by Michele Hauf
“No. It's obvious she knew what she was doing when she initially nabbed the necklace from me. I'm sure that's all on digital record, thanks to Kierce. But I never took my focus off the goal, I can assure you.”
“You are detail-oriented. Can handle more than a few scenarios at once. Always thinking two steps ahead of everyone else. I tend to marvel over the mind of a thief. Your work is singular and challenging.”
“I prefer working on my own.”
“Unlike, say…working with a family member?”
Xavier exhaled and leaned back in the chair. This again? The man never failed to bring up the topic, and after a year of these sessions, he was beginning to tire of it.
“No,” he replied automatically. “I have not contacted my father, nor do I intend to. Next question.”
“That the question always tends to rile you gives me some concern.” Walters scribbled something on his notepad using what Xavier recognized as a tactical pen. So the man was prepared to defend himself? Against the world, or just his patients?
Xavier leaned forward and splayed out a hand. “A tailor's life is dull and monotonous. While I enjoy a bespoke suit, I never have taken a shine to its creation. And much as my father would have had me believe the family business was all paperwork and marketing, I could never stand the visits to the weaver's factory. The labor was never treated well; abused even.”
“You could have changed that,” Walters suggested.
Xavier shook his head in frustration. “I work alone, Doc. Always have. Always will.”
“You work quite well with the Elite Crimes Unit.”
“Thank you. I'm doing something I am good at, something at which I excel, and take great pride in accomplishing.”
The doctor took a long sip, then pushed aside his notepad, indicating he was finished with the tough questions. Or so, that was the standard MO Xavier had come to learn about him. “Dixon tells me you've been assigned a recruitment?”
Xavier nodded and glanced to the file he'd set aside on the table. “Tell me that's not my last job before I'm tossed behind bars again?”
“Why would you assume that?”
Rubbing the back of his head, Xavier had had enough of the tossing of questions back at him. “I don't know. I fucked up the job.”
“Then prove your worth by bringing in the recruit. I suspect you'll have a breakthrough with this one. See you in a month. Or sooner, if need be.”
* * * *
Hunter Dixon met Xavier after his chat with the shrink and slapped him across the back. “You're still on this case, Lambert. I've given it some thought, and you are close to the subjects of interest and have the skills to get back the missing stone. You good with that?”
“I wouldn't have it any other way.”
“Review the file.” Dixon snapped the black folder with his fingers. “Keep it on a side burner. I'll give you the go-ahead when you can step into that job. Stay in contact with Kierce at all times. We'll feed you what we can find on Blackwell, and you fill us in on the Devereaux woman.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
As he left headquarters and strolled through the cool concrete hallows of the underground parking lot, Xavier ran through all the sources he could tap to help him locate the missing diamond. Depending on who had it, he had various options. Blackwell could have fenced it. There were half a dozen fences in Paris Xavier knew of. But one single diamond?
Kierce had caught him on the way out and reported it was a small five-carat round cut. Color rating was H, which meant it had some color but wouldn't be noticed in the silver setting. And yet, it was riddled with flaws. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble fencing, because the value had to be minimal.
Which meant Blackwell—if he had the stone—was probably holding on to it, and when he learned the necklace had been stolen, he’d step forward with whatever devious plans he had to get it back. Could he know there was sensitive information laser-etched onto the girdle? He certainly would check. A man who operated in white-collar crime wouldn't miss something like that, even if his forte was in another realm.
If Josephine had the missing diamond, she wouldn’t keep it. Thieves did not hang onto the merchandise. They didn’t steal for the sparkle and admiration of a pretty piece; they stole for money. Or the challenge. And the satisfaction a man received when handing over a big chunk to charity.
If she had taken the diamond as a challenge to him, Xavier had to applaud her bold move. She might even still have it; a means to flaunt her obvious talent before him. On the other hand, if she were living the hard way, she could simply need the cash and had likely sold or fenced it by now. But she had said she gave her stolen money to charity. Was she telling the truth?
