The Paris Caper (5 page)

Which, of course, he was.
And paintings and antiques, as well. Those items were his specialty. His
antique store was filled to the rafters with scrupulously legal wares: tons of
old furniture and art pieces, rugs and marble, knick-knacks and bric-a-brac.
The store had been in his family for generations. Ciara often thought that some
of the things crowding the overfilled rooms must have been bought new two
hundred years ago and simply gotten lost in the clutter.

But the items he was
fencing were well-hidden, in a tunnel under the shop which his father had
discovered during the War, part of the ancient Parisian sewer system below the
city.

She knew she was in good
hands. M. Valois was nothing if not careful. The police had never gotten a
single shred of evidence against him. As ruthless as he was loyal, no one ever
betrayed the old man. Ciara herself would go to jail in a heartbeat before
breathing a word against him. Because she knew he would do the same for her.

“This time it was one of
the
commissaires
who visited me. CPJ Lacroix. Angry as a hornet, he
was.”

“Jean-Marc?” she asked
uneasily. “He came here?”
How the hell...
? This was too close for
comfort.

Valois peered at her over
the rim of his jewelers loupe, brows raised. “Jean-Marc?”

She suddenly realized her
mistake.
Lord
. She gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, well, I actually met him
last night at the club.” She cleared her throat. “We danced. Before I realized
he was a cop, of course.”

Valois pursed his lips
and slowly regarded her. “A very attractive man,
non
? In a rough sort of
way.”

She picked up a
paper-thin Limoges porcelain teacup from the counter and examined it so she
didn’t have to meet his eyes. “I suppose.”

“Lacroix appears
regularly in the tabloids. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him from his
photos. Before you danced with him.”

She carefully set down
the delicate cup. “I don’t read the tabloids, Valois.”

He chuckled. “Sure you
don’t. And you don’t love how they’re treating you as the new Robin Hood.
Robbing from the rich...”

She rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah.” Over the past few months, the evening papers had grown quite fond
of the infamous
le Revenant
and his daring exploits against the spoiled
and privileged. But Ciara didn’t like the publicity. It only forced the cops to
concentrate harder on catching her. “Why would a police
commissaire
be
in the tabloids?”

Valois made one of those
Gallic clucking noises with his tongue. “A rather unsavory business several
years ago. He was lead detective on a case involving a high end car theft ring.
The ringleader was clever. A suspect, he played the helpful citizen to
perfection and deliberately befriended Lacroix during the investigation...then
betrayed him. Set him up to look corrupt and take the fall. Got away with a few
million euros before Lacroix realized what was happening. Then the thief
disappeared without a trace, and Lacroix went through hell trying to prove his
innocence. The tabloids had a field day with him. They still like to give him a
hard time.”

“That’s awful,” she said.
She might be a thief, but she always went out of her way to choose wealthy
targets who could afford the loss. And she would never implicate another person
for her thefts. “Whatever happened to honor among thieves?”

Valois gave her a
fatherly smile. “
Commissaire
Lacroix is the law. The enemy. Best not to
forget that,
ma petite
.”

“I know. But it was still
a fucked up thing to do, and the papers should leave him alone.”

“His face on the front
page sells copies.” Valois tipped his head and studied her. “Ciara, you haven’t
developed
un penchant
for the man, have you?”

 Her mouth dropped open.
Was
she that transparent?
“Me? God, no.”

“Letting your guard down
around him could prove very dangerous. Don’t let Lacroix’s masculine allure or
his bumpy history blind you to how good he is at his job. The man is
formidable
.
One slip and he’ll be on your tail quick as a viper’s strike.
Because
of
his history.”

Her friend’s words
sobered her. “Yes. I’ll remember that. What did he want with you this morning?”

Valois lifted his
shoulders expansively. “The usual. Threatened that anyone who helped
le
Revenant
would go down for even longer than he did, when he was caught.”

She relaxed a smidgen.
“Well, I’ll be more worried when they figure out they’re chasing a woman.”

Valois chuckled. “I’d
like to be a fly on
that
wall.”

“How much is the bracelet
worth?” she asked, after he finished examining the piece and stowed it in a
velvet bag.

“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.”

“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.

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.”