The Paris Caper

by Nina Bruhns

  “Forget it. I’m obviously barking up the wrong tree.”

  After a slight hesitation she said, “Yes. But not for the reasons you think.”

  “And you’re not going to enlighten me, are you?” he said mockingly. Frustration surged through his veins.

  She shook her head, having the grace at least to look miserable.

  “Bon.” He didn’t need this crap. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to know. As of now he was washing his hands of the whole merdier. “Let’s go. Sofie’s waiting.”

  He led her through security, and then on to the reception desk where he handed her a pen and made her fill out a personal info sheet.

  “I want Mademoiselle. Alexander’s street address verified before she leaves today,” he told the desk officer as she started to write. “She’s given me false information before,” he added when she looked taken aback, and returned a flat what-did-you-expect-? smile.

  He might never darken her door again, but he wanted her to know he knew exactly where her door was, and that he could walk through it and fuck her anytime he wished.

  Because regardless of her outraged glare, they both knew she wouldn’t stop him.

  Jamming his hands in his trouser pockets, he kept the cold front going the whole way up to the interview room, refusing to meet her gaze.

  Dieu. He wasn’t sure he liked this new side of himself that she was bringing out. This obsessive, domineering bastard, determined to assert his power over her. He didn’t approve of hypothalamic macho behavior, especially in himself. But with Ciara it was purely instinctual. Whenever he was within two meters of the woman he was reduced to a single-cell testosterone-driven beast.

  Whatever. As soon as they were done with this interview, with any luck, he’d be quit of her forever and could get back to his uncomplicated paid companions. The sex might not be as good, but at least they could be relied upon.

  He allowed her to sit in on the interview with Sofie. After Pierre got the tape rolling—all interviews were recorded—and took care of the preliminaries, Jean-Marc opened the folder in front of him, extracted a photo of the replacement Picasso and slid it in front of Sofie.

  “Tell me about this.”

  “Wh-What about it?”

  He folded his hands on the table and raised his voice—just slightly. He could do bad cop. “I want to know who you painted it for.”

  Her eyes got a little wild. “I-I didn’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sofie,” he said harshly. “I’m really sick of being lied to today.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Why are you doing this? You were so nice at the café.” Her voice wavered convincingly.

  Silently, he counted to five. “I am being nice. I’m giving you the opportunity to come clean.” He bent forward, gazing at her earnestly. “I’m not interested in arresting you. I want the man you painted this for. Help me and you walk out of here, no other questions asked.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Before she could get the words out, he slammed his palms on the table. She practically jumped out of her chair. Swiping up a print of the x-ray of the ghost signature from the file, he slapped it down in front of her. “Talk before I lose my patience!”

  Her eyes got wide as saucers, then she turned desperately to Ciara, who was staring at the image, mouth open.

  “What is this?” Ciara asked.

  “It’s a ghost.”

  The blood drained from her face, leaving it porcelain pale. “A...a what?”

  Jean-Marc’s eyes narrowed. This was not the reaction he’d expected.

  “A ghost. Of Sofie’s signature on the painting.” He explained briefly what that meant. “It was discovered by our forensics team under the fake Picasso left at the Michaud’s the night of the robbery. Any comment?”

  Ciara glanced up at him nervously, then back to the x-ray. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she said after clearing her throat. “He’s a thief. He must have stolen the picture and painted over this part himself.”

  “You think?” Jean-Marc said dryly. She was good on her feet, he had to give her that.

  “He must have.”

  “Are you by any chance missing a painting?” he asked Sofie.

  The girl swallowed and shook her head, looking more and more desperate to bolt. “Non.”

  “Tell me, Sofie. How many artists besides yourself do you know sign their paintings with a Hand of Fatima?”

  He guessed none.

  But Ciara cut in before Sofie could answer. “The Hand of Fatima is a common talisman among Middle Eastern women. Women who are often bullied and cowed by the men who think they own them.” She glowered at him for a moment, then continued, “There are probably dozens of immigrant women in Paris alone who hide their talent by not signing their work. Or using a symbol such as this instead of her name.”

