For Anna…Always

TELL THE BEES…

Clarice grabbed what evidence she deemed useful to them and placed it in her shopping bag— a large Yves St Laurent market bag large enough for her needs. Designer, but functional enough to use while shopping without drawing too much attention to itself, and, by extension, Clarice. She worked quickly, measuring, cutting and assembling a false bottom to the bag with cardboard from a clean pastry box.

"Is there a point to shaping it so much like the actual box?" Ardelia asked.

"It needs to pass a cursory inspection, just in case someone gets a peek inside. We'll need to stop at the bakery to get another box to sit atop this one— one that has actual pastry, though."

Ardelia followed her train of thought. "I'm guessing croissants for the old man?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Just a little token of Southern hospitality coming from a woman with solid home-training. That's what we call etiquette back where I'm from."

"That's what we call bullshit where I'm from," Ardelia teased with a chuckle. They began clearing out the evidence. Clarice stuffed some papers beneath the false bottome, pointing to others. She didn't specify what she wanted, but knew Ardelia would understand.

Without a word between them, Ardelia began clearing the evidence Clarice had obviously deemed unnecessary. Stuffing it all into a large paper bag. They'd be burning it, so best to keep it organized. She laughed as she took off her surgical gloves and stuffed them into the bag. "Home-training, huh?" Palms up, she wiggled her fingers in a sort of modified "jazz hands"display. "Never go to someone's house empty-handed, is that it?"

Clarice laughed. "Yup. That's it." She removed her gloves, tossing them into the paper bag on top of the pair discarded by Ardelia.

As Ardelia taped the parcel closed with masking tape, Clarice asked, "What do you think? Raise any suspicions at a quick glance?"

"Hold it like you would in a store and I'll check." Ardelia walked around Clarice as she held the bag casually by her side. "Everything looks copacetic. All we have to worry about is whether the baker has croissants and what your hubby might have left behind."

"It's Paris. There are always croissants." Clarice gathered the room key and her purse, tucking it into the larger bag slung over her shoulder. "There's nothing to worry about where H is concerned. If he'd have left anything incriminating, he would've told me. I know it seems suspicious, but he's just teasing me. You know H. That's just his intellectual vanity talking out loud. If he doesn't feel as if he's a step or two, or ten ahead of the rest of the world, he'd be disappointed in himself."

Ardelia, not as confident in Hannibal's motivations as Clarice, shrugged her shoulders. "He didn't warn you about that dinner party you were "invited" to attend with Paul Krendler. Krendler was an idiot— an easy kill. Low-hanging fruit, if you ask me. That wasn't intellectual vanity. It was sadism— without the sexual gratification component, of course."

"Of course. And I never said he didn't get Karmic satisfaction tormenting dullards, Dee. He's been watching Popil dancing on strings like a little puppet for weeks. H could have slit his throat and left him at the cemetery, but he hasn't. I don't even think he wants him dead, but I'm not naïve enough to think he doesn't want to see him suffer. Hannibal suffered at his hands. Popil is a very large part of the reason Lady Murasaki rejected him. That pain isn't something H has forgotten. And stealing the omamori from the grave? It was more than rude— it was a shot across the bow. Hannibal won't ignore that. He'll want his pound of flesh in whatever form that takes."

Ardelia, laughing at her own wit, teased, "It'll probably take the form of an actual pound of flesh. The real question is, who's cooking it?"

Clarice rolled her eyes. This would have been the part where she said, 'don't be a wiseass, H, but she wasn't with him. Her mind, however, hadn't left him. Nor had her heart. "I don't give a good damn if Popil marches past and Hannibal takes a slice right off him, as long as he doesn't get caught. If you're stupid enough to go into the lion's den, you get the lion. End of." Clarice turned toward the door, then paused, one hand on the doorknob and the other toting the necessary evidence hidden within her woven shopping bag. Clarice reached into her purse and, ignoring the burner phone, removed her personal cell phone from her purse. She rang Popil's home phone number. She wanted a record of that call to be part of the evidence. "No answer. He must be out doing whatever he thinks he can to incriminate Hannibal."

"That, or his apartment is starting to stink of dead man."

"Likely." As if an afterthought, Clarice reached onto the table for the pencil she'd taken from Popil's desk. The one she'd used to dust graphite across the journal page. She also reached for the torn page with the practice handwriting she'd dusted with the shavings.

"Thought you were leaving that here? Just in case you needed it to turn up later." Ardelia half-spoke and half-questioned. "I mean, it has Hannibal's name all over it. I wouldn't bring it along. Practice or not, they'll pull him in for interrogation until they can rule him out."

