Pouncing on the opportunity to attack Patric, Xavier hissed, “I knew you couldn’t trust that guy! What is he hiding anyway? He almost fainted when he saw that emerald in your hand.”
“I know,” I gulped, feeling utterly stupid. I hadn’t yet established Patric’s connection to the crime, but I knew it existed. How could I have made myself so vulnerable to him the other night, sharing so much with a man I knew so little? Brushing aside my mounting self-contempt, I vowed to return to my rational law student self, pragmatically approaching life---and methodically solving this crime. My infatuation with Patric had been short-lived as he effectively killed it in the doorway of my apartment.
“I’m starting to think there’s more to this cream puff crime,” Xavier confessed as I looked at him hopefully. Sure, I could investigate the crime on my own, but it would be so much easier to have a partner. “We need to find out where that emerald came from,” he decided thoughtfully.
I smiled. “So I guess we both belong in clown school now?”
“Ah, don’t throw that in my face, Isabelle! I said I was sorry. And I admit I was wrong. There. You heard me loud and clear. I was wrong. That guy is shady, and now I realize there’s a lot more to the robbery than pastries.”
“I told you so! There. Now you heard me loud and clear,” I quipped, grinning triumphantly at him.
“Fair enough. Now how are we going to go about this?” Xavier took my teasing like a good sport.
“Well, I was going to take the stone to the University of Paris and see if I could find a gem expert to appraise it. But I don’t think that will be necessary now. Patric wouldn’t have reacted that way if this were an imitation,” I reasoned as Xavier nodded heartily.
“Definitely. I agree. Maybe we should sleep on this and discuss it in the morning,” he suggested as I noticed for the first time that he looked as weary as I did. Both of us had been keeping late hours, drinking too much coffee, and getting too little rest.
“Good idea. We really do need to get some sleep. Good night Xavier…and thanks for taking this seriously.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Just stay far away from that phony Patric. If he bothers you again, he’ll have to answer to me,” Xavier said firmly as I nodded and we retired to our separate bedrooms.
***
As I slinked into a periwinkle gauze nightgown and turned off the overhead lights, the echo of Xavier’s frantic voice traveled through the wall. “Isabelle! Come here! Right now!”
Startled, I jumped out of bed and ran in bare feet to his bedroom. Throwing open the door, I peered at him curiously as he laid on the bed with his computer on his lap. “You won’t believe what I just read in the news! Come here!”
Aware of our close proximity and state of semi-undress, I slid next to him on the bed and looked at the computer screen. “Look at this! Read it!” Xavier pressed.
Paris, France: Police confirm that an array of French crown jewels, some dating back to medieval times, have been stolen from the Louvre museum. Two lanky suspects appear on security camera dressed in black with their faces obscured by ski masks. Authorities have alluded to the possibility that this unidentified pair of thieves may have struck before and are responsible for pocketing more than half a million Euros worth of antiques from Le Château de Versailles last March. Now, more than three million Euros worth of gems are missing from the crown jewel collection at the Louvre, including an assortment of the rarest emeralds in Europe worn by Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine who reigned from 1137 to 1151 . While the monetary value of the jewels has been estimated at three million Euros, the historical value is incalculable, and authorities request that anyone with any information about the crime come forward immediately.
“I touched an emerald that belonged to a medieval queen!” I breathed in astonishment, momentarily dazzled by the sheer awesomeness of the situation.
“Yes, and we better lock it up somewhere safe before we take it to the police tomorrow,” Xavier urged.
“This is incredible!” I marveled.
“Don’t take this so lightly, Isabelle! It’s not a game. Thieves are dangerous criminals, and now that Patric knows you have one of the emeralds in your possession, he’s to be considered a threat.”
“Okay, let me just make sense of all this,” I thought out loud. “The article says that two people stole the jewels. Who were those people? Patric had to be one of them.”
“And maybe the other was the sister he mentioned,” Xavier conjectured.
