The French Detective's Woman (29 page)

She didn’t do a single suspicious thing.

Which was exactly what made Jean-Marc suspicious.

Pierre thought he was crazy. But hadn’t objected too strenuously when he suggested they implement Pierre’s old suggestion and try to flip one of the Orphans. They needed an inside source, and Jean-Marc hadn’t missed how his partner cast admiring glances at CoCo every time they’d run into the feisty girl over the past two years. She was now eighteen, had blossomed into quite the young woman, and started casting her own glances back. A match made in cop heaven. Jean-Marc didn’t even feel guilty. Much.

A rap of knuckles tapped on the car window. Jean-Marc reluctantly looked up through the driver’s side of the Saab, which today he’d parked directly across from the Orphans’ front entrance. Ciara stood there holding a Styrofoam cup. She made a circular motion with her fingers, indicating he should roll down the window, which he did. He kept his expression carefully neutral.

“Hi,” she said. “Been sitting here a while. Thought you might like some coffee.” She held it up to him.

“
Non
,
merci
. I’ll just have to piss.”

“Charming.” Her lip curled infinitesimally. “You could come up to the apartment. The kids are all gone.”

He knew that. He’d watched as one by one they went off to their jobs, and Davie to his photography class. He also knew that none of them would be home for several hours.

“
Non
,
merci
,” he said coolly. “Was there anything else?”

She squatted down and folded her arms across the window opening. He could smell her hair. Her perfume. He wanted to plug his nose.

“Why are you watching us, Jean-Marc?”

“I’m watching
you
,” he corrected harshly.

“Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“To make sure you don’t,” he said. He was having a difficult time controlling his anger. And his hurt. He needed her gone. Far away from him.

“Jean-Marc I swear—”

In a flash he had his hand firmly around the base of her throat. The foam cup tumbled from her fingers and splattered on the pavement.

“Don’t lie to me, Ciara.
Never
lie to me again.”

She licked her lips. Then slowly leaned toward him. He could smell the spilt coffee, and the scent of her skin. Helpless, he watched her come closer and closer. For some reason his hand felt paralyzed and wouldn’t stop her.

Her warm mouth settled on his. After a moment her tongue slipped between his lips. He tasted her. And battled back a groan.

Her hand was on his cheek, her thumb on his chin. She tugged down and his mouth opened, letting her in.

Non
!

Too late. His senses swirled and he started to weaken.

“
Je t’aime
,” she whispered. “
Me fier
. Please, Jean-Marc. Trust me.”

He jerked back. Stunned. Only a fool would believe she loved him. And
trust her
? He saw red. How
dare
she!

But before he could lash out, she straightened and started to back up. “Go away, Jean-Marc. Please. Leave us alone, I beg you.”

Slamming his eyes shut, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, controlling his fury. He counted to ten, then opened his eyes and shouted after her, “I will not go away, Ciara! So think very carefully before doing whatever it is you’re planning. Because I
will
put you back in jail. And that’s a goddamn promise!”

Chapter 24

Ciara believed Jean-Marc.

The man was as tenacious as a junkyard dog and just as incorruptible. So it was a damned good thing she didn’t plan on letting Jean-Marc catch her doing anything illegal. She would keep her activities innocuous and her fingers idle. Right up until the big laydown. And then forever afterward.

Her only hope was that someday he would forgive her for deceiving him. And for what she was about to do. She truly had no choice. Louis Beck was not going away. But everyone had their price. And she was counting on twelve million being Beck’s.

Half an hour after kissing Jean-Marc, she checked the drab second-hand dress Davie had picked up for her at Guerrisol yesterday, patted her unfashionable mousy-brown wig, picked up her string grocery bag and shuffled through the front gate. Without sparing the Saab a second glance, she moved at just the right unconcerned pace for a downtrodden housewife out to buy ingredients for supper, until she was around the corner. Then she hurried straight to the
métro
and made for Valois’s antique shop. This was one time she didn’t want Jean-Marc following her. She’d be back within an hour, well before he’d notice she was gone.

“
Ma petite
,” Valois greeted her, grinning. “I hardly recognized you.”

