Scene 8

They met Methos and Amanda at one of Amanda's favorite cafes, Aux Villes Du Nord. The rich smell of the Arabic coffee blend and the colorful bustle of the patrons gave Joe an odd feeling of guilt. Here they were enjoying the lovely afternoon while Neal languished in jail. He shook the feeling off.

Amanda glanced around at the glum male faces and announced, "Well, I had a lovely morning, anyway. What's the matter with everyone?" She arranged the large shopping bags by her feet, and crossed her shapely legs beneath the small round table.

"We have a friend who's in jail," MacLeod told her. "I doubt if the police will even investigate Neal's story," he said to the others.

"Why should they?" Joe asked. "Without Darling Boy, he has no proof."

"And if they have any sense," said Methos, "they'll have destroyed Darling Boy by now."

"Mac was thinking they might keep it if they think they can sell it somewhere."

Methos nodded. "But it's hot, hot, hot. They have to get out of the country with it."

"They were very busy last night," Joe said. "How did they do the Louvre?"

"That part's easy," Methos said. "Pouchet's on the Board of Directors."

MacLeod snorted. "Your place probably gave them more trouble, Joe. We need something solid to give the police."

"We could try to talk to the crane operator," said Methos.

"Who?"

"I was thinking about our construction accident. Neal could have been its target."

The waiter entered into the silence that followed, and no one said anything as he cleared away the dishes.

"So they're willing to kill," Joe said when he was gone.

"At least Neal is safe in jail," MacLeod said with a grim expression. "They must have decided that was the best they could do."

"Is this the Neal you thought might have broken in to Joe's place?" Amanda asked.

"Yes, but he's in jail for stealing a Pissaro from the Louvre. He's been set up," MacLeod told her.

"A Pissaro?" asked Amanda. "You mean the forgery of Rue du Village?"

Everyone looked at her.

"How …" MacLeod looked around at the others. "How did you know it was a forgery?"

"Honey, art is my business. I mean, it was my business. You know, I'm legit now."

"But, but …"

"Amanda!"

"It was a friend of mine! I know his work." She shrugged.

Joe glanced at both MacLeod and Methos before they all returned to staring at Amanda.

"A friend?" MacLeod asked. "You know the forger?"

"'Copyist,' please. Forger is such an ugly term."

"Amanda," said Methos, leaning over his coffee cake, "the forger can tell us who commissioned the copy. That's something solid for the police."

"No, that's not a good idea," she said.

"Why not?" demanded MacLeod. "Who is it?"

"Honey," she frowned, "you should let me talk to him."

"Why? Amanda!"

Amanda's glance flicked at Joe, for no apparent reason, and then Joe knew. He even thought he knew who it was. And so would Methos.

"Someone with a long lifeline, eh, Amanda?" Joe asked. "Prone to occasional lightning accidents?"

Amanda gave him an irritated look.

"It's one of us?" MacLeod cried.

Joe could feel the Highlander's ire mounting. MacLeod had very little tolerance for wrongdoing on the part of his fellow immortals.

Amanda widened her eyes at Joe and tipped her head sideways, toward MacLeod.

"Kasoulos," said Methos.

"You know him, too?"

Joe feared MacLeod was about to come out of his seat.

"I make it my business to know all of us in the area. He's minded his own business for a couple of decades, now, I think."

"And his business is forgery."

"No," Amanda said, "he makes copies and sells them. As copies."

"He makes very good copies."

"He's had a lot of practice. Centuries. Duncan, what his clients do with them is their affair."

"Where is he?"

Everyone at the table knew except MacLeod. Fortunately for Joe's piece of mind, it was Methos who gave him the address.

In the end, MacLeod went alone. Joe desperately wanted to "watch," but Methos reminded him that he had only a few hours in which to get his door fixed if he intended to be open tonight. The police were coming, too, Joe remembered. MacLeod would not have minded Methos' company, Joe felt, but Methos remained adamant about staying away from other immortals. Amanda offered to come, but MacLeod absolutely refused. And she yielded rather easily, Joe thought.

"I just want Neal out of jail, MacLeod," Methos said as MacLeod left. "Try not to kill the guy."

"Very funny."

But it wasn't funny. Joe realized that the atmosphere at the table had changed. His own pulse was pounding with the realization that MacLeod was approaching an unknown immortal. Joe had long ago stopped thinking of these three as potential antagonists, but, in reality, every encounter between immortals could turn deadly. Methos' joke had made that explicit, as had his open refusal to go anywhere near Kasoulos. That, Joe was sure, was what was behind MacLeod's refusal to bring Amanda along, and she, too, seemed to be willing to avoid the meeting.

But, as he learned, her motive was somewhat different. As soon as MacLeod was gone, Amanda took out her cell phone and began rooting through her handbag.

"What are you doing, Amanda?" asked Methos.

"If I've got his number … ah! I do."

"Who are you calling?"

"Kasoulos, of course. I did mention we are friends?"

"Amanda," Methos said, "we need him to talk to MacLeod. We need him to talk to the police."

"And we need him not to run when he feels an immortal at his … hello, Lambis? This is Amanda, sweetheart. How are you? Yes? That's marvelous. Listen, my dear, I have a friend coming to see you. I'd really appreciate it if you'd be nice to him. No, he's not business. In fact, he'll be a bit, oh, I guess you could say, hostile to your line of work. What's more, he's, ah, you know, one of us. No, no, Honey, please! He's a dear friend, and he needs your help. Please, Lambis, don't be that way. It's Duncan MacLeod. You know, the man who got old Cartier's collection."

There was a long pause, and Amanda gave Joe and Methos a triumphant grin.

"Oh, Sweetheart, he hasn't released to the press half of what's in that collection. You could work a trade."

Joe's mouth fell open. He looked at Methos, and the other immortal also wore an astonished expression.

"Now don't you dare tell him I told you this, but you could say you'd trade for the chance to copy a Picasso, if he had one. Yes, he does, and no, I'm not telling you which one. No, my lips are sealed. You just say that, hypothetically, if he had one, you'd love the chance to copy it. Yes. Yes, he has two or three of those. Listen, he matters a lot to me, and if you give away that I told you this, I will personally come over and remove the fingers on your painting hand." She smiled sweetly. "I love you, too. Oh, and another thing. If he starts harping on your profession and going on and on about how immoral it is, you just remind him that you're not doing anything illegal, okay? Remember to keep saying you aren't breaking the law. That should shut him up. You aren't doing anything illegal, are you? I mean, something I don't know about? 'Cause if you are, get it out of sight. I mean it. No, I'd better let him explain that. Please help out, Lambis. Besides getting you some fantastic new material, you'll be helping out the course of true love. Hey! I can be romantic. What do you mean? I'm perfectly serious. True Love. You're a peach, Charalambos. You have my number? Call me. Smooches."

She put away her phone and transformed from a woman who said "smooches" into a woman who removed fingers, at need. "Don't either of you dare say anything to Duncan."

"Not a chance," Joe said.

Methos made a zipping motion across his lips, and grinned broadly.