by Nina Bruhns
“About seven thousand euros. I can give you three.”
It was about what she’d expected. He took a hefty cut, but then, he did a lot of prep work before being able to sell the diamonds and the melted-down setting. He took a lot of risk. His position as middleman was even more exposed than hers. She didn’t begrudge him a single sou.
“Good,” she said, tucking two-thousand-seven-hundred euros into her purse. That amount would pay for food, rent and tuition for the coming month or two. Unfortunately, it didn’t make much of a dent in Beck’s blackmail. “Can you transfer three hundred into my Swiss account this time?” she asked, handing him back three of the bills.
Nine years ago she had opened her Swiss bank account because the Swiss were notoriously immovable to legal enquiries about their account holders. At the time she had planned to build up a nest egg to see her through the completion of her education. She faithfully put ten percent of every job into the account, but it was still pathetically small. Some days that bothered her more than others. Some days she felt she would never break free of the cycle she’d been trapped in her whole life.
“Of course,” he said, nodding.
“What do you know about the Countess Michaud?” she asked, shaking off the uncharacteristic self-pity, and recalling Davie’s tip. “Does she own anything anyone is looking for? Something in my league?”
Valois glanced at her with a frown. “The soiree next week? What are you planning Ciara? Isn’t it kind of soon for another job? Especially in France, with Lacroix sniffing around.”
She leaned a hip against the counter and relayed the incident with Sofie and Beck. Valois was a good friend and was invited to the attic apartment on rue Daguerre for supper regularly. She knew he approved of what she was doing to get the Orphans on their feet—it was one reason he was still so ready to help her even though her work was starting to attract unwanted attention. He might make the bulk of his living illegally, but he hated unnecessary human misery as much as she did.
He swore softly. “Louis Beck is scum. Shooting is too good for him. I see how he has you cornered. But I agree with Hugo. There’s no way you can go to the police with this. Well, let me think...Countess Michaud...”
He pondered for a few moments, then riffled through a stack of auction house catalogues until he found the one from Dufour and opened it. He turned it toward her and she saw a full page spread of a painting. She whistled.
“A Picasso?”
She’d stolen a few small paintings for Valois before, but never anything this valuable. In fact, she’d never stolen anything at all this valuable before. Nor did she want to. “I said in my league, Valois. This must be worth a million or more!”
“One-million three-hundred-thousand is what it sold for at auction two years ago to the Michauds. As I recall, the bidding was lively, and one of the losers was from overseas and quite disappointed. I’ll make some inquiries and see what I can do.” He gazed at her intently. “But only if you’re absolutely sure you want to make this jump into the big-time.”
She knew what he was saying. The bigger the theft, the more intense the investigation and the greater the punishment--which was exactly why she’d always stuck to the smaller stuff.
If she thought the law was after her now, just wait until the Picasso disappeared. That would make international news, not just the Paris evening papers.
But it would be just this once....
“I’m sure,” she said. “I have no other option. And if it’s as valuable as you say, this can be my last job. My cut will be enough to pay off Beck and take care of the bills until the kids are all able to support themselves.”
“What about you?”
Her whole body lit up at the thought. “Maybe I can finally finish my studies, too. Leave this life behind and become a translator or interpreter, as I’ve always dreamed.” Then she thought of the small white business card propped up on her dresser, and smiled.
The old man reached over from behind the ornate jewelry counter and took her hand. “Nothing would make me happier, Ciara. But I beg you, consider this job carefully.”
“There’s nothing to consider,” she said, squeezing back. Maybe when all this was over, just maybe she’d be able to make that call, after all. “You’ve taught me well. I’m ready for this. Set it up, Valois.”
Chapter 3
“Make the call,” Pierre urged, plopping down in the standard-issue wooden visitor’s chair across from Jean-Marc’s desk on the third floor of the DCPJ, or 36 Quai des Orfèvres, as the headquarters of the Police Judiciaire was known by everyone in France and beyond. “You know you want to call her.”
