The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(41)

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The San Remo, like the Dakota, is an amazing building. The San Remo was built in 1930. It has turrets and dormers and towers, grande dame stature, and tight security. We were going to love it.

A half hour later, when Philippe opened the front door to our new home, I was overwhelmed with happy memories. Our old UFO chandelier was hanging in the foyer, and I hoped it was connected to the doorbell, as it had been in the past.

I could see through the foyer to the living room. Our red leather sofa was there, as were the Pork Chair and Robert, a life-sized sculpture of a man watching TV and drinking a beer. Robert had been with us forever. He was like an old friend.

Hugo asked, “Our stuff was sold, Phil. How did you get it back?”

“Well, you little ruffians are back in the money,” he said. “I tracked down the purchaser, overpaid, and voilà.”

“Robert! Yo,” said Hugo. “Voi-freaking-là.”

Hugo trotted off in search of his new room, and Harry sat down at his white-winged piano, which we called Pegasus, and played his brilliant “Montmartre” for Philippe.

Jacob made a list and then ordered in from our favorite restaurant, Shun Lee West. I called C.P. several times, and each time, my call went to voice mail.

“C.P., it’s me! We’re home. All of us. Please call me. Or better yet, come over.”

I gave her the address, and when the UFO chandelier tootled out the theme song from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I was sure C.P. had arrived. But Matty came through the door.

Oh my God. It was so great to see him.

Our big brother looked fantastic—in fact, better than ever. He hugged and kissed all of us, even Philippe, who wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said to our mountainous big brother, “Please, don’t ever do that again.”

We all cracked up.

I had a few sober minutes with Matty before Hugo inserted himself with football questions. Hugo continued to glue himself to his hero as we partied on exotic Chinese dishes. Then, as the festivities continued, Jacob and I carried plates into the kitchen.

“Tandy, at my request, Philippe has hired an investigator. I’ve used this firm before.”

“An investigator? What for?”

“His name is Kenny Chang, and he is the best in the city. He’s coming here in the morning with a report for us on a ‘person of interest.’ I gave him the assignment a week ago.”

And that was all Jacob would say. I prayed it wasn’t about Katherine. Her secret had to stay safely hidden.

When I went to my bedroom, I saw that the view was a lot like the one from my old room in the Dakota. I stood by myself and watched the sun slide down behind the tall trees of Central Park’s Ramble.

We were home. And, of course, I had questions.

First one: Who was this “person of interest”? And what was the private detective going to tell us?





I was dressed in new clothes and ready to meet the private investigator at nine the next morning. I fretted. I hurried slowpokes along. And when the UFO chandelier rang out, I went to the door.

Mr. Chang was about six feet tall and had slicked-back hair. He was dressed in a good gray suit, wore pricey shoes, and had a strong handshake. Along with all that cool appearance, he had a surprisingly warm smile.

I offered coffee, which he turned down, and a few minutes later, Hugo, Harry, Uncle Jacob, Mr. Chang, and I were assembled in the living room.

Mr. Chang wasn’t carrying a briefcase, and he had no notes. That was because his report was brief.

He said, “Our assignment was to locate Mr. James Rampling. We found him not far from here, enrolled and living on the campus of the Jefferson School in Clayton, New York.”

I gasped, and my jaw dropped open. I was entirely shocked. There were so many layers to this statement, I couldn’t grasp it at first. James was here? Not in a mysterious school in Europe, but here in New York?

Does he still love me?

“I want to see him,” I said.

Jacob said, “You only wanted to know what happened to him, Tandy. And now you know.”

“Okay, and now that I know, I want to see him.”

Mr. Chang was saying, “I have a man downstairs. If you want, he can drive you to Mr. Rampling’s address.”

I turned to Jacob, who said, “Let’s just keep some surveillance on him. That would be wise, Tandy.”

I nodded. It would be wise. If James wanted to find me, there were ways. Jacob was right, but when had the wise thing ever won out over the reckless pursuit of the one you love?

And I did still love James. I hadn’t stopped.

My brothers were asking to come along for the drive, but I wasn’t having it.

“I’m going,” I said, “alone. Clayton is an hour away. I’ll keep my phone on and I’ll be back by lunchtime.”

I got my phone and my keys and then said to Mr. Chang, “I’m ready to go.”





Against Jacob’s wishes but with his permission, the driver from Private drove us north in a slick blue Lincoln Town Car. Anton was a man of about thirty, crisply turned out, almost military style. He asked me only two questions: Did I want music and did I have a preferred route?

“No music, thank you, and the fastest route there is.”

I turned my face to the window and watched as we took the Henry Hudson, glided past the George Washington Bridge, crossed the Harlem River into Riverdale, and headed for the Saw Mill River Parkway.