The Museum of Mysteries by Steve Berry & M J Rose

Author:Steve Berry & M J Rose [Berry, Steve & Rose, M J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Mystery, MJ Rose, Supernatural, Thrillers, Steve Berry, Fiction
ISBN: 9781948050678
Google: YR2HuAEACAAJ
Amazon: B07DN6R2WT
Barnesnoble: B07DN6R2WT
Goodreads: 40523308
Publisher: Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
Published: 2018-06-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

We drove to an apartment in the 16th Arrondissement that Antoine told me belonged to a friend who’d offered it for a few days. It sat on the second floor of a 19th century classic Belle Epoch dwelling, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlooked a courtyard planted with trees and a knot garden. Antoine’s friend apparently loved books, the walls lined with shelves overflowing with volumes, new and old. Their presence made me miss Cotton even more, who loved nothing more than searching through antique shops and flea markets for rare first editions. Modern furniture offset the traditional moldings, parquet floors, and rugs. It was past lunch time and neither of us had eaten, so from groceries he had in the car we made cheese omelets. Antoine opened a bottle of Sancerre appropriated from the kitchen wine rack. Once the food was ready, we took our plates and glasses and sat down at the dining room table.

“We’re going to have to confront Denton,” he said. “But he’s not going to just open up and admit to what he did. That’s not his nature. Thankfully, he’s something of a braggart.”

“Unlike you?”

“We’re different in so many ways. But he might hint at his plans with the right prompting.”

“To you?”

Antoine shook his head. “Not a chance. To him, I’m the enemy.”

“How well do you know the people in his life? Are there women?”

“He’s gay.”

“Are there men?”

“I’m sure there are quite a few.”

“Anyone that he’s close to?”

Antoine frowned. “I have no idea. We’ve been estranged for a long time.”

“Yet you spoke last week.”

“I had to know if he’d gone after the box.”

“Apparently not.”

He nodded. “Not until yesterday, at least.”

I agreed. Denton Lussac had to be found. And fast. I’d heard Cotton lament many times about involving locals in an operation. Rarely did they prove helpful. But this was not a United States Justice Department mission. And I wasn’t an intelligence agent. Help here would be appreciated. I remembered the card in my pocket Jac L’Etoile had given me with Pierre Marcher’s name and number. I found it and made the call on Nicodème’s cell phone. Marcher answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and who’d recommended him.

“Anything for Jac,” he said. “And she called and said I might hear from you.”

He agreed to meet us within the hour at a local bistro.

The Café Winka.

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