I pictured Chérie in my mind, recalling her statuesque body. Maybe it was her looking sleek as a black mare and slipping away with the burlap sack of cream puffs. “I think you might be right. His sister is slim, and so was the person I saw with the stolen pastries. But why would they steal jewels from the Louvre and then pilfer sweets from a bakery? It seems crazy.”
“It does. There’s definitely a missing piece to all this that we haven’t figured out yet. But we will. I’m sorry I doubted you before, Isabelle. You’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, and I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.” Xavier looked deep into my eyes as I could feel his breath on my face. I had expected him to smell like a strong cup of coffee, but his scent was fresh like mint leaves and warm like firewood.
“You don’t have to apologize anymore. If I hadn’t seen the pastry thief myself, I wouldn’t have believed it,” I assured him as he kept his eyes centered on mine.
My minute-long obsession with Patric a drifting memory, I felt the first sparks of attraction pass between Xavier and me as we curled up on his bed. For an instant, I forgot about the investigation and the computer and the bakery…and let myself get completely lost in his deep nutmeg eyes.
Chapter 6
Xavier was either going to kiss me or turn me away again. I looked at him expectantly, hoping that he would kiss me, but he pulled away in his typical abrupt manner, rising from the bed and pacing the room. Frustrated, I sulked at him for a moment before placing the computer on my lap and searching for other articles about the Louvre jewel heist.
“Maybe we should put this on hold until tomorrow,” Xavier said tensely. “I know I’m the one who called you into my room, but I couldn’t wait until morning to show you that article. You needed to see it.”
“Yes, I did, and I’m glad you showed it to me. But if…” I interrupted myself as my finger slid on the mouse and I clicked on a file folder of documents labeled “Private.” I desperately wanted to open the folder and read what was inside, but I controlled myself and clicked back onto the internet. What was Xavier hiding on his computer that was so top secret? The wondering was driving me bonkers.
“Huh? What were you going to say?” Xavier asked impatiently.
“Nothing. I’m going to bed now. Good night. Again.” I shimmied off his bed and left the room, softly clicking the door behind me and sighing with disappointment.
Sheer exhaustion allowed me to sleep that night even though my slumber was troubled with confusing dreams and visions. Rubbing my still tired eyes when I awoke after sunrise, the reality of what I had uncovered hit me like a brick. But I couldn’t linger in bed and wile the day away. I had serious business to attend to, starting with marching that emerald down to the police station with Xavier and implicating Patric in the crime. Thoughts of Patric made me shiver with fear as I wondered if he would seek vengeance against me for giving his name to the police. Pastel colors on his business card glowed at me from my nightstand. I picked up the card and noted his full name, Patric Anguisson. Usually, I would run a full Google search on a new man I met before dating him, but the past few whirlwind days hadn’t allowed me that nosy luxury.
Turning on my laptop, I punched Patric’s name into the search engine as dozens of results surfaced in a millisecond. Sure enough, there were no websites listing him as an artist, no portfolios of his work, nothing to suggest that his claim of being a painter was anything but a complete lie. But there were websites indicating that he had a criminal record, a
lbeit a minor one of misdemeanors. Stealing petty cash from a bar. Lifting half a dozen pairs of pants from a clothing store. Running off with a bottle of cologne from a parfumerie. Fairly ridiculous crimes…just like the pastry robbery. I started to second guess myself, wondering if a man who seemed to be such a small time criminal could possibly be the mastermind behind a robbery at one of the most closely guarded museums on earth.
Checking a people database, I didn’t find any evidence that he had ever lived in Toulouse. On the contrary, he only had two addresses in France, one of them in Paris and the other in Marseille. So he had tried to throw me off course with his whereabouts as well! If he wasn’t from Toulouse, then where did his sister go “home” to? Was she back in Marseille or somewhere else entirely, maybe even out of the country? I typed in the name Chérie Anguisson and came up empty-handed. No public records existed on anyone with that name, not in France or abroad. Perhaps she was married, but her maiden name would still appear in some older records on the internet. I became more mystified with each new piecemeal clue the internet revealed.
