Darling Boy

Scene 7

Joe accompanied MacLeod to the police station, despite the fact that he had work to do at his own place. MacLeod was his assignment and he didn't want to miss anything. Methos, to Joe's surprise, declined to accompany them. He said it would help Neal more if he did some research.

The police station hummed with activity. Crowds of people milled about, trying to find the right official to speak to. Joe took the opportunity to track Rousseau's movements through the bureaucracy, and learned that his manager had already finished his report and left. Joe hoped he had returned to the unguarded bar.

Finding MacLeod again was not difficult; the Highlander stood taller than the general population. Joe joined him where he stood speaking to a severe looking young woman in ugly glasses. She looked familiar.

"No, Mr. MacLeod," she was saying, with the strict tones of a hall monitor catching a truant student, "Starkweather is in isolation. No one sees him tonight. And tomorrow, only his advocate, if he has one."

Joe could tell by the Highlander's body language that he was bringing his seductive skills to bear on the problem of ingratiating himself with the young woman.

"He will have one," MacLeod declared. "But, Inspector Boudet ... is 'Inspector' your first name, by the way?"

"It is to you. Now, I am very busy ..."

Crash and burn.

Joe tried to join them surreptitiously, but his gait alone called attention to him.

To his surprise, the woman glanced at him, and then her eyes widened in what could only be recognition. Darn it, where did Joe know her from?

"Of course you are," MacLeod was saying, "I can see that. When my friend Richard was in your custody, I admired your professionalism and your compassion. I know you would understand how a young man in Starkweather's position must feel."

So that's where Joe knew her from; she had arrested Richie. Odd though; Joe had seen little of her during that incident.

"I'm sure he feels very angry to have been caught," she replied, not taking her gaze from Joe.

MacLeod turned to see what she was looking at, and nodded to Joe. "Inspector Boudet, this is ..."

"Mr. Joe Dawson," she said with warmth, extending her hand.

Joe took it in some surprise. "Inspector ... have we met?"

"Jacqueline, please. I have been to your establishment many times, for the pleasure of hearing you sing."

"Well, thank you." Joe threw MacLeod a glance. "I'm sorry we didn't meet. You should come again soon. Not tonight, though; I may not be open. Someone broke into my place and stole my computer."

"Oh? And have we sent a detachment to investigate?"

"It was considered too minor a burglary."

Boudet's expression darkened. "Is that what they told you? Accept my apologies, Mr. Dawson. We'll have someone over to Le Blues Bar right away."

"I appreciate it," Joe said. "Call me Joe, please." He couldn't resist flashing a triumphant look at the mute Highlander beside him.

Boudet excused herself to go and speak to a uniformed officer.

MacLeod looked at him.

Joe stared straight ahead.

"Ah, Joe, remember we're here to try to talk to Neal?" MacLeod said.

Joe put up a reassuring hand. "It's under control, MacLeod."

Boudet returned. "They'll come by this afternoon," she said. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" She asked Joe; MacLeod she only gave a passing glance.

"Actually, we're here about Neal Starkweather. Can you tell me what he's charged with?"

"I really can't discuss it in any detail," she said with apparent regret. "He is a friend of yours?"

"Er, yes."

"I'm afraid your friend is looking at a very long stay in prison. He is charged with the theft of a Pissaro from the Louvre. You may have seen it in the media."

"What evidence do you have to charge him with?" MacLeod asked.

Boudet gave him an extremely cold look, and replied, "I am not at liberty to say. You will have to read about it in the newspaper like everyone else."

"MacLeod," Joe put in, before the Highlander could respond. "Why don't you give Adam a call and find out what he's learned?"

MacLeod tightened his lips, but yielded. "All right," he said. "Excuse me." He moved away and took out his cell phone.

"Jacqueline," Joe said, "any time you come to my place, you find me, and I'll be sure you don't pay for your drinks."

Boudet removed her glasses, revealing a model-pretty face and bone structure. She smiled at Joe. "This wouldn't be a bribe would it?"

"Not at all, not at all. What club owner doesn't want the police in his place? The drinks are mine; I can give them to anyone I like."

"Do you give free drinks to Mr. MacLeod?"

"Him? No way. He pays."

Boudet grinned broadly, and Joe grinned back. His heart made a funny thumping squeeze inside his rib cage.

Boudet replaced her glasses and sighed. "We found the Pissaro under Mr. Starkweather's bed where he is staying on the Cartier estate. He must have had inside accomplices, for I doubt he could have broken into the vault in Restorations without help. If he cooperates and names his accomplice, he may get a lighter sentence. Otherwise, there is not much to be done for him. The courts take a dim view of art theft."

Joe's thoughts raced. What was the boy mixed up in? Had he stolen Darling Boy as well? Was the one beneath his bed the fake or the cleaned off Darling Boy? Joe realized his ignorance was a stumbling block. He didn't know how difficult the clean-up would be. Both paintings had only been missing for twelve hours or so.

"What made you suspect him?"

"We had a tip," she answered, simply.

A tip. Interesting.

"Jacqueline," Joe said, hoping he wasn't making matters worse, "I don't know what Neal has told you, but MacLeod and I have reason to believe that the painting stolen from the Louvre might have been a forgery."

At this, and possibly because the Highlander returned to their little group, Boudet retreated behind a flawless poker face, giving Joe no idea of what she was thinking.