Either way, he would start with the fences. It would be a tedious, touchy job, for most knew him. Yet they knew him as a thief, not a man who could put their asses away for decades. The ECU worked with the city police, Interpol, and Europol. Granted, a workable option, but…no. He had to approach this investigation from a standpoint from which they were comfortable. Yet he had to watch his back as well.
Reaching the underground carport, Xavier tugged out his cell phone. He scrolled through the few Elite Crimes Unit contact numbers he had. One he had a reasonably friendly rapport with, and the man would provide the muscle he required to walk in to a fence’s domain and wrangle out some information.
A waiting driver signaled him with a flick of the headlights. Tossing him a nod, Xavier walked over and slid into the silver Peugeot's backseat and tossed the black file to the side.
Pressing ‘call’ on the phone, he leaned over and opened the file. The photo stapled to the front page hit him like a fist to his gut.
“Damn.”
“Eh?” the man on the other line answered.
“Gentleman Jack.” Yet his attention was focused on the file photo. Really? That was whom they wanted him to recruit? The shrink's suggestion that this mission would serve him a breakthrough resounded now. Seriously?
This mission had turned into a cluster-fuck.
“Lambert. Speak,” the heavily-accented man on the phone said. “I don’t have time to listen to your heavy breathing.”
Right. He’d worry about the delicate alliances and absolute fuckery such an assignment presented soon enough. “I’m in need of your services.”
Chapter 15
“I thought he was gone, out of my life,” Josephine told Chloe, who batted at the crunchy blue foil ball on the sofa. “And suddenly I'm forced back into the game. I put on a fancy dress for a charity ball and there he stood. Like he had never left my life. And he didn't remember me. Which was a good thing at the time. But now…?” She scratched Chloe's back just above her tail; the cat’s favorite spot. “I want him to remember. I think. Oh, I don't know!”
Josephine stood up and looked out the window. In the yard below the apartment complex, a swing set caught the rain on its rusted metal poles. She'd specifically requested not to live near children, but she had yet to see any little ones outside on the thing, nor had she heard children in the hallways, so she hoped it was a relic. It couldn't be safe, judging by all the rust.
Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be here much longer. Her options were Belize, Iceland, or Romania. She was leaning toward Belize. Sun and surf sounded too good to resist. It was either that or icebergs—or vampires. Not that she believed in vampires, but hadn't Dracula lived in Romania? She'd been to Romania once. Memories of that visit haunted her.
The night was cool, yet she opened a window to let in the scent of rain on grass. Sounds from the street were minimal, even though there were a few businesses in her semi-residential area. The night shivered through her thin t-shirt. Josephine let out a deep breath, closed her eyes, and imagined that instead of the cotton fabric gliding against her skin, it was a man's fingers. Xavier's skilled fingers.
She hadn't been able to get him out of her mind since leaving Paris. Kisses were all she had to
remember him.
Not enough. She needed more.
Yes, even from that man.
But she was a smart woman, and she had every intention of once again abandoning her life of crime. The best way to do that was to forget about the sexy thief who had stolen into her thoughts like a skilled safecracker.
Which left only her and her vibrator. And that particular self-care item had not been packed in her rush to leave the French countryside. She would never return for the few things she'd left behind. She was reluctant to sell the property. It had been so beautiful there. But as long as Lincoln Blackwell knew that she had once occupied the place, it could never be safe.
“I'll have to rip off the Band-Aid.” She sighed. She would miss Jean-Hugues, and she hated that the last time they had been together, he had been bleeding and frantic.
Leaning against the window frame and hiking up a leg onto the sill, she patted her lap to encourage Chloe to jump up. The cat leaped gracefully and curled onto her legs, finding comfort even in an awkward position. Josephine stroked her head and massaged the base of her big wide ears.
