J'adore Paris (5 page)

B
eing copied is the ransom of success
. Thus declared Coco Chanel, a one-time rival of Christian Dior.

I think back to our raid while having a cup of coffee in my office. I’m pleased with the result of yesterday’s operation. We managed to seize a decent amount of fake merchandise and perhaps discouraged those sellers from hawking Dior goods in the future. According to Chris, busting the smaller vendors is important: seizing their products can get us one step closer to the ringleaders. But the replicas were of such shoddy quality, I’m convinced Mr. Dior must be turning in his grave.

I look out our office window. I’m having a hard time shaking the look of anger on the vendors’ faces. I wonder again where those photographs of me will end up. Despite Chris’s words to the contrary, my intuition tells me I should be worried.

Sandrine stops by and snaps me out of my reverie. “Bravo,
Catherine. I hear things went smoothly for you and Rikash yesterday,” she says, beaming with pride.

“Yes, they did. I was a bit nervous at first, but I think I eventually got the hang of it.”

She puts a small bouquet of coral roses on my desk. They’re daintily tied together with a raw silk ribbon in the superb way only French florists can manage. “A little gift to reward you for your efforts.”

I inhale the delicious perfume. “They’re divine, but it really wasn’t necessary. I simply followed Frédéric’s directive.” I’m surprised by her thoughtful gesture. I’ve received more gifts during my first week at Dior than in my entire seven years at Edwards & White.

“Yes, I understand that Frédéric asked you to accompany Chris and Sergeant Larivière.” She fingers a rose petal. “I hope it wasn’t too intense for your first week. He likes to initiate colleagues with a baptism by fire.” She smiles reassuringly.

“Best way to learn. Besides, I’ve been subjected to it before. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“Absolutely.” Sandrine sits down on the ledge of our office window. “Before I forget, there’s a counterfeiting museum in Paris. It’s a real gem, and not far from here. It also happens to be on my way home. Would you like to stop in there after work with me?”

“I’d love to.” What a nice offer. My colleagues in New York weren’t always so generous with their time.

“And how’s Rikash doing?” She changes the subject. “He
seems to be fitting in nicely. All the ladies in the atelier love him. He’s such a charmer.”

“Yes, he is. I’m sure he can out-charm the savviest counterfeiter. His skills will come in handy.” I say this in jest, but it might just be true.

“You’re right, he was a great hire.” She twirls a gold cocktail ring on her middle finger.

Rikash walks into the office wearing a sharp navy blue suit and a cobalt blue shirt. He’s carrying the morning paper under his arm.

Sandrine looks up. “You look very chic today.”

“Well, it’s great to be back to cashmere. I don’t think I can handle wearing fleece for more than a day.”

“You did a fine job handling those counterfeiters yesterday,” Sandrine says.

He responds with a grin and throws the European edition of
The Wall Street Journal
on my desk. “Have you heard the news? The U.S. Department of Homeland Security just shut down eighty international websites selling fake merchandise.”

“That’s fantastic!” I exclaim.

“Apparently, the seized domains were registered in the United States, but the operations were based in China. This is a major win for our industry.” Rikash smiles and removes his jacket.

Sandrine’s bracelets clink together as she grabs the paper from my desk. After speed-reading the article with the focus of a hawk, she rushes out of the office, pausing just briefly to utter, “Thank you, Rikash.”

“She looked surprised,” I say, looking at the door.

“Perhaps she was caught off guard by the news. I don’t know why; it’s all over the Internet.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t worry about Sandrine.” Rikash adjusts his vintage cufflinks. “I would rather you focus on more important matters, like helping me get that gorgeous private investigator into my lair. Any suggestions, sweetie pie?”

“What if he’s straight, Rikash? Or, heaven forbid, not interested?”

He sighs audibly. “First of all, you should know that my gaydar is pretty accurate. And even if I’m wrong, I get a kick out of seducing straight men; it’s a personal hobby of mine, and frankly, I’m very good at it. And, honey, ‘not interested’ is not part of my vocabulary. Never has been, never will be.”

“All right, I get the point. But just remember that you don’t want to cause any drama with someone who works for Dior.”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black. Need I remind you that you once seduced a firm client and have now moved in with a firm colleague?”

Ouch.
Touché
.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather forget that former client. And just so we’re clear, I moved in with a
former
colleague. That’s different.”

“Whatever. What’s important is that I employ the right seduction tactics with Chris.”

“If you want my opinion, it’s all about using a subtle touch; scaring a bird is no way to catch it.”

“Well said,
mon ange
. I like the way you think.”

“Why don’t you call him? You could ask him what we need to do with the inventory of seized goods. You’ll know pretty quickly if he’s interested.”

“Good thinking.” He picks up his phone and dials Chris’s cell number, as excited as a child about to speak to Santa on Christmas Eve.

His youthful enthusiasm makes me smile. I wish I were so carefree. I guess all those years working in a law firm have stripped the innocence away. Can I get it back?

Rikash’s face lights up when Chris answers, and he begins to pace, cellphone in one hand and the other in his trouser pocket.

My own cell rings and I see that it’s Antoine. Given that he rarely calls this early in the day, I pick up right away. To give Rikash some privacy, I tiptoe out of the room and take the call in the hallway, greeting Antoine with, “Bonjour,
mon chéri
.”

“Guess what? The acquisition I’ve been working on for the last month just closed. That means we can go away this weekend to celebrate your first raid.” He’s excited.

“Sounds wonderful. Where are we going?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s top secret.” I can barely hear him. There’s traffic and loud sirens in the background.

“Where are you?”