Ignoring Ardelia's protestations, Clarice tucked them in her bag. "Trust me, Hannibal's seen this note so whatever happens he's prepared for that eventuality. No sense hiding it. There will be micro-particles of graphite left within the pages of the binding. Leaving the pencil and torn paper with the journal can only help. I don't have to explain why it's been dusted. He's an investigator, too. He might be checking to see what evidence needs to be destroyed before he finishes carrying out whatever sick plan he has in mind. Come on. I'll buy you an espresso either at, or on the way to the bakery."

"Doesn't anyone make regular coffee anymore?" Ardelia complained as she tucked the evidence bag behind a cabinet in the kitchenette.

"I'm sure we can find you a cup of crappy coffee somewhere, don't worry."

They left the hotel, stopping off at the bakery for the croissants and some pastry, boxed nicely in the same cardboard pastry box she'd used to create the false bottom. "As they waited, they discussed Clarice's illness and the fact that Hannibal was out with the children. Not that they needed to chat about it, but they were creating a timeline and a bulletproof alibi for Hannibal. People listened, unavoidable when stuck in a line.

"I'm feeling much better, thankfully. Lord knows Hannibal will be exhausted by the time he gets home. I'll be on kid-duty the rest of the night."

Ardelia played along. "The Louvre with two children in tow? It's not for the faint-hearted parent, that's for sure. He'll be chasing them everywhere."

Several patrons continued to listen carefully, several staying even beyond paying for their items. They milled around the glass cases as if shopping for additional items. Clarice watched them from her periphery. Typical Parisians. Attractive. Polite. Though aloof on the outside, they were hanging on her every word. "He's not actually alone."

"I know. Logan's gone with."

"I also booked a treasure hunt for them— a sort of scavenger activity. Meet the Locals for Families has a Mary Poppins team. They organize private tours of the Louvre for families. They have booklets and activities. Things to get the kids all fired up as they explore Egyptian mythology, Greek Latin Antiques and Italian Art. They'll love it. Hannibal on the other hand…well he'll hate it, but that's the sort of thing dads have to do. Take one for the team now and then when mama bear is feeling a little under the weather."

Ardelia agreed, "True…all true."

Clarice paid for her pastries, then asked the server at the counter, "Do you know Inspector Pascal Popil? I've met him here once or twice. He comes in daily, from what he's told me."

The server paused, staring hard as if trying to determine Clarice's motivations. Possibly determining she posed no threat, she nodded, but didn't elaborate. Clarice continued, "I'm only asking because he and I have become friendly and I was not able to contact him yesterday or today. I was hoping maybe he'd come in?"

The server shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen him in a day or two…perhaps three. We were all talking about it earlier. Before this week, he hadn't missed a day in years."

Clarice and Ardelia shared a moment of faux-concern before Clarice turned back toward the server. "I'm going to check in on him now. Hopefully he's just been too busy with his wife's care to return calls. If I see him, I'll let you know. Thank you."

"That's kind of you. Thank you." The person smiled and moved on to the next customer.

Clarice and Ardelia left the shop, walking side-by-side through the streets of Paris toward Popil's neighborhood. It wasn't far. Before long, they were at the apartment. The pair approached the door.

"You sure about this, Clarice? We have no idea where Popil is, or what Hannibal's done in there. Once we go inside, there's no going back. Cameras, you know?" Ardelia gripped Clarice's forearm, continuing to stare at the main door to Popil's apartment. "Look. That apartment, so far, is as non-descript as any Parisian residence. No one would suspect what's been going on inside up 'til now. You and Hannibal can just leave and take your family to Lithuania. Popil will have no one here to blame but himself and no one would be any wiser until that body starts to stink, which will be very, very soon."

"Oh, I'm sure it stinks to high heaven by now." She reached into her pocket and tugged out a small travel container no larger than a quarter. "Vicks Vaporub. Does more than help with colds." Clarice tucked it back into her pocket and stepped off the sidewalk. Confidently navigating the busy street, she strode across the avenue with resolve, glancing backward only to confirm that Ardelia was still following. They dodged pedestrians and vehicles alike to reach the safety of the sidewalk. They reached the curb and stood together staring at the front door.

"Moment of truth, Clarice. We can still walk away."

Clarice shook her head. "There's no walking away from this. That bastard will follow H to the ends of the earth to settle this vendetta. Popil has only one goal. To kill Hannibal and/or pin all of this on him. That's bad enough, but H has a goal, too. To continue his cat-and-mouse shenanigans until Popil is dead, disgraced, or both. He's having too much fun with this, Dee, or he wouldn't have written that note to me. He knows I miss the Bureau. He knows I love the chase."

