The Prisoner's Wife by Gerard Macdonald Page A

school, you know? Stop guys beating up on him.”
    â€œAnd you,” she said. “Of course you were, what is the word? Sportif ?”
    â€œPlayed football,” Shawn said. “I was on the team back then. Hard to imagine, I know.”
    Danielle led the way into the traffic-free rue de Béarn.
    â€œYet this sad, fat boy,” she said, “he is the one who has work.”
    â€œMoral in there, someplace,” Shawn said. “That’s why we’re meeting him. Bobby has access to a database, Main Core. Just don’t cry on me if you don’t like what you hear.”
    She was walking fast now, down rue Saint-Gilles.
    â€œI wouldn’t cry in front of you. Tell me again, the proper name? Your friend?”
    â€œRobert Hamilton Walters.”
    â€œWill I like him?”
    Shawn said, “Will you like Bobby? Who gives a damn? It’s not what matters.”
    â€œSo? Confide in me—what does matter?”
    â€œWe want to sound him out. See if he’ll help find your husband.”
    She glanced up. “I still don’t know about you, Mr. Maguire—why you look for Darius.”
    â€œTold you,” Shawn said. “Full disclosure. I find him, I get paid.”
    Ahead lay the ordered beauty of the place des Vosges.
    â€œYou are paid to track him? Darius? Who would pay for that?”
    â€œWho’ll pay? Pakistani guy. Businessman, in a little trouble. Name of Ayub Abbasi.”
    â€œWhy?” she asked. “Tell me, why does he pay?”
    From the north, they entered the place : the old city’s oldest square.
    â€œYou’re asking me why?” said Shawn. “Why Abbasi wants your husband? Long story. Not sure I even know it all.” He pointed toward Ma Bourgogne. “We meet Bobby, you’ll hear some of it.”

 
    9
    PARIS, PLACE DES VOSGES, 21 MAY 2004
    Like a couple, like lovers, Shawn and Danielle walked together down the rue de Béarn, on the north side of place des Vosges and entered a cloister on the square’s perimeter. An old woman in a patterned headscarf played a violin, small as a toy, the music a slow, haunting dance. She’d placed a man’s hat, holding five coins, on the tiles at her feet.
    â€œBe honest, now,” Shawn said. “The concierge—”
    Danielle shrugged. “Come on, Mr. Maguire. The man she saw—”
    â€œâ€”being kidnapped—”
    â€œâ€”he could be anyone. Woman like that, she will think any dark-skinned man is an Arab. What she calls an Arab. Les beurs. Of course, all are thieves. Maybe it was Darius. Maybe not.” She paused, then said, “Let me tell you, we have a strange marriage, I and Darius. All the time I’ve known him, he’s been disappearing.” She turned to look at Shawn. “If I don’t hear in the next few days, okay, I shall be worried. More. Now, not so much.”
    Beside them, the old woman played her slow music: a waltz. Danielle spread her arms. “Do you dance?” she asked. “Darius would dance.”
    Shawn shook his head. “Never learned.”
    Stopping, glancing at Shawn, Danielle dropped coins in the old woman’s upturned hat. “I thought everyone could dance. Really? You never learned?”
    â€œI was in school,” Shawn said, “they made me go to dance class. I’m talking small-town Alabama. Turkey Forge.” They were walking westward now, along the cloister. “Boys and girls, Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. In a parish hall, this was. Cured me.” After a moment, he added, “That’s where I met Martha. My wife.”
    She stopped in the cloister, facing him. “You met—you met in dance class? It’s true?”
    â€œWell,” he said, “sure. I met her there—she wasn’t my wife back then. We were kids. Three other wives before Martha, but she was the first I met. Last one I married.”
    â€œYou told me you