shrieking and the man breaking loose and running.

“Luke…” Smith whispered my name.

I leaned down, one of the overhead pinspots illuminating us dramatically as if we were on a stage, got my hand under his head, heard him suck in a breath. “Hang on,” I said. “You’ve got a date with the most famous woman in the world, remember?”

Smith managed a smile, gripped my hand as the whistles and shouts grew louder and the shadows became real.

77

The police station of the seventh arrondissement had blinding fluorescent light. I squinted, my eyes burning. Touched an aching bruise above my ear, recalled the shriek of whistles, the shadows that morphed into uniforms, watching them load Smith into the back of an ambulance, riding in a police car, my head ringing the whole time.

I was shuttled into a white room, spotlights mixed with cold fluorescents, one of the spots trained on me.

The French cops were out of a hard-boiled detective novel. Two of them, one young and mean with bad skin that gave him the look of a reptile, the other middle-aged and rumpled, reminded me of Columbo, playing nice, but not really. Their questions had started out routine and repetitive, but I’d answered them a dozen times and was tired of it.

The Reptile leaned over me, asked again, “Pourquois étiez-vous dans le parc?”