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“Do you still have all those followers?” Louis asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Think you could ask them if they’ve seen this tag elsewhere?”
“Bien sûr,” she replied. “What do I say it is about?”
“Just say you’re interested,” Louis replied, and then explained to me that Herbert had a Facebook page where people from all over the world posted shots of interesting graffiti. The page had been “liked” by more than half a million people.
“She has thousands of Parisians who follow her. Isn’t that right?”
Herbert blushed again. “They follow the graffiti. I just help others see it.”
I liked her. A lot. In the past I’ve met a few successful artists, and had several as clients. The majority are quirky egocentrics quick to turn the lights on themselves, a trait that inevitably leads to self-destructive behaviors. But Herbert seemed normal as well as self-deprecating, smart, and, well, just gorgeous.
“Any help would be much appreciated,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “You are in Paris long, Monsieur Morgan?”
I glanced at Louis, thought about all that had happened since my arrival, and said, “That’s unclear. But a few more days, anyway.”
“Well, then, I will put the request on the Facebook page rapidement.”
“Excellent,” I said. “And it was an honor to meet you.”
Herbert touched her neck, laughed, looked at Louis, and said, “An honor?”
“The man has a way with words.”
Herbert smiled and said, “And it is…sorry, it was wonderful to meet you.”
Louis’s eyes bounced between us a few times before he said, “Michele, would you care to have a glass of wine with us?”
Her head cocked left, and then right, before she laughed again and said, “Why not? I have been working much too hard lately.”
“Come, then,” Louis said. “Where should we go?”
Before she could answer, my cell phone rang. It was Rick Del Rio.
“How’s Paris?” he asked.
I glanced at Michele Herbert, held up a finger, walked away, and said, “Looking up all of a sudden.”
“Well, then let me make your day even sunnier.”
Del Rio had managed to get hold of Kim Kopchinski’s most recent cash withdrawals and credit card charges.
“Anything today?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I’ll e-mail you the particulars. I also arranged it so we’ll both get alerts of any future transactions sent automatically to our phones.”
“You’re a machine.”
“Bionic man,” he said, and hung up.
I hurried to catch up with Louis and Michele Herbert. My phone dinged to alert me to an e-mail. I opened it and showed it to Louis as we left the building.
He slowed and scanned the addresses of the ATM withdrawals and debit charges. “These are all in the Marais.”