  For a moment he studied their bruises, weighing the possibilities. “To avoid a beating?”

  “What?” Her eyes flared in surprise. “Yes. Or worse.”

  The slow burn that had simmered in his gut since seeing her battered face flared hot. “Is that what happened?” he asked.

  Ciara blinked. Sofie looked puzzled.

  “No. Because Sofie didn’t paint this picture,” Ciara repeated. “And you can’t prove she did, or you’d already have arrested her.” She got to her feet, pulling Sofie up by the elbow. “We’re done answering your questions,” she said.

  With that, she marched Sofie out of the room.

  ♥♥♥

  Ciara’s high heels clacked decisively on the linoleum as they retreated to the elevator. With a sigh, Pierre formally ended the interview and punched off the recorder. “That went well.”

  “The girl’s guilty as hell,” Jean-Marc said consideringly.

  “Yeah, but as the lady said, proving it might be difficult.”

  Jean-Marc grabbed the phone and called downstairs. “The two women I interviewed are on their way out. I want them tailed. Both of them.”

  “Yes, Commissaire.”

  “You verified Mlle. Alexander’s address?”

  “Yes, sir. I did quick background checks on them, too. I put the files in your incident room.”

  After ejecting the cassette from the recorder, he and Pierre went directly there. He made himself pick up Sofie’s file instead of Ciara’s.

  It was pretty thin. She’d been hauled in to a Paris nick once at age thirteen for solicitation, at which time her parents had been called, but by the time her father and uncle arrived she’d managed to slip out a side door. The reporting officer had not been impressed with her father. “A first-generation Algerian with a nasty temper who wanted his daughter back solely to punish her for disobeying and bringing shame on his name. The uncle looked like a professional wrestler. She’ll probably live longer on the streets,” was his conclusion. Which explained why there’d been no follow-up with Social Services.

  “Wow,” Pierre muttered, flipping through the other file.

  “What?”

  “You know she was married?”

  Jean-Marc glanced up with a frown. “Sofie? She’s sixteen.”

  “Ciara.”

  For a second he couldn’t breathe. “What are you talking about?”

  “Some petty gangster. French. Married her fourteen years ago in New York City. That’s why she came to France.”

  Ciara was married? “Thirteen years?” To a gangster? His mind scrambled back to her apartment, before she’d skipped out. No men’s things. He’d made special note of that. “I thought she was here on a student visa.”

  Pierre flipped some more. “Nope. Says here permanent resident permit thanks to marrying a French citizen.”

  She’d lied.

  Oh, what a shock.

  “Not exactly a model citizen, though. He was part of the Alexander crime family down south. I didn’t make the connection before, her being American and all.”

  Jean-Marc suddenly remembered her bruises. “Where is the prick no
w?”

  Pierre pursed his lips. “Dead. Killed ten years ago in a shoot-out with the local constabulary in Marseille.”

  Well, that explained her aversion to cops.

  All at once, the impact of Pierre’s full statement registered. Jean-Marc glanced over to the map of France on the wall. The one full of colored push-pins. He stiffened. “Marseilles?”

  “Mmm-hmm. He had quite a rap sheet. Robbery, extortion, car theft, assault.”

  Robbery... Theft.

  “Marseilles?”

  And we know where he’s from...

  A horrible thought crept into Jean-Marc’s head. His brain spun with it, making him dizzy. Ten years ago in Marseille... A petty criminal being killed by the police could easily make that man’s wife start down the same path....

  I’m not who you think I am.

  Non. This was crazy. Insane.

  Pierre looked up. At once aware. “Yeah, Marseille. What about it?”

  I’m barking up the wrong tree. Yes. But not for the reasons you think.

  Jean-Marc’s whole body went weightless, like he’d just jumped out of a jet with no parachute.

  Airless. Suffocating.

  Shaking.

