The French Detective's Woman (5 page)

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
en tendre
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.”

Chapter 3

“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
Dieu
, 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 ami
. Seems like the perfect solution. Go on, make the call to the American Embassy.”

Jean-Marc snorted. “The embassy? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“The law enforcement liaison posted there—”

“Couldn’t find his ass in a paper bag. Remember that kidnapping case two years ago? We’d found the girl and sent her home to mama before they’d even gotten through their red tape to start an investigation.”

Pierre pursed his lips expressively. “Yeah. Okay. So try the university.”

“Which one? She only said she was a student. Not where.”

“Call them all.”

In the end, he threw up his hands and did just that. As it turned out, it was ridiculously easy to find her. Thank God for computers. The only American student named Ciara in all of Paris was conveniently enrolled at the Sorbonne. Ciara Alexander. Born thirty-one years ago. Sounded about right. He’d figured her to be about ten years younger than his own forty-three. Pushing it, but... Ah, well. A man was entitled to a midlife crisis wasn’t he? At least she wasn’t
twenty
-one.

The registrar had no qualms handing over her current address to a cop.

“Phone number?” he asked.

“Sorry, none listed.”

“Can you fax me over her application? Including her picture?”

“Certainly,
commissaire
. What did she do?”

“
Pas rien
. She’s just a possible witness to a crime and I’d like to speak to her. Nothing more.”

When the fax machine spit out her grainy photo, his body gave a leap of excitement. Definitely the same woman. So much for having something to hide. If that were the case, she’d never have given him her real name.

Now all he had to do was go to her place and ask for a repeat performance of their amazing sex.

Beg if he had to.

Pierre poked his head in the doorway. “Find her?”

“I did.”

Pierre’s eyes went reverently skyward. “
Merci Dieu
. So I won’t expect you in till late tomorrow. Hopefully in a better mood.” He ducked out, then right back in. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a nice snap of you two in the evening rag.” He tossed a rolled-up newspaper onto Jean-Marc’s desk. “Just the right touch for your already legendary reputation, I thought.”

With that he disappeared again. Jean-Marc glanced at the clock as he plucked up the newspaper. Past quitting time. He spread the roll flat, and stared at it in shock.

On the front page was a photo of himself with his arm around Ciara Alexander as they emerged from
Club LeCoeur
. He was looking down at her with a secretive little smile, and she was smiling back, her lips just puffy enough and her hair and dress just disheveled enough to look as though they’d been doing exactly what they’d been doing.

Then he read the headline:
Dutch Princess Robbed!
And the caption under the photo:
Commissaire Lacroix Too Busy To Foil Le Revenant!

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and cursed.