If this was going to work—the hard way—a girl should probably get a job. That was how one survived in normal society. Not that she needed the money. She had enough tucked away in Swiss accounts to live comfortably. But without a job to occupy her time, what to do? Did she need a hobby? She wasn't artistic and really didn't want to become domestic and start decorating her home, or baking, or even meeting with girlfriends to gossip about makeup and shoes or, ugg, baby formula.
Her place in the French countryside had kept her happy, and leisurely busy with the simple gardening, walks through the lavender fields, and the friendship she'd developed with the sexy senior.
The idea of striking up a friendship with anyone who lived in a suburban apartment building such as this one did not appeal to her. Maybe she could travel for a while before settling down? No, she couldn't tote Chloe along. The cat traveled well enough on short trips, but to make it a habit? The feline fur would fly.
“What do you think, Chloe? Am I being honest with myself? Why does it call to me so strongly?”
“It” being the life she'd once had. The dangerous-yet-provocative lifestyle of a thief who lived under the radar and could take whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. The taste she'd had last week had whetted her appetite. And much as she knew it could only lead to disaster, she also knew she would never disown her soul's need for that delicious danger.
“What if I like stealing the sparkly stuff? Huh? What do you think about that?”
The universe didn't reply, save for the deep warm stirring Josephine felt in her core. Because yes, she was a good thief. A great thief. And weren't people always seeking those jobs that they enjoyed and did well? Nine-to-five was not her thing. She was quite sure she had no employable skills, and the mere thought of listening to angry customers complain about not enough ketchup on their burgers made her want to stab something. Multiple times.
The Fox would never find himself flipping burgers. That man had style, class, and—whom did he work for? Some underground crime organization? He seemed to be helping the good guys. Who else would seek to stop a biological weapon from being released in Paris? So was he Interpol? Europol? Some kind of black ops?
How could Xavier have found himself working for the cops?
They showed me my tombstone.
That may have convinced any criminal rotting in prison to give the good guys a try.
She couldn't imagine getting involved with someone who worked for the law. But she could imagine all the things she and Xavier could involve themselves in together. Without clothes. And for hours on end. And again and again.
Josephine exhaled and let her body bow forward over Chloe, forehead meeting the window frame.
Apparently, she'd gone too long without sex.
But there was nothing wrong with fantasizing about having sex with a handsome man who challenged her physically and mentally. They could understand one another.
If she was honest with herself, she needed Xavier. The only time she'd ever been truly happy was when he had followed his calling as a thief and she had followed him. If he had given up on the Fox, then what use was it for her to aspire to such thievery?
They belonged together in a way she couldn't quite formulate. Only she felt something real when they were together. Connection.
She placed a hand over her heart and nodded as she realized what was really missing from her life. “Him.”
* * * *
Jack Angelo followed Xavier down the alley that led to the fence’s shop. Known in the ECU as “The Thug” for his prior hobbies of extortion, smuggling, and even running the occasional bank heist, Angelo had never pulled his punches. Xavier had a healthy respect for the Irish/Italian's cool demeanor. He knew it hid a quick temper that usually resulted in the other guy bleeding.
Those in the know called him “Gentleman Jack” because he always wore a suit. Not Armani or Zegna, as Xavier preferred, but a clean, pressed, black suit with white dress shirt and yellow tie. Xavier considered the yellow a warning sign. Slow down, back off, if you're wise. Jack's uniform was standard, as was the temper. And he was so much a gentleman that his MO was to apologize before smashing your nasal bones into your brain.
Anyone could respect such politeness.
“I know this fence,” Jack offered as they stopped before the plain black metal door set into a graffiti-covered brick building. No sign, not even a door pull. The only way to enter was to stand and stare up at the security camera, and hope for mercy. “He’s a right idiot.”
“Let the idiot breathe long enough to give us an address,” Xavier said. “He's the one who relocated the subject.”
“The subject. Heh.” Jack shrugged his massive shoulders forward and jeered at Xavier. “Kierce Quinn filled me in. Your subject is also your lover, oi?”