“Place de la Madeleine, walking by a giant billboard for a Dior perfume called Poison. That got me thinking of you.”

“So you think about me when you see a scantily clad bombshell selling Poison? Should I be happy or worried?”

“You should be
very
happy. Imagining you in the same outfit gets my pulse racing.”

“So what do you plan to do about it?”

“You’ll find out this weekend,
ma chérie
. Going back to the office now.
Bisous
.”

Elated, I walk down the hall and spot Frédéric rushing into Sandrine’s office. He nods and gives me a not-so-cold smile. Could it be that my raiding skills have earned just a tiny bit of his respect?

To give Rikash a bit more time to talk to Chris, I head down to the lobby. I take a seat in the reception area to peruse some fashion magazines while Laetitia, Xavier, and what must be the entire PR team run back and forth in front of me. I hear the words “show,” “Shanghai,” and “Champagne” repeatedly. I can’t help but feel envious, imagining the team dressed to the nines in this season’s Dior collection, jetting off to exotic locales for fashion shows and celebrating at the hottest nightclubs while I load cheap copies of their accessories into the back of smelly police vans.

Laetitia catches me watching them and walks over. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met. You’re the new lawyer from New York, right?”

“Yes, Catherine Lambert. Lovely to meet you.” I extend my hand.

She responds with a steely shake. “You’re French, not American?”

“Yes. I only worked in New York for a short time. Before
that, I was with a law firm here. I’m really happy to be back.” I try to show a bit of
égalité
and
fraternité
.

“I’m sure they’ll keep you busy up there. Frédéric is a slave driver, and so is Sandrine.
Bonne chance!
”

Clearly, she doesn’t have much time for small talk. I bet the seamstresses in the atelier and the designers are running around like mad too, perfecting the last-minute fittings. I wish I could catch of glimpse of the spectacle, but it’s not really my business.

I’m flipping through a copy of
W
magazine when a picture of the president of Longuerive, the watch company, catches my eye. He’s sitting at the wheel of an enormous steamroller and looks to be crushing hundreds of watches. The photo caption reads: “Longuerive president Jean-Marie Doucet leads an initiative to destroy 1,000 counterfeit watches confiscated from street vendors in Los Angeles.”

My mind races. According to Frédéric, we have a sizeable inventory of seized fake goods sitting in a warehouse. What if we destroyed the fakes publicly? It might create some media buzz. I’m convinced it would be a first in Europe. I run back upstairs, sit at my computer and start typing away furiously.

Rikash hurries back when he sees me, clearly dying to talk about his exchange with the hot investigator.

I hold up my hand. “Please save it. I’m in the middle of something, and I don’t want to lose my train of thought.”

“Oh, aren’t we important? Okay, suit yourself, but don’t come looking for details later.”

“I’m sure I won’t have to.”

He responds by sticking his tongue out.

I ignore him and keep writing my memo to Sandrine and Frédéric:

I weigh the pros and cons of pressing the Send button. In New York, one is usually lauded for taking initiative, but here I wonder if it will look like I’m pushing the limits of my authority. I think back to some of the moments in my career
when I’ve been assertive and thought creatively. It has usually worked out well. What do I have to lose? I press Send and stare at my computer for several minutes, hoping for a positive response.

When none comes, I get nervous. To distract myself, I go online to do some additional research about the Longuerive event. Journalists from all over the United States have called it a gutsy and inspiring move. This helps soothe my anxiety.

Finally my inbox dings to indicate that I’ve received a message from Frédéric.

I exhale in relief. “Yes!”

“What’s up?” Rikash asks, standing so close behind me that I can almost taste his Eau Sauvage aftershave.

“An idea popped into my head, and Frédéric likes it.”

“Oh? What’s the great legal mind up to now?”

I turn my computer screen toward him so he can read the message.

“Ooh, way to go tiger. You’re on fire. I see that my amorous conquests are helping you excel at your job. That’s music to my ears.”

I reposition my screen, hoping for a message from Sandrine that doesn’t come. Satisfied that I at least have Frédéric’s support, I turn to Rikash.

“Okay, I’m all ears. Tell me everything.”

After a leisurely walk, Sandrine and I arrive at the Musée de la Contrefaçon on rue de la Faisanderie, a quiet residential street in the 16th arrondissement. As soon as we enter the attractive
hôtel particulier
, we’re greeted by a distinguished-looking man who I learn is the museum director. “Ah, Madame Cordier! Always a pleasure.” Sandrine bats her eyelashes.

After introductions are made, we begin our tour. Sandrine tells me that the museum was established in 1951 by L’Union des Fabricants, an organization of local manufacturers, to educate the public about the perils of counterfeiting.

We walk toward some glass cases. More than three hundred items are on display, the counterfeit pieces paired with the authentic originals. Of course, there are luxury items such as leather handbags and couture dresses, but a wide array of household goods are also showcased: laundry detergents, pens, tools, Peugeot hubcaps, toys, and games.

Sandrine points to a pair of Swiss Army knives with a grin. “It’s not always easy to tell the difference between real
and fake,
non?
” A red card inscribed with the word “
authentique
” is placed in front of the original. She’s right: the copy looks identical. The fake packages of Marlboro cigarettes are also convincing, given away only by the absence of health warnings.

I admire the way Sandrine moves from display to display with nonchalance and grace, exuding that special made-in-France sexiness. During our walk here, we kept our conversation professional, but she was still animated and warm. It’s so different from American women, who seem to share intimate details about their lives with any female colleague willing to lend an ear. I make a note to follow Sandrine’s lead; restraint and discretion are far more attractive than over-sharing.