Jean-Marc stabbed a hand through his hair and struggled with the irrational need that had been pumping through his body all day. He’d had a gut feeling Ciara wouldn’t call him last night, and sure enough, she hadn’t. But Pierre was right. Regardless of her inarguable rejection of his pursuit, he had an acute physical craving to see her again.
He’d been fighting a losing battle all day, snapping like a turtle at anyone within shouting distance. Pierre’d finally had enough.
“It would be official police business,” his lieutenant continued reasonably. “You need to track her down because she’s a possible witness.”
True. It had been a real mistake not getting her statement last night. And her address. “I suppose she might have seen something useful. Despite being a bit distracted.” He made another stab at his hair.
Pierre grinned. “Mon ami, you really have it bad this time.”
“No worse than usual,” Jean-Marc insisted. Yeah, right.
“Non?” His friend puffed out a skeptical breath. “May I point out, all morning and all afternoon you’ve been testing the patience of every person at 36 Quai des Orfèvres unlucky enough to run into you?”
“In case you’d forgotten, another robbery was added to our growing workload last night,” Jean-Marc retorted.
He wasn’t the commissaire in charge of le Revenant case, but lately everyone in the OCBC had become involved in the investigation. It wasn’t so much the value of the jewelry he took but the spectacularly audacious way in which he stole it that was making him high profile in the media and annoying the hell out of the cops.
“Belfort is breathing down our necks,” he went on. “The Dutch consulate is parroting the princess’s vitriol to the news media about the inefficiency of the French National Police. And now we have to worry about where this fucking thief will strike next. I think I have ample reason to be testy today.”
“Yeah, except those reasons have nothing to do with why you are.”
Jean-Marc ground his teeth in resignation. The man knew him too damned well. “All right, fine. I’ll admit it. I fell for this one.”
“Mec, you fall for all of them. What’s different about this woman?”
“She doesn’t charge by the hour?”
Pierre gave an ironic bark of laughter. “Admittedly, an improvement.”
His friend had stuck with him through thick and thin, biting his tongue when Jean-Marc’s divorce had sent him into the arms of paid escorts rather than deal with real emotions for the past four years.
A man had his needs. “What can I say. I’m a romantic kind of guy.”
Pierre’s brows went into his scalp.
“Okay. I’m a horny kind of guy. She was a knock-out. Sweet and affectionate. Nice sense of humor. And Merde!, so incredibly hot. My throat aches just thinking about touching her.”
Pierre gave him a commiserating look. “Young...”
“Not that young. I don’t understand what went wrong. She seemed to like it as much as I did.”
“Until she found out you were a cop?”
Jean-Marc gazed at him. “Maybe.”
Could that really be it? Usually it worked the other way around. Lots of women were turned on by a man with a gun. Or thought you would do them a favor in exchange for sex, get them out of a stack of parking tickets, that sort of thing.
&nbs
p; Unless they had something to hide. Then they might run in the other direction.
“Maybe she’s the thief,” Pierre suggested with a broad grin at his discomfort.
Jean-Marc rolled his eyes. “Ah, oui. Bien sûr. While she had her tongue down my throat she miraculously nabbed the bracelet. And then managed to hide it while I stripped her practically naked.” He thumped himself on the forehead. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”
Pierre’s grin never faltered. “Find the woman and ask her, mon vieux. Seems like the perfect solution. Go on, make the call to the American Embassy.”
Jean-Marc snorted. “The embassy? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“The law enforcement liaison posted there—”
“Couldn’t find his ass in a paper bag. Remember that kidnapping case two years ago? We’d found the girl and sent her home to mama before they’d even gotten through their red tape to start an investigation.”
Pierre pursed his lips expressively. “Yeah. Okay. So try the university.”
“Which one? She only said she was a student. Not where.”
“Call them all.”