She grinned back. “Admit it, you
didn’t
recognize me. Not until I started tapping my foot because you were ignoring me for so long.”

He made a face and ushered her into the back, then down through the tunnel into his secret rooms. “You do have a gift for disguises.”

“Maybe I can get a job as a costume designer with the movies when I go straight.”

He chuckled. “Or your CIA.”

She choked. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Too sensible?
Et voilà
,” he said, spreading out a set of blueprints on the work table. “Plans for the
Casino Palais d’Or
in Cannes.” He sighed. “And may I go on record as saying I think you are completely out of your mind?”

“So noted.” She pulled three color brochures from her string purse and unfolded them on top of the blueprints. “Okay, next month during the film festival in Cannes there are going to be several important exhibitions. But the ones that interest us are these.” The first brochure bore a photo of a lavish painting in shades of blue and purple. “One of Monet’s famous nymphea series will be displayed in the salon area of the Casino Palais d’Or. The canvas is small, with only two men guarding it in a very crowded room. Value: twelve million dollars. And it’s blue.” She looked up with a grin. “Sofie’s favorite color. She’s already practicing water lilies on the bathroom walls.”

Valois rolled his eyes. “You’ll never get close to it.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Next—” she opened up the second brochure “—the infamous so-called Anastasia Faberge Egg. Discovered two years ago by a movie crew in an old barn while filming in Poland a few kilometers from the Russian border. A mythology has sprung up around the fabulously beautiful egg that it was left behind by the Russian Princess Anastasia on her flight from the evil red army after they killed her parents and family, and left her for dead, too.”

“Complete nonsense,” muttered Valois. “She was shot just like the rest of them. The egg was no doubt dropped by some unfortunate Jew fleeing from the Nazis.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “Or even salted by the film producer himself, looking to cash in on some great publicity.”

“You’re even more cynical than I am,” he chuckled. “Where would he have gotten such a treasure?” She darted him a wry look and he threw up his hands with a grin. “Ah. Of course. Silly me.”

“Anyway, it is, coincidentally, also valued at twelve million dollars. Though the producer refuses to sell it. This setup is even easier. Locked in a bullet-proof, bomb-proof polymer display case, it has only one guard.”

He picked up the third brochure and asked, “So what’s the third option? I see nothing to steal in this one.”

It was a list of the visiting celebrities and VIPs slated to attend the various festival events. She pointed to a name listed next to the reception for the South American film contingent.

“Look. Here.”

He peered at the name, then sucked in a horrified breath. “Jose Villalobo!? The Columbian drug czar? You must be joking! What could you possibly—” His eyebrows disappeared into his scalp—or would have if he hadn’t been almost bald. “
Non
. Do not mess with that man—
or
his wife’s jewels. At best, you’ll end up as shark bait in the middle of the Atlantic. Villalobo is dangerous. As ruthless as they come. He’s a psychopath!”

“True. But he’s a psychopath with diamonds. Unmarked conflict diamonds. Worth...wait for it...twelve million dollars on the open market. It’s a sign, Valois.”

“Ciara! You’re planning to steal
blood diamonds
from Jose Villalobo?” Valois actually crossed himself. “How do you know about these diamonds?”

“Etienne’s family runs a couple of the docks in Marseille. I remembered they worked with Villalobo in the past when he first started gaining notoriety, bringing in his drugs off the freighters when his regular channels were too hot. When I saw his name on the guest list for Cannes, I made a few phone calls. Seems he acquired a large stash of conflict diamonds in a turf takeover recently. He’s looking to exchange them. Thought I’d save him the trouble.” She winked.

“
Non
!
Non, non, ma petite
. I cannot allow this.” He shook his head vigorously. “
Mon Dieu
. I’ll turn you in to
Commissaire
Lacroix myself if you persist with this insanity. Better for you to be safely in prison than...”

He didn’t finish. His face had gone white as the paper the blueprints were printed on, and the veins pulsing in his temples matched the blue of the drawings. His hand shook as he rubbed it over his forehead.