"And he was your greatest chase. The hunt you loved most of all."

"That's true. I can't deny it."

He's always with me…like a bad habit.

"You're sure you want this?"

"I'm sure. He can't be the only one who takes chances in our relationship. If we're going to keep this family together, it's going to take teamwork."

Ardelia sighed. "So, I guess it's your turn at bat?"

"Yeah, but H is always on deck in the cleanup spot in case I need him." Clarice tapped her finger to the tip of her nose. "He wants me to have a little fun, but make no mistake he also wants me to see how clever he is. His intellectual vanity is as much a part of his personality as that cocky little head-tilt he does when he's ever-so-pleased with himself."

With a smile on her face and a gentle tone— one someone might use when discussing an upstart child, Ardelia noted, "He can be a cocky little bastard, can't he?"

"It isn't undeserved. He's a genius— there's no denying it and I don't mind indulging it. In fact, I go out of my way to encourage it."

Clarice began walking up the stairs to upper landing. Ardelia rushed ahead of Clarice, blocking her from ascending the stairs to the foyer's entrance. "Why the hell would you encourage him?"

"Because when he's showing off, he leaves a trail of breadcrumbs for me that practically glow in the damned dark. Clues to show what he's done, but in such a way that only I can see his handiwork. Otherwise, I'd be chasing my tail wondering what he's done and what he knows. He's honest, but he's not necessarily forthcoming, you know? He's too much of a tease to not to obfuscate things. We know he's gotten inside the apartment at some point and that he's taken a key. That's enough to go on when we get inside."

Clarice and Ardelia walked up the stairs making no effort to conceal who they were. Not that her friend was nervous, she was far too experienced to be too put off, but Clarice noted that Ardelia was on alert. As Ardelia stood beside Clarice on the threshold of the entrance, as if checking off items on a list, she asked, "Okay, so we get inside and the first thing we do is check the all doors?"

"Once we get inside the first thing we're doing is calling the police." Clarice knocked firmly, waiting a reasonable amount of time to confirm Popil was not at home. When she was certain he would not be coming to the door, she responded, "Make sure we check not only the doors, but the rooms, as well. We need to see what's different, you know? Hannibal made changes to the scene. We need to know what they are so we'll know how to react."

I don't know if that's such a good idea, Clarice," Ardelia partially covered her mouth, whispering into her palm so as not to be overheard, "I mean, your husband sure does know how to complicate things. This should have been an easy in-and-out. Now it's a deep-sea fishing expedition. I'm just here to make sure you're not the bait."

Clarice reached into her purse, sorting around for the key. "Hannibal's already made sure of that. Trust me." Clarice clutched the makeshift key fully in her fist, but didn't lift it from her purse. Instead, she paused to think. "You know what…he wouldn't have complicated things…not for me, anyway. He'd make it easier, I'm sure."

Easier. Just as she said it the door began to sway enough for Clarice to see it was not only unlocked, it was left open. Clarice let the key fall to the bottom of her bag and reached for the handle, but before she could grip the knob, the door gently creaked open. "Easy. See what I mean?"

"It better not be so easy we find a dead Popil in the kitchen." Ardelia stepped forward and craned her neck to peek inside. "Do you think this is the key he took?"

"Doubtful. He knows I have access to this door. It has to be another one." She thought for a moment. "We documented everything. I don't need more than five minutes to get this evidence organized inside. How long do you think it will take the Paris police to respond to a call? From the time of the call to the actual arrival on scene?"

Ardelia thought for a moment, neither woman moving from the spot on the landing just outside the open door to Popil's apartment building. "No more than five minutes. We aren't far from a precinct and he's a well-known war hero. They'll respond quickly. Law enforcement takes care of their own. You know that."

"That was never my experience, but I'm sure things are different here. What do you think?"

"We could call it in as a medical emergency…or a terrorist threat. Depends on whether or not you want to play stupid— pretend we accidentally called the wrong reporting number."

"I don't play stupid very well. I look suspicious as hell when I'm trying to dumb myself down." Clarice took out her phone. "I know they have a bunch of them, but what's the standard emergency number here? You know…the French version of 911?"

"If you played stupid well, Jack Crawford would've told you what his motives were when you went to talk to Hannibal in the first place." Ardelia responded, "so, yeah…best to just call the right one. Let's see…they have at least eleven numbers I'm aware of— what do you think? We can call the general European number— they'd have someone who could speak English, or should we call the commissariat de police and get the locals on it?"

