The Professor didn’t have answers to these questions, but his gifted intellect continued to examine everything over and over again, until he finally tumbled into bed after sunrise, exhausted.
Chapter Forty-Eight
December 22, 2012
Zermatt, Switzerland
Simon Talbot exited his chalet at the CERVO resort, slipping on his gloves. He was meeting friends and family for drinks in the lounge après-ski.
He’d taken no more than two steps outside the door when something hit him, hard. He went flying backward into the snow.
“My God!” someone cried in German. “I’m sorry. Let me help you.” A large man, dressed in ski clothes, reached out his hand. He hefted a dazed Simon to his feet, chattering his apologies.
“I’m okay,” said Simon in English, trying to remove his hand from the man’s iron grip.
Instead of releasing him, the man pulled him closer. “Forget the name of Julianne Emerson, or the next time I see you, you won’t be able to get up.”
Simon gaped. He was still in shock after being bodychecked and knocked over. But to hear the man switch to English and mention her name . . .
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Simon’s face hardened. “Tell that asshole husband of hers I haven’t done anything. She’s nothing to me.”
The man pulled Simon closer, bringing them nose to nose. “I don’t work for him. And my employer does not accept failure. You’ve been warned.”
Smoothly, the man drove his fist into Simon’s abdomen, doubling him over. Without a backward glance, the man walked past the chalet and disappeared around the corner.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Lenox Hotel
Boston, Massachusetts
The security company?” Julia prompted, sitting near the fireplace in the hotel suite. It was her habit to curl up in comfy oversized chairs, like a cat. But she found that her right leg bothered her in such a position, and so her feet were propped up on an ottoman.
Her ankle still troubled her, on occasion, and so she still wore a brace when she walked. With the terror and worry that accompanied the break-in, she’d barely noticed her ankle and the intermittent numbness in her leg. She was still in shock, she thought, and had refused to leave the hotel. Gabriel had arranged for a sketch artist who worked with the local police to meet with them in their suite and draw a likeness of the intruder, which Gabriel had sent to Nicholas and Interpol.
Gabriel had barely been able to coax Julia downstairs to the restaurant for dinner.
After dinner, the hotel staff had built a roaring fire in their suite.
Julia found the scent and warmth of the flames comforting. She’d even troubled the concierge to send out for graham crackers, marshmallows, and bars of chocolate, and had made s’mores, much to Gabriel’s amusement.
He was indulging each and every whim, however, and had been doing so since they left their home. He had no idea how she was going to react to what he was about to tell her. So he waited until after Julia had made and consumed far more s’mores than was healthy, and fed several to him, as well, in an effort to create as relaxed an environment as possible.
He had a small bottle of Scotch from the minibar at the ready.
Now he was stretched out on the floor next to Clare, who was safely out of reach of the fire’s heat. She was resting on her back on a special mat for babies, which was decorated with a jungle scene. A fabric-covered arch curved above her, from which were suspended lights, a mirror, and some toys.
But Clare only had eyes for her father, and her little head was turned toward him.
“Why hello, Clare.” Gabriel spoke in his equivalent of baby talk. (Which is to say he spoke normally.)
Clare moved her arms and legs and smiled back.
“That’s my girl.” Gabriel smiled even more widely, chattering at the baby. Clare moved her chubby fists and gurgled.
Julia took great joy in Gabriel’s excitement. “She’s very particular about who she shares her smiles with.”
“Of course she is. You save your smiles for Daddy.” He took Clare’s hand and she latched on to one of his fingers, squeezing. “Rachel called earlier. She said you aren’t answering your cell.”
Julia adjusted her bathrobe. “I switched it off. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I explained to her what happened and I called Richard, who was understandably concerned. Rachel was calling to let us know they found an apartment in Charlestown.”
“Charlestown?” Julia repeated, surprised.
“They’re in a brand-new apartment building on an up-and-coming street. It’s just temporary, while they look for a condo.”
“I’ll call Rachel tomorrow. You were going to tell me about your meeting with the security company.”
“Nicholas Cassirer arranged for the man who designed his family’s security system in Switzerland to take a look at our house. I met him and his associate this afternoon.”
“And?” Julia prompted. Gabriel was rehearsing information she already knew, which meant he was stalling.
“I’m sorry about what happened last night,” he observed mournfully. “I’ve already taken the Holiday painting to be reframed. I worry that lending our illustrations to the Uffizi has drawn far more attention to us than I realized.”
Julia shifted by the fire. She was the one who had wanted to share the illustrations with the world. But she hadn’t expected someone to break into their home because of it.
“Nicholas’s family were robbed several years go. The intruders took a few priceless pieces, including a Renoir.”
Julia frowned. “It was in the news. Someone was killed.”
“Yes.” Gabriel covered his eyes for a moment. “The security consultant was very thorough. He looked at our existing system, walked around the property, and surveyed the perimeter. He went through the entire house.”
“And what did he say?”
“He wondered why the intruder didn’t take anything, since all the valuable artwork is on the ground floor.”
“Maybe he was going to take something but wanted to check upstairs first.” Julia shivered. Her gaze moved to Clare.
“It’s possible. If you were him, what would you take?”
“I don’t know.” Julia paused, going through the house in her mind. “There’s the statue of Venus. It’s valuable, but it’s small. There’s the Greek and Roman pottery. I’d probably take Tom Thomson’s Sketch for ‘The Jack Pine.’ The finished version is in the National Gallery of Canada. Our house is easier to break into than that.”