“What? No.”
“My man Quinn said she took you for a ride.”
Xavier exhaled. “It wasn’t that kind of ride. More like…”
“Oi? She double-cross the great and powerful jewel thief then? Ha!”
Much as he wanted to go a few rounds with the man, Xavier resisted the urge to curl his fingers into fists. “Keep your enemies close,” was a rule he'd always abided. And while Jack wasn't officially an enemy, he certainly didn't fall into the friend category. Not many did.
The door buzzer rang and the lock mechanism clicked, signaling they’d been granted access. Xavier was glad to leave the annoying conversation out in the alley.
They walked down a dark hallway into a vast, dimly lit garage. Shoulders swaying as his bulk moved forward, Jack took the lead. Xavier didn’t mind. He could play the cool cop if need be. The only light bled from inside a cage at the far end, which surrounded the office. The air smelled strongly of gasoline, and cars in various degrees of dismantle sat in dark bays. The shop was greasy with decades of neglect, just as it should be.
The fence stood behind a barred door watching them approach. The chain-link cage was coated in black rubber, which obscured what was behind it, so Xavier couldn’t read the guy’s expression. He’d used him in the past to fence jewels, but he’d never spoken to him directly. Most good thieves used a liaison for the fence, such as Jack, so the man wouldn’t recognize him and shouldn’t expect to. He knew how the game worked.
The intel Kierce had provided on Dmitri Rostonovich had been sparse. He'd been fencing for eight years, give or take. Before that, he'd been a skip tracer, relocating high-profile executives fleeing tax evasion. An all-around swell kind of guy, depending on which side of the law you lived.
“Jack Angelo,” Jack said as they stopped before the cage. Xavier's thug assumed his role with ease and authority. “This here is my associate, Joe.”
Joe? He was the furthest from a Joe. Standing against the chain-link, Xavier could see the doubt in the fence’s crimped brow line. Then again, doubt was a nec
essity in his line of work. Trust was an asset that was hard to come by, so a man had to take his chances or never make a buck.
“You men have a vehicle in need of work?” A distinctive Russian accent flavored his speech.
“Does it look like it?” Jack asked.
The Russian's eyes slowly moved over them. He wore a beard and his brown hair tugged back in a messy man bun. Add to that the cardigan sweater, band logo T-shirt, and lack of visible tattoos, he looked more like a hipster than a low-life. But Xavier was always leery of the Russians.
“What do you have?” the fence asked.
Jack looked over his shoulder to Xavier. They needed to get into the cage. And now it was Xavier’s show.
“Diamonds,” Xavier offered casually. “Unset, twelve flawless stones, nothing less than five carats.” Which had a street value from half a million, all the way up to five, if the right buyer could be found.
A buzzer sounded again, and the cage door opened to emit Xavier and Jack. Once inside, the fence introduced himself. “I am Dmitri Rostonovich. Pleased to make your acquaintances. I am familiar with Gentleman Jack here.”
“Good.” Jack stepped up to the man. He stiffened in response. “Then you’ll know what I’m capable of, should you refuse to answer Joe’s questions.”
“I don’t understand?”
Jack cracked his knuckles. “Sorry about this, but a little loosening up is always a necessity.” And he unleashed an upper cut under Dmitri’s ribcage, likely connecting knuckles to kidney.
Xavier winced as Dmitri’s face went pale and his jaw dropped open to emit an ugly groan.
Jack landed his opposite kidney, bringing the guy to his knees. But Xavier had to give it to the fence; he didn’t whine or plead for mercy. Instead he shook his head and asked, “What do you want? I will guess there are no diamonds?”
“Good guess,” Xavier said. “We know you helped relocate Josephine Devereaux.”
“Never heard that name before—”
Jack’s knee stopped the man’s protest. Blood spattered the office desk, which was littered with random papers and bills.