Clarice looked up the street and back down again. People moved past them without notice, but they couldn't afford to stand outside too much longer. Soon they'd draw suspicion. "The gendarmerie? That might be our best bet. Hard to look like a couple of rubes when we both did this for a living."

Ardelia checked the surroundings as well. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Speaking of rubes, if you think you're fluent enough to handle it, you can call number 17— that'll get you the police department dispatch. Prepare to speak French, though. They might have someone who can sort out English, but I wouldn't go into it expecting that. It's not the European number. You sure about this?"

Clarice shifted the bag slung over her shoulder, pressed the palm of her right hand squarely on the center of the door, and pushed it opened. "As sure as I am that the traffic camera across the street doesn't have an angle on us right now, and none of the 300+ CCTV cameras located in Paris are on this street. It's not a high crime location, nor is it an area terrorists might target, so no need for additional surveillance." She entered the building.

Ardelia stood on the landing for a moment or two, then followed Clarice into the building. "Why the hell would they need surveillance if you're going to announce your presence to them."

"Because we want to draw attention to us. The only way the cops can put us here is if we put us here. Calling not only documents that Popil not at home, but it proves that H isn't here, either. I want them to know what time we arrived. Can't be accused of something we haven't done if we're inviting them in, can we?" Clarice bounded up the stairs as gracefully in her heels as she ever had in sneakers. "We'll call from inside the house. I've got it all organized. I'll just put out the evidence while I'm speaking with the dispatcher, or whomever picks up the phone."

Ardelia followed, hopping over the threshold and dashing up the stairs in close pursuit. "Okay, but what if we can't find out what we need to know before they get there?"

"H knows me. He'll know how to make something visible to me, but invisible to anyone else. Hey, while I'm on the phone with the police, can you have some of the assets around here look for Popil? That thing Hannibal mentioned, Amende Honorable. He must have gotten it from the note, but he was more specific. That's got to be the linchpin to this entire thing."

Ardelia, ever playing devil's advocate, countered, "Popil is a Nazi hunter. I don't care how old he is he's no dummy."

"Nazi hunter? He didn't chase Hitler from his bunker, for God's sake, he rounded up a few of the locals who collaborated with the German occupation. And I'm not saying that to underestimate him, but to point out that while Popil is smart, he's an opportunist. He used the men whose executions he oversaw to further his own personal reputation and he's trying to do the same thing with Hannibal. It didn't work all those years ago, and it's not going to work now. That blind ambition he had in the forties and fifties isn't enough. His age, his infirmities, and his venomous hatred of Hannibal has compromised his decision-making skills. He's not getting over on us. Not while I draw breath."

While Ardelia worked her contacts, Clarice walked down the hallway to make sure the bedroom door was locked when the police arrived. She gasped, waiting for Ardelia to be between calls before speaking, "This isn't the doorknob that was here before."

Ardelia glanced at it. "Looks like it to me."

"Looks like it to me, too, but there's something different. Something H left for me. Can you see make out what it is?"

Ardelia approached the door, perusing the knob and lock assembly. She tugged a small braided cord from around the doorknob. "What's this?"

"It's the cord from the omamori. They pouch Popil stole from the grave. Hannibal marked this door." Clarice reached into her bag, tugging a handkerchief from it. She tested the knob. It was locked. "Whatever he's done, it's inside that room. He locked that door and took the key, so it's obvious he doesn't want anyone seeing it, or tampering with it. Popil included. I imagine that's why Popil took off. He'd know Hannibal wanted revenge. No way he'd wait around. Especially knowing Hannibal had already paid a visit, likely while Popil was sleeping."

Ardelia handed the small cord to Clarice. "We'll just pretend you had this all along, okay? I don't want Hannibal thinking I defiled his aunt in any way. Call me crazy, but I like staying on his good side. Should we call the cops now?"

"Yeah, that's probably our next move. Everything is set up on my end. Hannibal did whatever Hannibal does. The rest is up to Popil, I guess. Give me a hand with the rest of the evidence, will you?"

Ardelia and Clarice unpacked the croissants and finished planting the evidence she'd removed. None of it had been compromised, nor had anything been changed. She was simply returning it all to the owner. She thought of how H would handle it. Inspired, she began setting it up in a way that was almost operatic in its presentation. Building a story from set pieces she was creating with the information Popil provided. As soon as she constructed the scene, she dialed the number 17. The moment the dispatcher answered, in near-perfect French, Clarice identified herself and her location. She then went on to explain, "I've come to perform a wellness check and…to be honest, the bedroom door is locked and…well…there's a terrible smell. One that leads me to believe there may be someone who is gravely ill, or worse. Can you send someone out to complete a wellness check? I'd go into the bedroom, but I believe it's locked and Inspector Popil is an older gentleman. It would be uncomfortable to find him in any position that could be compromising. Yes, I'll wait here and direct the officers when they arrive. Thank you."

