Page 39 of A Mother’s Love

“Kind of beaten up,” she said. “I just called my old shrink in New York. I feel better now. He’s good at helping me clear out the cobwebs and the fog in my head sometimes.

I get confused about what’s real, and what’s the echo of the past. He gave me permission to be officially upset about this.

” She smiled. “I thought maybe I was overreacting.” She didn’t tell Bart about the nightmares, or the associations they had for her.

She had always kept that to herself, except with Robert.

Bart was too new in her life to share such heavy stuff with.

The bag theft was heavy enough, and the stalker.

And he’d been great about that. She didn’t want to overload him with her past. He already knew enough.

The meeting was set for that afternoon.

“I’m meeting Ryan at his gym. My club in New York has a reciprocal arrangement with a club here.

I’ll meet you at the police office,” Bart said, and after they hung up, she got up from the kitchen table and went upstairs to dress, thinking about him.

She felt lucky to have met him. He was a real person and a kind man, and she already respected him.

—

Bart was already at Major Leopold’s office when she arrived.

The major was looking very official, and there was a tall, thin, serious-looking, youngish man in a dark gray suit.

He looked American, with short dark hair, and he introduced himself as Special Agent Bernard Dexter, of the FBI.

They chatted for a few minutes and then the major got down to business, with everyone present.

“First, I want to mention your guardian. He’s a bit of an unpleasant character, but I don’t think you have anything to fear from him.

He served time in prison for six months ten years ago, for bank fraud, bad checks, but he’s had no problems with the law since.

It’s not a high recommendation for him, and I don’t know if his employers are aware of it or if they care.

Only slightly more interesting is that he is a member of the Communist Party, and apparently takes it very seriously.

He goes to party meetings regularly, and he’s been to Russia, but I don’t think he’s a spy or anything dangerous.

He apparently has a passionate hatred for the rich, but his employers are extremely wealthy, so he probably dislikes them as much as he does you.

He has no girlfriend, and he sounds like a bitter, unhappy person, from what people say about him.

One of my operatives checked him out. He sounds disagreeable but harmless.

I don’t think he’s a real concern, just an annoyance. ” It was a relief to hear it.

“The same is not true of Tomás Maduro, the man who stole your bag. He’s a professional thief who caught our attention several years ago.

But now we’ve been told that he belongs to a very active militant anarchist cell.

We’re waiting for more information on him from Interpol.

He had trouble with the law in Colombia, but most of the time he has stayed below the radar, and he has several aliases.

His main source of income is from the high-end goods he steals and resells.

I think he got too lucky this time, and is finding that your very expensive one-of-a-kind bag is not so easy to sell.

If he sells it in a reputable place, he needs a bill of purchase.

If he sells it through the underground, he won’t get anywhere near what it’s worth.

They can’t pay him that kind of money, because they can’t sell it for what it’s worth.

Possibly in Asia to some avid collector.

At the moment, you are his best potential customer, and we think he’s going to try to sell it back to you, just as he said to you, if you are attached enough to the bag to want it back for a high price.

As you know, from what Hermès told us, it could be worth as much as a hundred thousand euros today.

At a high-end auction, it might bring double that, if two collectors battle for it.

I think he’ll try to sell it to you for somewhere between fifty and a hundred thousand. That’s big money for him.

“He has a wife and three teenage kids in Colombia, and a mistress here with two young children of his. We know he lives in the suburbs outside Paris in the ‘ninety-three’ district. We haven’t narrowed it down yet, but we’re very close.

We think you’ll hear from him again soon.

He doesn’t want you leaving when you get your new passport and slipping through his fingers.

He’s never been violent before that we know of.

He’s been very typical of that kind of thief.

Steal, sell through his usual resources, steal again.

He’s said to live well, and he’s well dressed.

He has a visa for France, which we could revoke and send him back to Colombia when we catch him, or we could keep him here.

He may cooperate with us, which would be simpler.