  Two plus two always adds up to four. Now tell me what you’re doing that’s illegal.

  “Does it say when she moved to Paris?” he asked. Praying just once his cop instincts would be wrong.

  That it wasn’t what he was thinking.

  She was a woman, he reminded himself.

  He’d fucked her.

  She couldn’t...

  “Hmm.”

  He stood boneless while Pierre looked through the papers in the file.

  “She has to register every year with immigration,” Pierre murmured, drawing out the words. “Here it is. First mention of Paris was...nine years ago.”

  Nine years ago.

  Jean-Marc’s disbelieving gaze was drawn inexorably back to the map of Europe.

  He moved to Paris nine years ago. Started out snatching purses and lifting wallets on the train and métro. Eight years ago he switched to silver and jewelry, started refining his craft.

  Jesus.

  “At the apartment this evening,” he said in a controlled voice. “Did you ask the landlord when Sofie and the other kids had moved in there?”

  Pierre consulted his pocket notebook. “Ciara’s the one on the lease. She rented it four years ag—” Suddenly his eyes widened and darted to Jean-Marc’s. “Whoa. Mec. Surely, you don’t think—” Pierre swore softly at his expression.

  Putain. Putain de fucking merde.

  But he did think.

  The bottom fell out of his stomach. Totally.

  He was so screwed.

  “Pierre. It’s her.”

  “Non. Seriously, mec. It’s not possible.”

  But it was possible. It all fit. The timing. Her lowlife husband giving her the skills. The Orphans giving her the reason. Her being at the disco. Even the old lady. The facial recognition software had been right all along. Suddenly he realized what had been bothering him about that old lady. He’d seen her leave the soiree soon after arriving...in the same car that moments before had had a flat tire. Driven by a chauffeur who looked amazingly like one of the boys at the apartment on rue Daguerre.

  Jean-Marc had been played for a fool. Again.

  “It’s her,” he growled. “I’d bet my life on it. Ciara Alexander is le Revenant.”

  Chapter 13

  Words couldn’t begin to describe the rage that burned in Jean-Marc’s chest at Ciara’s betrayal.

  Duped. By a thief. Again.

  How the hell gullible was he?

  He bowed his head and gripped his temples with unsteady fingers, unable to look Pierre in the eye.

  “It’s not your fault,” Pierre said, ever the faithful friend.

  “What’s not my fault? Fucking my prime suspect?”

  “She wasn’t a suspect when you fucked her. Wasn’t even on the radar.”

  “But I should have known.”

  “How?”

  He dropped his fingers and drilled them through his hair. “I didn’t have to pay her.”

  Pierre regarded him long and hard. “That is so screwed up I’m not even going to address it. Get a grip. You really think Ciara’s le Revenant?”

  “Not a doubt in my mind.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  The fury in his heart prodded him like tiny demons with sharp pitchforks. The woman was toast.

  He swiped up his suit jacket. “Think I’ll go and pay our illusive Ghost a little visit.”

  ♥♥♥

  It took a couple of hours to calm Sofie down to the point where Ciara could leave the Orphans’ apartment. The girl had been hysterical from the time they’d left 36 Quai des Orfèvres until Davie had finally managed to coax a half tumbler of cognac down her throat a while ago.

  “I’m so sorry I signed the picture by mistake and painted over it,” she’d wailed over and over. “I had no idea they could do that with x-rays. And now he knows! He knows it was me who painted that fake Picasso!”

  “It doesn’t matter what he knows,” Ciara maintained patiently. “What counts is what he can prove. And he can prove nothing. As long as we stick to our story we’ll be fine.”

  Eventually she’d convinced Sofie that Jean-Marc could not arrest them.

  Now all she had to do was convince herself.

  Damn.

  She dragged herself up the six flights to the top floor apartment on rue Germain Pilon in the Pigalle she’d rented a few days earlier. She’d vowed never to live up here again, but unfortunately it was the only place she’d been able to find on such short notice. She waved tiredly to the landlady who lurked in the shabby doorway watching her with a suspicious frown.

