The Paris Caper (7 page)

Pierre nodded. “Right.
But why do we care?” he asked, adding his own feet to the clutter on the desk.

“The OCBC does good
police work. We use witnesses, forensics, we find patterns, we find outlets,
and all of that leads us to the subject and if we’re lucky we make an arrest.”

“But...?”

‘None of that is working
with
le Revenant
.”

“True enough.”

“Witnesses agree on
nothing, he leaves behind no evidence, the fences are mute, and the only
pattern that has emerged is that there seems to be no pattern to his work.
Other than what he steals—jewels.”

“Which means we have to
dig deeper.”

Jean-Marc nodded, folding
his hands over his stomach. “Exactly. His early thefts might tell us where he
lives. Criminals work in patterns, within a comfort zone. But this guy has
already moved beyond that now. He’s a seasoned veteran. His pattern looks
random and he’s comfortable all over France. If we can find out where and how
he got started, we might learn something useful. Something that could lead us
in the right direction.”

Pierre’s brows rose.
“You’re talking about
profiling
a
thief
?”

“Why not? Hell, nothing
else is working.”

“You predicted his last
target.”

“Yeah, but that was a
gimme. A flashy princess dripping with diamonds is too obvious to miss. Next
time it won’t be so easy, trust me.”

“Even the best criminals
eventually make mistakes,” Pierre offered.

“But how long will we
have to wait for that to happen? We don’t have that kind of time.”

“So, what are you
suggesting?”

He dropped his feet back
on the floor and leaned forward. “Start with what we know and work backwards.
We need to get inside his head. Find out what makes him tick. That’s the only
way we’re going to catch him.”

Pierre shot him a glance.
“I think that FBI seminar you took last year in the States has you brainwashed.
Besides, you already think far too much like a perp. It’ll only get you in
trouble with Belfort again.”

Jean-Marc gave a half
smile. “Perhaps.”

After a short pause,
Pierre said, “You know, Marc, you have nothing to prove. Everyone has forgotten
about that incident.”

His smile faded. “Belfort
hasn’t,” he drawled. “And neither have I. But this has nothing to do with
that.”

A lie
. His wanting
to solve this case had
everything
to do with screwing up on that other
one five years ago. He’d been made a fool of, the object of pity and jokes
throughout the whole division.

This thief was his ticket
to redemption. One way or another.

Pierre sighed. “
Bon
.
Please just don’t start obsessing. Treat this like any other case.”

“I’m not obsessing. I’m
determined,” Jean-Marc said. “There’s a difference.”

Or so he told himself.

His friend regarded him,
then sighed. “
D’accord
. So, where do we start?
Putain
, there have
to be thousands,
tens
of thousands, of petty thefts every year. How do
we know what to look for?”

Jean-Marc got up and
started to pace behind his desk. “We’ll need to map his patterns of behavior.
Tendencies such as time of day he prefers to work, days of the month, venues,
anything else that stands out as statistically significant. When we add that to
what we’ve already established about what he steals, we should be able to
follow him back in time, concentrating on the unsolved cases that match.”

“It won’t be easy,”
Pierre said, stroking his chin. “This guy does his research. His jobs are
obviously carefully targeted, as opposed to crimes of opportunity.”

“At least now they are.
Which is good. Totally random would be much harder to follow backwards.”

“I suppose.”

“The other thing I
noticed is, the value of the jewelry has been steadily rising. I’d like to know
why. Is his confidence rising, or is it his need that’s rising for some
reason?”

“Drugs, maybe?”

Jean-Marc stopped pacing
and shook his head. “No. He’s far too organized and contained for an addict.
Which is why I think we have a real shot at figuring this out.
Something
is driving him. When we find that, we’ll have the bastard.”

Pierre rose as well,
flipping the chair back around. “In that case, we’d better get to it.”