She felt such a rush of affection for the old man she pulled him into a heartfelt hug. “It’s okay, Valois. I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

That was the second time within as many hours she’d asked a man she loved to trust her, she thought ruefully. And the second time she’d lied. By the time this job was over, she’d have done a lot worse than lie. Did the end justify the means? She sure as hell hoped so.

Valois sighed, looking bleak. “I do trust you,
ma petite
. It’s Villalobo I don’t trust. If you value my health...and your own...you’ll stick with the Monet.”

♥♥♥

Sofie was doing much better. Over the next week she came out of her shell more and more, talking and even smiling as Ciara took her on walks and encouraged her to practice painting water lilies. It seemed to be therapeutic. All four walls of the bathroom were now littered with the beautiful lilac blossoms. Even Sofie’s Hand of Fatima signature above the bathtub had a lotus flower blooming in its palm. She really was very talented, Ciara thought proudly. Nobody would mistake the mural for a real Monet, but Sofie’s lilies were just as gorgeous in their own unique way.

While Sofie painted, the rest of them studied the blueprints of the
Casino Palais d’Or
and meticulously formulated several working scenarios for each of the three job possibilities.

Before deciding for sure, they had to visit the casino in person, to get the lay of the land. Ciara knew one could never rely on blueprints. Things changed during construction. Things changed after a business opened. Layouts changed. Decorating changed. Security changed. She’d learned never to take anything for granted. And with their whole future riding on this one night, she wasn’t about to start now.

“Tomorrow morning, you and CoCo leave for work as usual so Jean-Marc doesn’t get suspicious, but take the early flight to Marseille,” she told Hugo. “Talk to your uncle about Villalobo and the diamonds. Find out everything you can. Dig deep.”

Hugo and Etienne’s Uncle Jacques was the current leader of the Alexander crime clan—the godfather, as it were. Nothing happened in Marseille that he didn’t know about...and probably had a finger in. He’d know all about Villalobo, and she trusted Jacques completely. He was family.

“Should I tell him what we’re planning?”

“Best you do. But not a word to anyone else,” Ciara said. “Villalobo undoubtedly has informers everywhere. Even within the clan.”

Hugo nodded uncertainly. “Are you sure about this Ciara?”

The only thing she was sure of was that she was scared to death she wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But the Orphans didn’t need to know that.

“We’ll all make the final decision together when we’ve gathered our information,” she said confidently, then turned to the others. “Meanwhile, Davie, Ricardo and Sofie should take the morning bullet train to Marseille, then go directly on to Cannes. I’ll take the noon flight to Marseille. I assume Lacroix will be tailing me, so I’ll lead him back to Madame Felicité’s place. He’s been there before and won’t be surprised. CoCo, you have everything ready, okay?”

CoCo gave her a lopsided grin. “Oh, never you worry. The girls will take good care of him for you.”

“We’re just locking him up, CoCo. Nothing else.”

He’d be mad as a hornet by the time the girls let him out. But she couldn’t have him following her to Cannes. If he found out their plans, it would be all over.

Nope. He was not going to like being taken prisoner one bit. Unless of course, when she returned, she found a way to soothe the sting of his anger....

♥♥♥

The next morning, everything went off without a hitch.

It was a lovely April day, warm and sunny after the gray, rainy days that had gone before, so Ciara decided to wear a sassy little vintage YSL sundress she’d picked up at a flea market on one of her morning wanderings with Sofie. Classic, yet sexy. Just the thing to warm Jean-Marc’s arctic gaze. Well, right up until the part where they locked him up for the day.

She sashayed up to the Saab, which was parked out front as usual, knocked on the passenger door for him to unlock it—cops, always so security-minded—and when he did, she got in, sliding her case onto the floor.

“I’m going to the airport,” she said with a brilliant smile. “Why don’t you save us both some time and give me a ride.” She crossed her legs, making sure the dress slipped way up her thigh.

“Leaving the country?” he asked, giving her outfit a clinical once-over, ending with the small case by her feet.

“Marseille,” she said evenly. “Family reunion. I’ll be back tonight. You could pick me up if you’re really that worried.” She flashed him her e-ticket, and he took it from her. “Surely, you aren’t going to follow me all the way to Marseille?”