  She should have paid more attention. But her face had started to throb and her lower back ached and all she could think of was the ancient claw-foot bathtub that had been the only bright spot about renting the dilapidated walk-up with peeling wallpaper and rotting window frames she now called home.

  She sighed with relief as she reached the door and inserted her skeleton key into the ridiculous sham that passed for a lock and turned it.

  “That was some performance,” a familiar male voice said behind her. A voice crackling with the kind of white-hot anger that could incinerate a body in its tracks.

  She whirled, barely stifling a scream as he stepped out of the shadows of the hallway. “Jean-Marc! What are you doing here?”

  He didn’t answer. Just smiled. Like a serpent.

  She took a step back. “What do you want?”

  The smile stretched. But not to his eyes. Not even close.

  Something was different about him. He seemed harder. Sharper. More...ruthless. He looked like he wanted to take her apart and eat her for supper. Or...maybe kill her.

  Fear, sudden and immobilizing, zinged through her.

  Oh, God.

  He knew. About her.

  “Are you going to invite me in, Ciara?”

  She shook her head. Unable to utter a word.

  No. Not inside. Not inside her apartment. Not inside her.

  He tugged the key from her trembling fingers and unlocked the door, swinging it wide. Silently he held it open for her and waited.

  She didn’t move. How had he found her?

  “What’s the matter, mon ange? Afraid of something I might find?”

  “L-Like what?” she stammered.

  He shrugged easily, but it was far from a casual gesture. Every muscle in his body was tense, his gaze on her hawk-like. “Jewelry. Silver. Paintings. Money.”

  Her heart literally stopped in her chest. Stupid as it was, she’d hoped she was wrong. But his description left no room for doubt.

  When her heart started up again, it felt heavy, painful, in her chest. She wanted to sink to the floor and weep. Not because she’d been found out. But because it was Jean-Marc who’d done it.

&n
bsp; She forced a laugh. “Hardly,” she said, gathering every bit of strength within her. As much as it would kill her to lie to him, she had to deny everything. It would do neither her nor the Orphans any good if she just rolled over and meekly went off to prison. “If I had jewels and money, would I be living in a dump like this?” she asked, gesturing at the surroundings. It was a definite step down, even from her postage-stamp Latin Quarter apartment.

  Something flitted through his eyes. Doubt?

  Yeah, right.

  “In that case,” he said, “you won’t mind if I have a look around?”

  She took a deep breath and strolled into the single room of the studio. “Knock yourself out.”

  He wouldn’t find anything. There was nothing to find. Certainly none of the stuff he was looking for. After switching apartments the other day, she’d even rented a locker at a local gym to keep her wigs and makeup and disguises in. This place was clean. As had been the Orphans apartment on rue Daguerre when they searched it earlier.

  Even so, her nerves were nearly in shreds by the time he’d finished examining every nook and cranny of the three-hundred year-old artist’s garret—every cupboard, behind every piece of furniture, even popping the windows open to look around outside them.

  If possible, he was even more furious when he ran out of places to tear apart. Luckily she didn’t have a lot of possessions to put back in place.

  He stalked up to where she was nervously sitting, planted his hands on the chair arms and leaned into her face. “You’re a very clever woman. But I take betrayal very personally. I will find evidence and put you behind bars, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She shrank away from the disgust in his tone. “Who’s betraying whom here?” she muttered.

  His eyes narrowed. “Nice try, baby. But if you thought seducing me would keep you out of prison, you’ve made a big mistake.”

  “Jean-Marc, it was you who seduced me,” she reminded him, stilling her shaking hands. “If you’ll recall, from the night we met I did everything I could to stay away from you.”

  His jaw clenched. “And now I know why. Because you are le Revenant.”

  There it was, out in the open. Her pulse sped.

  “No. Because I knew we would end badly. Please believe me, Jean-Marc. Whatever you think I’ve done, betraying you was never part of the plan. I would never betray someone I...like.”