In the end, he threw up his hands and did just that. As it turned out, it was ridiculously easy to find her. Thank God for computers. The only American student named Ciara in all of Paris was conveniently enrolled at the Sorbonne. Ciara Alexander. Born thirty-one years ago. Sounded about right. He’d figured her to be about ten years younger than his own forty-three. Pushing it, but... Ah, well. A man was entitled to a midlife crisis wasn’t he? At least she wasn’t twenty-one.
The registrar had no qualms handing over her current address to a cop.
“Phone number?” he asked.
“Sorry, none listed.”
“Can you fax me over her application? Including her picture?”
“Certainly, commissaire. What did she do?”
“Rien. She’s just a possible witness to a crime and I’d like to speak to her. Nothing more.”
When the fax machine spit out her grainy photo, his body gave a leap of excitement. Definitely the same woman. So much for having something to hide. If that were the case, she’d never have given him her real name.
Now all he had to do was go to her place and ask for a repeat performance of their amazing sex.
Beg if he had to.
Pierre poked his head in the doorway. “Find her?”
“I did.”
Pierre’s eyes went reverently skyward. “Merci Dieu. So I won’t expect you in till late tomorrow. Hopefully in a better mood.” He ducked out, then right back in. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a nice snap of you two in the evening rag.” He tossed a rolled-up newspaper onto Jean-Marc’s desk. “Just the right touch for your already legendary reputation, I thought.”
With that he disappeared again. Jean-Marc glanced at the clock as he plucked up the newspaper. Past quitting time. He spread the roll flat, and stared at it in shock.
On the front page was a photo of himself with his arm around Ciara Alexander as they emerged from Club LeCoeur. He was looking down at her with a secretive little smile, and she was smiling back, her lips just puffy enough and her hair and dress just disheveled enough to look as though they’d been doing exactly what they’d been doing.
Then he read the headline: Dutch Princess Robbed! And the caption under the photo: Commissaire Lacroix Too Busy To Foil Le Revenant!
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and cursed.
“Putain de merde.” This was just what he fucking needed. More negative publicity. Thank God he wasn’t the lead detective on the case. Because if he had been, it would be like a bad flashback—to the nightmare that had been his life five years ago. The nightmare that had sent him into the tailspin that lost him his wife and very nearly his job. And had made him the emotionally mistrustful bastard he was today.
He straightened, tossed the newspaper into the trash and took a deep, cleansing breath.
Non. Thank God for small favors. He was not in charge, so this thief would not be getting the better of him. Not this time. That wasn’t going to happen again.
But he would not tempt fate, nor add fuel to the fire, by seeing that woman Ciara again, either. He had enough to think about, enough to do, without obsessing over getting laid.
He could live without her. There were other women. Plenty of them. Ones who didn’t disappoint or betray a man. Ones who only sought to please you...for the right price.
Mind made up, he determinedly stuck the faxes of her photo and Sorbonne application, along with the paper he’d written her name and address on, under the heavy leather blotter on his desk.
And sat back glowering at the ceiling, trying to come up with a new strategy to catch the troublesome Ghost. But his imagination had deserted the case for greener pastures.
Resignedly, he leaned over and fished the newspaper back out of the wastebasket and ripped off the front page. And for a long time he stared at the photo of himself with Ciara.
Alors, He straightened his spine, stuck the news page under the blotter, too, and slammed his hands on the desk.
Done.
One all-too-tempting woman gone from his life. For good.
♥♥♥
As soon as he arrived at 36 Quai des Orfèvres the next day, Jean-Marc was called into CD Belfort’s office.
This couldn’t be good.
He strode down the gray second-floor hallway wondering what he was going to be chewed out for this time. Despite having one of the best arrest records in the OCBC, he could never seem to please his boss. “A loose cannon,” Belfort called him. “Can’t tell the difference between you and the goddamned bad guys.”
Bon, whatever worked.