"Did Adam learn anything, Mac?" Joe asked.

"Not yet. He said he'll call. Inspector, have you heard Starkweather's story?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss this with you. You will excuse me." With a genial nod at Joe, she suited action to her words, and moved away, toward the guarded hallways which, Joe assumed, housed the cells.

"I see you didn't sweet talk 'Jacqueline' into letting us in to see Neal," MacLeod said.

"Never figured you for a sore loser, MacLeod."

Joe had not stopped watching Boudet and now he saw her upbraiding a plainclothesman who had some duty associated with the guarded hallway. Beside him, just emerging from the hall, was a beautiful young woman with beacon bright red hair.

"Mac! That's Madeleine. She's been in to see him."

Under normal circumstances, Joe would not have had a chance of keeping up with the Highlander as they hurried over to the cells, but the crowd which impeded MacLeod parted for Joe, and they arrived together.

"Inspector!" Madeleine was saying. She dabbed at the tears which streamed down her fair face. "Please do not blame him. I played on his sympathies. He was very kind."

"She is his fiancée," the man protested. "I stayed with them the whole time."

"She is nothing of the sort!" bellowed a portly, middle-aged man who emerged from a second guarded hallway. His clothes were very well-cut, and what remained of his wispy hair was a faded hue of Madeleine's scarlet mane.

"I don't care if she was the Magdalen," Boudet said, still to the plainclothesman.

"I am his fiancée!" Madeleine declared. "We are engaged. I am not marrying Girard, Papa; you might as well get used to it."

"You think you'll marry that thieving worm? Enjoy your wedding night with him in prison!"

"M. Pouchet," Boudet asked. "The painting?"

"Yes, yes. That's it, all right. Where do I sign?"

A uniformed officer slid some paperwork along the counter. Pouchet signed the top form with a flamboyant flourish.

Madeleine spotted Joe. "M. Dawson!" she called.

Boudet turned and eyed the two arrivals with something less than pleasure. Or else, Joe thought, she was still angry with the plainclothesman.

Madeleine came forward, through the door in the counter, both hands held out to Joe. Joe balanced carefully so that he could take them in both his own hands.

"M. Dawson, Neal is innocent! He had nothing to do with this! My father will not believe it, and the police found a stolen painting beneath his bed."

Joe patted her hands awkwardly. "Madeleine, we're going to do everything we can to help him."

She realized then, that Joe was not alone, and looked politely at MacLeod. Joe saw the effect the Highlander had so often on women strike her, and she blinked through her tears.

"This is Duncan MacLeod," Joe said. Something about holding the gloved hands of an elegant Frenchwoman made him more formal than usual, and he completed the introduction. "Duncan MacLeod, meet Mademoiselle Madeleine Pouchet."

Madeleine swiftly produced a handkerchief from her pocketbook, wiped her eyes, and held out her hand, gloved palm down.

MacLeod took it and bowed slightly over her hand.

"M. MacLeod. Such a pleasure to meet you. May I say how sorry I am that we have all lost Tessa Noel. Her work had such passion and beauty. She must have been an extraordinary woman."

MacLeod looked understandably surprised. "She was. Thank you."

Joe, too, was impressed, since he knew for a fact that Madeleine had first heard of Tessa yesterday, at Shakespeare and Co.

"You are, I believe, the celebrated owner of Darling Boy."

"I was," MacLeod said, with a glance at Joe. "I'm afraid it was stolen last night."

This news had an extraordinary effect on her. Joe saw her flushed face lose all color, making her skin a ghostly contrast to her firey hair.

"Madeleine!" called her father. "We're going."

The girl might not have heard. She stared at MacLeod, unmoving.

MacLeod frowned. "Madeleine, is there anything you can tell us?"

"Madeleine!" Pouchet swooped in without a glance at his daughter's companions, and took her by the arm.

Joe's last view of her as she and her father exited the station, was of her pale face looking back at them.

"Hmm," said MacLeod thoughtfully, but before Joe could ask him what he was thinking, MacLeod's cell phone rang. He spoke on it for a few moments, while Joe searched, for no real reason, for a glimpse of the trim form of Inspector Boudet.

MacLeod put the phone away. "Well, that explains why Pouchet was here," he said. "Identifying the Rue du Village for the police?"

"Why? Why him?'

"He's the one who brought the Rue du Village forward to the world two years ago, from an undisclosed source."

Joe caught his breath.

"Where did he get it?" Joe asked.

"He doesn't have to say," MacLeod replied. "It's not uncommon for war booty to be turned over anonymously. It might not reflect well on the owner."

"So how do they know it's genuine?"

"Usually they get a team of appraisers, experts in that particular artist, to come to a consensus. That's not what Pouchet did. He relied on a single, highly respected appraiser, and his word was considered sufficient. Guess who."

"Not Delanoye."

"You got it."

"So, if they knew the real one existed, they would have to get a hold of it," Joe said. "Would they destroy it? The real thing?"

"They may have already."

"Mac, Darling Boy is the only proof Neal has of his story. They set him up."

"If they think they can sell it to a collector somewhere, there's a chance they still have it. Let's go, Joe. We don't need to talk to Neal anymore."

"We don't?"

"I wanted to ask him again who he had talked to about the Pissaro under Darling Boy."

"He said no one. It was a family secret."

"Remember lovers, Joe? When he said 'no one' he wasn't counting his girlfriend."