Jean-Marc grabbed a short
stack of files off his desk. “First stop, the archives. To order up all the
unsolved robbery cases from all over the country for the past five years.”

Pierre choked on a laugh.
“Jesus, that’s going to make us popular.”

Jean-Marc snickered.
“Hope you’re not still trying to chat up what’s-her-name down there? Nicole?”

Pierre made a pained face
as they walked out together. “Guess I can kiss her goodbye, eh?”

“
Désolé,
mon vieux
.”

“Sure
you’re sorry.
Speaking of which, how did it go last night with your
latest female obsession? You were in awful early this morning.”

Jean-Marc ignored the
involuntary curl of anger in his gut at the mention of Ciara. “I didn’t speak
to her.”

Pierre looked surprised.
“But why? I thought you were in love!”

“She’s not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She promised to call me.
She didn’t. Besides, I don’t need the distraction. Especially now, taking over
this damn case.”

Pierre lifted a palm.
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but after we’re done in the archives,
you’ll
have
to call her.”

Jean-Marc halted at the
elevator and stabbed the down button. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because you took over
this case. She was a witness to the robbery last night. We’re in charge now,
mon
ami
, and I don’t intend to lose my job just because your male ego got
bruised. She may have seen something. We’re interviewing her, and that’s that.”

Jean-Marc ground his jaw.
He really hated it when his partner was right. They couldn’t afford to ignore a
single witness. Especially one who’d danced as close to the robbery victim all
night as they had done. He may have had eyes only for her, but obviously she
didn’t share his blinders.

“I don’t have a phone
number,” Jean-Marc said, still looking for a reasonable way out.

“Then we’ll go to her
place.”

His stomach tightened at
the thought. Could he see her again without doing something monumentally
stupid? He sincerely doubted it. But Pierre was correct. She had to be
interviewed. Even if it would strain his self-control.

“Okay, fine,” he gritted
out. “But
you’re
asking the questions. If I open my mouth I’m liable to
get us both in trouble.”

Every time there was a
knock at her door, panic skimmed up Ciara’s spine. This time was no exception.

Firmly, she pushed the
fear into the far corner of her insides where she normally kept it at bay. She’d
already taken the diamonds to Valois. There was no reason to panic, regardless
of who was knocking.

Nevertheless, she swept a
quick glance over her tiny living room, making sure nothing incriminating was
lying out in the open. No stolen goods. No bits of elaborate disguises. No
maps, floor plans or notes for her next job.

“Who is it?” she called.

“
Police
Nationale
,” came a loud male voice.

Panic tore
back through her veins, this time for real, riding on a burst of adrenaline.
How
had they found her
? The police had never been to her apartment before.
Never!

What should
she do?
Fight or flight
?

Neither.
Answer
the man.

“
Oui
?”
she called. The word cracked in half and she had to clear her throat. “What do
you want?” she asked in French dosed with a deliberate American accent.

“Open the door
madamoiselle
,
s’il vous plait
.”

With a final check
around, she took a steadying breath and plastered what she hoped was an
innocent expression on her face. Then she opened the apartment door.

And froze. A familiar man
in a suit stood there in the cramped hallway, holding up a credentials wallet.
It was Jean-Marc’s friend from
Club LeCoeur
. A holstered gun peeked out
from his jacket, tucked under his arm.

“Sorry to disturb you,
mademoiselle
,
but we need to ask you some questions about last night.”

Oh, sweet Jesus
.

“We?” she croaked, for
some reason homing in on the pronoun he’d used. She fought to get her brain
back into working order. Surely, Jean-Marc hadn’t—

Her heart stood still as
her lover emerged from behind the central stairwell.
Oh, God
.

“You remember
Lieutenant
Rousselot,” Jean-Marc said evenly. “And me,
peut être
?” His eyebrow
flicked up infinitesimally.

She made herself say, “Of
course.”

Lieutenant
Rousselot stepped forward again, insinuating himself into the small space
between them. He smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then you won’t mind if we come in
and talk for a few minutes?”