"Did they freak when they heard your last name?" Ardelia asked with a chuckle.

Clarice couldn't help but laugh. "There was a gasp, not gonna lie."

Ardelia and Clarice moved down the hallway, away the bedroom door. Ardelia asked, "What do we do while we wait?"

Clarice shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. We can't exactly make coffee and set out the pastry. The entire apartment smells like death and there's a humming sound coming from the room I can't quite put a finger on. Regardless, they'll be here soon. A couple of minutes has already passed."

Ardelia nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right." Shifting her weight back and forth from one leg to the other, she rocked nervously from side to side.

Clarice noticed. "Don't act so anxious. They'll pick up on it."

"Sorry. I'm not normally on this side of the law."

"Very funny." Suddenly Clarice turned and ran down the hallway. "Damn it. I almost forgot."

She used the same handkerchief to remove the torn paper she'd dusted with graphite. Crumbling it, she tucked it in the trash bin beside Popil's desk, covering it with mail he'd shredding and tossed. She took a scissor from the desk and began shaving the tip over the trash until she'd accumulated enough graphite to make it seem he'd dusted the note. She then placed the pencil in a cup on his desk and the handkerchief in her pocket.

Ardelia watched, eyes wide with admiration. "I gotta give it to you, that's actually pretty freaking brilliant. You don't miss a trick."

Clarice smoothed her hands over her hair, making sure not to look frazzled. "Let's hope I didn't."

With that, there was a knock on the door. Ardelia stepped back. "This is all you, my friend."

"Not your monkeys, not your circus?"

"Exactly!"

"Fair enough." Clarice walked to the door, opened it and with a wave of her hand and a graceful step to one side, she offered to the waiting officers, "Thanks for coming out so quickly. Please come in."

They exchanged pleasantries, Clarice introduced Ardelia, explaining their friendship and their relationship with Popil. Clarice made sure to mention the fact that his wife was ill. One officer listened carefully, taking notes. Another questioned, "What prompted your visit to Inspector Popil and what made you call us today?"

Clarice was conscious of her tone and body language, careful to remove any tells that might signal deceit. Calmly, she outlined very specifically, "I normally wouldn't worry if someone doesn't return my calls, but he's very elderly and doesn't get out much. He has one habit. No matter the weather, he goes to the same bakery every day— has been for years, I'm told. I stopped by there today for some pastry and they said they hadn't seen him in days. I'm worried because that, combined with the fact that he hasn't returned any messages or calls, made me suspect he'd fallen ill. I thought I'd find him in bed or holed up on the couch, but there's no sign of him. That, and when we came up to check on Pascal and his wife, we discovered the front door was left open. Not just unlocked. The door actually swung open before I could even knock on the it. His wife is ill. Her bedroom is just down the hall, but the door is locked. We looked around, but there was no key anywhere we could find. He probably has it with him."

Ardelia, having been mostly silent to this point, offered, "Maybe he locked himself inside? If you need a key to get in, maybe we can look around for it? Clarice is just very worried…"

"We don't need a key."

The man exited the apartment, returning with a cylindrical metal object with handles. Clarice recognized it immediately. They'd gone to the car to get a battering ram. The pair positioned themselves far enough apart not to slam each other and began over the ramming the end of it against the door. It took no more than four passes before the lock gave way and the door rattled open from its broken frame. Ardelia turned quickly, as did the officers. Clarice, accustomed to the stench of death, shallowed her breathing, but did not turn from it. The officers went in first, with Clarice and Ardelia following closely behind. As they entered the room, the officers turned to stop them, but it was too late.

There, dead in her bed across from the slaughtered butcher, was Mrs. Popil. Her eyes were open, fixed and unseeing. Skin mottled, without the benefit of a beating heart, her blood had already begun following gravity. It pooled in blackened blotches and looked like deep bruises were forming where her lifeless body settled against the mattress. Her mouth was wide open, almost as if screaming, though death makes muscles lax in that manner. Filled like a pot, honey poured from her mouth and flies had begun gathering at her lips, still glistening with honey. Scrawled in some sort of sticky, honey-black-blood concoction, in what could only be described as a frenzied motion were three words.

Tell The Bees…

Until the next chapter, my friends!

L.H.