His brother is a drug dealer who goes between here and Colombia, and a very dangerous man.

He served time in prison in Venezuela and Argentina.

Our man has been involved in anarchist demonstrations and riots, we’ve learned.

Mostly for what he can steal when they break into and loot the high-end luxury stores.

He’s a real pro, and he only steals important brands.

“I think we need to wait for him now, until he contacts you again, and see what he says. I think he’ll suggest a meeting and a price.”

“And then what?” Halley asked.

“It depends what he says, and how badly you want your bag back. Of course, we would go to any rendezvous and intercept him. And if we get information on him before that, we’ll arrest him, and hopefully he’ll still have the bag, unless someone offers him a lot of money first. But I think he’ll assume you’re his best client, thinking it has sentimental or personal value for you. For now, we wait and see what he does.”

“I’ll see what we can dig up on him too,” Bern Dexter said. He looked like he approved of everything the major and his department were doing, and what they had found out. They had a wealth of information about Maduro.

The meeting broke up after that, and Bart took Halley home. He was having dinner with his son and daughter-in-law that night, at a restaurant with their friends. He enjoyed joining them, and Halley was going to work on her book some more and have a quiet night at home.

He dropped her off with a quick kiss, promising to call her later and went back to Ryan’s apartment.

—

Peter was bringing Savannah and Sophia to visit Olivia at her studio that afternoon.

They were spending a week with their father after he got back from St. Bart’s.

He’d been busy with them, and hadn’t seen Olivia since they got back.

She couldn’t wait for him to be free again.

He had only suggested the meeting with the girls the night before.

Sophia had had a cold for two days and was out of sorts.

Savannah had had sleepovers with friends, and he hadn’t wanted to overwhelm Olivia with additional kids.

The stars had lined up perfectly for their meeting that day.

She was nervous about it, and had bought pastries and cookies for them, and she was going to serve them pink lemonade.

Peter had briefed Olivia about the girls’ preferences and warned her that Sophia was allergic to nuts, so Olivia was careful about what she bought.

Sophia was four and Savannah was six. She was missing her front teeth and had red hair, and Sophia had dark hair and eyes like her father.

Olivia watched them get out of his SUV in front of her house.

They were both in booster seats in the back, and were laughing and talking when they got out.

Peter held their hands as they walked through the garden to the kitchen.

Olivia was standing in the doorway, smiling when they walked in.

She devoured Peter with her eyes, she had missed him, and he kissed her chastely, but with a hand on her bottom, which his daughters didn’t see.

She was wearing paint-splattered jeans with a pink sweater and pink ballet flats, with her blond hair in a braid down her back.

He introduced the girls, and they eyed the cupcakes and cookies and miniature eclairs on a big plate on the kitchen table, and the two pink balloons she had tied to each chair to make it look more festive.

“Is it your birthday?” Savannah asked her.

“No, is it yours?” Olivia asked her, and Savannah shook her head solemnly. “Is it Sophia’s?” Sophia laughed and squealed “Noooo!” “Then we’ll just have to have a regular old every day party. How about that?” Both girls giggled.

“Why do you have paint on your pants?” Savannah asked her, looking her over carefully.

“Because I paint paintings. Do you want to see them?” She had nothing else of interest to show them.

She didn’t have dolls or toys or children of her own for them to play with, or even a dog, which put her in the category of boring.

She led them into the studio, and they stared at the paintings, puzzled.

“There are no people, just shapes,” Sophia said. “That one is a red circle, and that one’s a blue square,” she identified them.

“And over here there are four orange triangles with a big purple splatter,” Olivia said, showing where some of the purple paint had landed on her pants. “I got some on my shoe that day too.” The girls laughed.

“Our mom gets mad if we get paint on our clothes.”

“Mine used to too. Now all my clothes have paint on them, so it doesn’t matter.” She smiled at Peter, and he melted. She was being so sweet to his girls, and he knew she’d been nervous about it. She called him a dozen times to ask for advice before they came.