He ran into Belfort coming out of an incident room with Michéle Saville, lead detective on le Revenant case. Saville marched after their boss with his hands clasped behind his back like an idiot, looking smug.
“What the hell is this all about?” Belfort demanded when he spotted Jean-Marc. He halted and snapped open a copy of last evening’s tabloid in front of his chest. The one with the photo. And the damning headline. “You were there before the robbery?”
He could tell it was going to be one long, fucking day.
“Oui, I was there all evening. On my own time,” he added, matching Belfort stride-for-stride as he resumed his march down the hall toward his office. Saville was forced to follow behind. “I believe I told you he’d go after the princess’s diamonds,” Jean-Marc reminded them pointedly.
Belfort’s jaw worked. “If you were there watching, why isn’t le goddamn Revenant behind bars?”
“I’m only one man, boss,” Jean-Marc said, striving for equanimity. “You may recall I did ask for a team to back me up, and my request was denied.”
Belfort whisked over to the espresso machine behind his secretary’s desk and brewed himself a cup. The burnt smell of too-strong coffee wafted through the air. “So it was. Alors, from now on I plan to listen to you more carefully.” He pointed a finger at Saville. “As of now, you are relieved of le Revenant case. I’m giving it to Lacroix.”
Jean-Marc came to full attention as Saville lodged a loud protest. “Sir, I object! I’ve been working this case for—”
“Far too long,” Belfort interrupted, adding hot milk to his coffee. “Time someone else took over.”
“Let Saville keep the damn case,” Jean-Marc said emphatically. “I don’t want it.”
“I don’t give a shit what either of you want. I want this bastard caught. The préfet is starting to get calls. Which means I’m starting to get calls.”
Belfort’s secretary pretended not to listen to the CD’s rising voice, but several other officers milling about the common area weren’t so subtle in their observation.
“The préfet?” Jean-Marc asked in surprise. “About a common thief?”
The préfet was the overall head of la Direction Central, Belfort’s boss’s boss. He didn’t normally concern himself with such trivial
matters as one lone criminal, unless it was a serial killer or terrorist.
“There is nothing common about le Revenant,” Belfort refuted, turning on a heel and heading for the frosted glass of his private office. “He’s thumbing his nose at the OCBC—hell, the whole DCPJ—and the press is making a mockery of us because of it. The insurance companies are complaining about the money they’re losing. The nouveau riche don’t feel safe showing off their expensive baubles in public. The aristocrats are angry because he’s breaching their security at home so easily. They are all becoming annoyed.”
They weren’t the only ones. Ever since the OCBC realized that the escalating wave of high-end jewel thefts throughout the country could be attributed to one person, Jean-Marc had tried to convince Saville he was going about the investigation the wrong way. Traditional methods weren’t going to cut it. The thief was smart. He never struck in the same place, nor in quite the same way. From the crowds of Le Mans to isolated castle fortresses, no setting had daunted him, or deterred him from pulling his clever heists. He never took old or distinctive pieces that could easily be identified, or new ones that had serial numbers etched into them. He stuck to expensive, but unremarkable stones. And he was getting ever more daring. Last night he’d known he was being watched, but hit anyway, against a highly-guarded public figure. Right under Jean-Marc’s nose.
Saville hadn’t listened to him. However, the last thing Jean-Marc wanted was to head up the case.
“Truly, sir—”
“And if that weren’t bad enough,” Belfort continued as though he hadn’t spoken, sailing through the door to his office, “the bastard is building up a legend around himself, thanks to the media. Becoming a fucking folk hero to the working classes. A goddamned Robin Hood. We’re losing our credibility out there, Lacroix. I don’t like it.”
They’d all been chagrined when tabloids had dubbed the thief le Revenant, a play on words referring back to the famous Belgian cat burgler from the fifties—le Fantome. Le Revenant also meant phantom, or ghost, but one that walked the earth again, for the second time. It sounded almost romantic. But there was nothing romantic about crime.