Another shock awaited me on a website that reveals ages and birth dates. “He’s 42?!” I blurted out, stunned to learn that the man was a full decade older than I had perceived him to be. Was there anything at all authentic about Patric Anguisson? I shuddered, wondering what he had in store for me at his apartment. Why did he want me to come up to his apartment if not to paint my portrait? The possibilities were frightening.
Taking my laptop into the kitchen, I grinned to find Xavier at the dining table staring intently at his own computer. “Good morning, fellow computer geek,” I teased as he looked up and matched my grin.
“Good morning. Sit down. I made breakfast.” He walked over to the stove, flipping two crepes from a pan onto a plate garnished with fresh cantaloupe and honeydew.
“That was so sweet of you! How long have you been up cooking this feast?”
“About an hour. My crepes are to die for. Taste.” He handed me a fork as I smiled at his immodesty.
Taking one bite of the buttery, chocolate-filled pancake, I couldn’t argue. “These are unbelievable! Why haven’t you made breakfast for me before? You know I could get used to this!”
“I’ll make breakfast again,” Xavier promised. “But let’s eat quickly. I don’t want that emerald to be in our apartment any longer. I want the police to be in the loop so we’ll be off the hook.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I mumbled between a huge bite of the melt-in-your-mouth crepes. “You’re right. That thing is like a hot potato. We can’t hold onto it anymore.”
Quickly, we finished up breakfast, took turns showering, and then walked to the police station. Located just three blocks from our apartment, the station was empty on that Saturday morning. Officers sat us down in an interrogation room as soon as we told them we had a potential lead about the Louvre jewel heist.
“We’ve been on the trail of this Patric Anguisson character for years. I just can’t believe he made the fatal mistake of giving you his real name,” Detective Marceau said with a chuckle and a thoughtful sweep of his tawny moustache.
“I know! Why would he do that? He lied about everything else,” I marveled.
“Every criminal eventually makes a fatal mistake. They get cocky. And then they get sloppy. Anguisson has used so many aliases over the years, he probably didn’t even realize he was giving you his real name.” Detective Marceau shook his head in unhidden amusement.
“So you really think it was him who stole the emeralds?” I asked even though the answer was etched blatantly across the investigator’s slightly smug face.
“Of course. Him and his female accomplice. We’ve never been able to positively identify her. But we have reason to believe that there may be another party involved too. Anguisson is the kingpin of a whole network of criminals across Europe. He’s only ever been caught for little things like stealing clothing and cologne. Because the value of what he stole never exceeded 1,000 Euros, he’s never been charged with a felony and hasn’t spent much time in jail,” Detective Marceau conveyed as Xavier and I listened with rapt attention.
“I also have some information about that female accomplice you mentioned. Her name is Chérie, and she’s his sister. But there’s no record of her anywhere online. I have no idea what her real name is, but I can give you a detailed description of what she looks like,” I offered as Detective Marceau promptly called in the resident police sketch artist.
An hour later, the artist had created a composite of “Chérie” and Detective Marceau had devised a plan that made both Xavier and me very wary. “You can’t send her into his apartment like helpless prey!” Xavier argued.
“She won’t be helpless prey,” Detective Marceau insisted. “She’ll be wired with a recording device and an entire team of officers will be within shouting distance should anything go wrong. Will you cooperate with us, Mademoiselle Nouvelle?”
“I want to, but I don’t like the idea of going into his apartment,” I replied frankly.
“I understand, but you could really be a hero in all this. You just need to use your feminine gifts to extract a confession from him. If you feel he’s getting suspicious or agitated, just change the subject. And like I said, we’ll be right behind you.”