“Well, actually, I—”

Too late. Rousselot was
already walking past her. Jean-Marc also stepped through the narrow doorway,
silently crowding her into the tiny living room with his towering bulk. His
eyes were hot, volatile, as he shut the door firmly behind them and leaned his
back against it. Trapping her.

She smoothed her hand
down her thin blue skirt, suddenly wishing she were wearing something a lot
more substantial than the flimsy camisole she’d put on hoping to beat the
summer heat.

“Why are you here?” she
asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

He didn’t answer, but
flicked his gaze to his partner.

“We need to ask you about
last night,” Rousselot said, his smile widening. It seemed incongruously
genuine. “We want to know exactly what you did at the club.” He looked at her
expectantly.

This couldn’t be
happening
. “I, um...”

“Yes, I know you were—”
he made one of those expressive Gallic gestures with shoulders, hands and face
“—busy...with
Commissaire
Lacroix, but we hoped you might remember
something. Anything. You two were dancing close to the princess before the
bracelet went missing. Any little detail you could recall would help tremendously.”

Help?

She regarded him for a
moment, letting the sweet rush of relief sink in. He was treating her as a
witness.

Not a suspect
.

Her gaze stuttered to
Jean-Marc for a brief second. His face was expressionless, except for his
turbulent eyes... He stood like an angry statue guarding the door. Clearly, he
had a different agenda than his partner.

“Naturally I’ll try,
Lieutenant
,”
she said, gathering her wits.

“Please. Call me Pierre.”

She gestured to the
miniscule main room of the apartment, which suddenly seemed even more dwarfed,
filled to bursting by these two giant men. “Won’t you sit down...both of you?
Something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea? Beer?”

Ignoring her offer,
Jean-Marc folded his arms across his chest and studied the apartment, such as
it was. The Latin Quarter had been built in the Middle Ages, and the size of
the apartments hadn’t grown since. Her entire space was maybe two-hundred
square feet, on a really hot day.

“
Merci, non
,”
Pierre said, but he sat down on the sofa.

Nervously, Ciara took a
seat in the mismatched easy chair. Both pieces of furniture were old, probably
Victorian, and not really her style. But they’d come with the apartment, along
with the two bedroom pieces. Someday she’d buy furniture of her own, but this
surprise visit reminded her vividly of why she hadn’t, yet.

“I don’t know what I can
tell you,” she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. “I wasn’t
really paying attention to anything except—” She darted a glance at Jean-Marc,
and felt her face go hot.

Thank goodness he was
still ignoring her, now perusing the collection of books on her one shelf and
the few paintings on her walls—mostly interpretive copies of well-known
artists, done by Sofie.

Pierre gave her a grin.
“I understand.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a manila envelope,
from which he extracted several sheets of glossy paper with rows of photos
printed on them. “Perhaps you can look through these, tell me if you recognize
anyone.”

She leafed through them,
recognizing several people from the club last night. Presumably the photos were
taken from a video surveillance camera at the entrance.

“Tell me what you
remember about them,” he urged. “One at a time.”

One thing Valois had
taught her well, always stick to the truth as far as you can. Cops were real
sticklers for detail. If you lied unnecessarily about something small, they’d
be all over it like sharks on blood, circling in for the kill.

So she told the truth
about everyone and everything, including about her and Jean-Marc. With the one
small omission—that she was the thief they were looking for. It took her over
half an hour to go through everything, making sure to occasionally stumble over
her French. Her flawless language skills were a big part of her usual
disguises; a vital fact to keep from the police.

As she spoke, Pierre
wrote in a pocket notebook and Jean-Marc continued to prowl wordlessly around,
examining everything in sight. At one point she heard him open the door to her
bedroom, which was behind her, and go in. Her pulse skittered. What was he
doing in there? Would he find anything? No. She was always careful to put
things away.