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Louis tugged on my sleeve. We left him, heading back toward the cemetery’s front gate. When we’d gotten out of earshot, I said, “Okay, so what’s his story? What’s that scar on his head?”
“The scar and his story are one and the same,” Louis replied sadly.
The Dog’s real name was Pierre Moulton. Louis had been best man at the Dog’s parents’ wedding. The boy was born soon after and proved to be a prodigy. He could speak with fluency at fourteen months and learned algebra at five years old. His true genius surfaced at age eight, when his parents gave him a computer and he taught himself how to write code.
“They lived there on the Rue de la Roquette, where we rang the bell,” Louis said. “Pierre was, as I said, a genius. But he was not very coordinated and possessed very little common sense. When he was fourteen he went out riding his bike without a helmet.”
A motorcyclist clipped him, sending him flying. His head collided with a curb and caused a massive injury to his skull and brain.
“A tragedy,” Louis said. “It is only because of his incredible natural intelligence that he can do what he can now. He’s still a brilliant hacker.”
“What’s with the name?”
He shrugged as we left the cemetery. “It was something he just came up with one day. He liked that it made him sound tough.”
“Parents?”
Louis dipped his head and said, “Both dead. His mom to cancer, and his dad to a heart attack. In the will, I was named his guardian and the trustee of the insurance money he got from the accident, which was not much when you consider he’ll probably live a long time.”
“But you give him work when you can?”
“Of course,” Louis said. “He’s a genius and I’m all the Dog has left.”
Chapter 26
6th Arrondissement
4:35 p.m.
WE CLIMBED FROM a cab on the Rue Bonaparte and went to the security gate at L’Académie des Beaux-Arts.
Langlois asked for Professor Herbert and was given directions to a studio in a large building across the cut-stone courtyard. Classes were letting out. Scores of young hipsters poured out into the courtyard carrying sketchbooks as they bustled toward the street.
“This is the school for artists in France, correct?” I asked.
“The students are less French these days. You get kids from the States, or Japan, or wherever, and they want to study art. Their rich parents have heard of this place, which was, at one time, the very center of the art world. Now not so much. The art world has passed by this place, except for my friend Professor Herbert, who is a groundbreaker, as you will see.”
Louis led the way to a high-ceilinged room, where an older man with gray frizzed-out hair was talking to a lean woman in jeans and a starched white shirt with the collar turned up against her bobbed hairdo. He stood in three-quarter profile. She had her back to us.
They were studying a huge collage that featured iconic Parisian street scenes as a backdrop. Over the top of the backdrop were images from France’s past, both good times and bad. There were bright blue graffiti tags as well. They featured arrows and question marks linking the images in a way that suggested the city’s vast history and commented on it.
“Professor?” Langlois called.
I don’t know why, but I expected the older guy to reply.
Instead, the woman smiled and cried, “Louis Langlois, it has been much too long!”
To say that Professor Herbert was good-looking would be like saying Usain Bolt jogged or Adele sang a few songs in her spare time. She had a flawless complexion; high, pronounced cheekbones; and a delicate jaw that ran out from lush dark hair to a dimpled chin that featured a tiny mole on the left side.
Her eyes were soft, aquamarine, and turned up ever so slightly at the outer corners, as if fashioned after teardrops. Her nose looked wind-carved, with a narrow bridge and flaring nostrils. Her lips were thinner and more alluring than the Botox pout you see on so many models and actresses back in L.A., and her smile, though brilliantly white, wasn’t perfect. Like the actress Lauren Hutton, she had a small gap between her upper two front teeth.
“This is my boss, Jack Morgan,” Langlois said after embracing her and blowing Euro kisses. “Jack, may I present Professor Michele Herbert.”
Her smile broadened, and she pressed her tongue into the back of that gap between her teeth. She held out her hand and said in lightly accented English, “Enchanted to meet you, monsieur. I have read of Private’s exploitations. That is the word, yes?”
I was frankly mesmerized, but m
anaged to say, “Close enough. And I am the one who is enchanted.”