The concept of being a “hero” was enticing to me, but I didn’t want to risk my life just to propel my career and reputation. There had to be an easier way to establish my name in the legal profession, right? Couldn’t I just do some pro bono work for victims who couldn’t afford to hire an attorney? But no, this was the opportunity that had presented itself in my life, and I felt it was my destiny to solve the crime. If I could make it out of Patric’s apartment in one piece, I would be revered in Paris not as the flake who solved the silly pastry robbery but the sleuth who cracked the high profile Louvre jewel heist.
“Okay, let’s do it,” I said confidently as Xavier’s face tensed with uncertainty.
“Isabelle, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said in a low voice.
“Don’t worry. I’ve come a long way from Barbados to Paris. I can take care of myself,” I assured, invigorated with self-confidence at the mere thought of what I had accomplished by flying away from my secure nest in the Caribbean into the wolf’s lair of city life.
“Let’s get you set up,” Detective Morceau said eagerly, escorting me into another room and prepping me for the perilous mission I was about to embark on.
***
Uncontrollably shaking as I reached the entrance to Patric’s apartment building, I inhaled a cleansing breath and walked purposefully up the stairs. Two adjacent apartments were located above the clothing store of Patric’s building, and I had no idea which one was his. Damn, why hadn’t Detective Morceau told me which door to knock on? The whole plan had been hatched in such a mad dash that he probably forgot that crucial detail. Trial and error was the only method I could employ to find out. Knocking arbitrarily on the door to my right, I tried to stop my body from shaking at the prospect of coming face to face with Patric again on his turf.
Footsteps sounded inside the apartment as I bit my lower lip and steeled myself against whatever was waiting for me on the other side of the door. Not only would I have to remain calm, but I would also need to be flirtatious and persuade Patric to open up to me. The door parted just an inch or two as a young woman peered at me suspiciously.
“Yes? May I help you?” She asked in an accent that sounded Eastern European.
“I’m looking for Patric Anguisson. Does he live here?” I asked.
Keeping the door nearly shut, the girl replied, “He lives across the hall. But I don’t know if he’s there anymore. Last night very late, he was moving a lot of things out of there.”
“So you think he moved out last night?” I pressed as the girl nodded.
“I think so. Bye.” Without further warning, the timid girl closed the door in my face as I turned and walked the few steps to Patric’s
alleged apartment.
I felt a draft hit me as soon as I was at his apartment door. Touching the doorknob, I realized that the apartment had been left unsecured. Cautiously, I walked inside, noting an open window as the source of the draft. The next thing I saw was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The entire apartment was skeletally bare except for the easel that Patric had painted with each day on the street corner. I walked further into the apartment, half expecting him to jump out and grab me. But not a soul was inside the apartment except for my heavily breathing and trembling self.
Examining the easel with my eyes only, I wondered if the object contained DNA evidence from Patric’s hands. No doubt the police would confiscate the object and send it to the crime lab for analysis. The apartment was one large room, like a studio or loft, and not a trace of anything else remained. Sliding out the door, I rushed down the stairs, eager to tell the team what I had learned.
Detective Morceau was camped out in an alley less than a block away and looked surprised to see me so soon. “He’s on the run,” I informed. “His apartment was totally empty. All he left there was an easel.”
Cursing under his breath, Detective Morceau pulled on his moustache in blatant frustration. “That snake isn’t going to slither out of our grasp this time. We’ll find out the route he’s taken. I need to talk to the owner of the apartment building and see if Anguisson left a valid phone number when he rented the apartment. If he did, then we can easily track him with GPS technology. If not, then we’ll have some more digging to do.”
Xavier emerged from the small group, handing me a cold bottle of water. “Thank you,” I whispered gratefully, dousing my tight throat with refreshment.
“Put your gloves on and remove the easel,” Detective Morceau directed to a police officer. “Isabelle, we’ll call you later today if we find anything out.”
“Do you really have to?” Xavier interjected. “She’s already done her part by trying to trap Anguisson. Let her be safe now.”
Sweet as Pie Crimes Page 10
