by Ritter Ames
He laughed and pulled me close. “It was inspired, without a doubt.” He kissed me, and after a second I kissed him back. When we separated, he said, “Keep the alarm on, and don’t open the door for anyone. I mean that.”
“Will do,” I said, feeling a shiver race up my spine. “We’ll be busy packing anyway. Hey, can you bring me a bag of some kind to use for luggage? A duffle? Anything?”
“I’m sure I can find something.” He kissed my forehead and disappeared out the door.
Cassie sat cross-legged on the sofa, balancing the laptop with her knees. “There’s a flight in three hours with available seating, and another in four and a half hours. Should I book one or both of them?”
“I doubt we can make the one in three hours,” I said. “Jack plans on taking the long, long way to the airport, and it may be an hour before he gets back here anyway. Why don’t you book us on the later flight and see if there’s anything five hours or more out that offers an option. I’ll get my credit card to use for another booking.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I can use the corporate card and one of mine for the second round of booking. But seats are filling up, so we definitely do need to double book if I can get through using two cards and different carriers.”
I headed into the bedroom to pack, and Cassie brought me a carryon when she finished on the computer.
“Here you go,” she said. “I heard you ask Jack to bring you a bigger bag, but I have this one to spare. And if you need clothes to fill out the gaps in your wardrobe, I’m happy to share anything you need.”
“Thanks, Cass.” I had my belongings folded and laid out on the bed, so I could visibly see what items I lacked. “While I appreciate you trusting me with your things, given my history the past six months of losing luggage, I’m not sure it’s a good idea though.”
“I’m not worried,” she replied. “If getting your packed bags pinched by a murderer isn’t a world class case of lost luggage, I don’t know what is. I figure the trigger has already been pulled on your curse this time, and the things you borrow are effectively curse-proof.”
“Shh, not so loud,” I replied. “The curse might hear you.”
By the time Jack returned we were packed and ready to go. Well, I was packed once I moved the rest of the clothes and shoes I had stacked on the bed into the soft-sided bag he brought for me to use.
The drive to the airport was long but uneventful, and no one complained. We were all living on the “better safe than sorry” principle, I believed. Like we’d assumed, the first flight out wasn’t an option, but we made the second one with time to spare. Cassie had already phoned Monique but texted her the plane’s carrier, flight number, and ETA when we knew for sure which bird was taking us to Paris. I texted the same information to Nico.
“Now, you know if you need me in Paris, just call,” Cassie reminded us. “I feel kind of guilty going along with your plans to just hang out with my friend.”
“In the short term, this is much safer, and we’re nearly to the weekend already, so don’t feel the least guilty,” I said. “We have no idea how the Amazon is getting in and out of the country. Network while you’re there if it helps you feel like you’re working instead of vacationing. We want you close, but not too close to me until we have a better idea what’s happening.”
A young woman walked to join her boyfriend ahead of us in line, and Cassie gasped.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just realized what I noticed about the party cam views,” she said. “In the later views of the party, after you returned, there was a young woman who looked a lot like that girl there, and who stayed glued to the Russian’s wife. I watched that group a lot when I was there in the interim, and she was never with the wife’s entourage then. But she was easily the same size as the woman we watched the police chasing away from the house.”
“You think one of her friends was the thief?” Jack asked.
The PA came on and announced our plane was ready for boarding.
“I’m not positive, but I think I’m pretty sure,” Cassie said, grabbing her carryon and her purse. “I know that sounds weird but—”
“No, it sounds exactly right,” I said, following her lead. “High probability, but more evidence must be considered. What was she wearing?”
“I’m not sure. An emerald green dress, I think? She was a brunette. Danny should be able to tell because all the rest of the girlfriends stayed ringed around the wife the whole time. Well, a couple of them spiraled off short term. I’m assuming to use the ladies. But the posse stayed mostly in attendance the entire night.”
Jack had his phone out. “I’ll text Danny to follow up on this tomorrow. If the woman was the thief, do you think the wife was in on it?”
“I’d bet on it,” I said. “She was probably planning a little insurance fraud to build a personal slush fund. And I’ll bet only jewelry was supposed to be stolen.”
“Do you believe that’s why the wife disappeared when the cops showed up?” Jack asked, looking at his phone and texting as he talked.
“No, I think that was mostly due to her hitting cocaine in the bathroom. But she couldn’t have been happy to hear the bust was stolen too.” Then I reminded, “Don’t forget Danny doesn’t know about the bust, so don’t add that info to your text.”
“Absolutely. Thanks,” he said. “Williams is already suspicious because the thief’s bag looked like it held more than the reported missing jewelry. He’d be royally pissed off if he found out I wasn’t telling him everything.”
“Especially difficult when you can’t tell him how you know,” I replied.
Nico met us close to baggage claim, and Cassie spotted Monique nearby. Nico texted Cassie what hotel he had the three of us booked into for our stay, and she texted back Monique’s address. On the plane, the three of us had decided on regular check-in times we would all keep, no matter where we were each day. Just quick texts were enough. Once all the locations were exchanged, we promised to keep in touch and went our separate ways.
“From what I’ve been able to determine, Arlo is in the Montmartre area,” Nico explained. “But I have us booked in a luxury hotel more centrally located to everything. While a room in Montmartre might be more convenient for connecting with Arlo, until I know what he looks like I didn’t want to run the risk of him knowing who I am before I know how to spot him.”
“Right,” I agreed. We were in a rented Peugeot, and I scrambled for the grab handle above the car window. Nico drove as crazily as any native Parisian driver, which was probably tamer than the way he’d learned to drive in Italy when I thought about it. Regardless, I was glad I had a back seat and thought I might need to crawl into the floorboard. “Montmartre is almost like a village inside the Paris city limits. If he’s lived there a while, he could have all kinds of people spying for him and reporting back.”
“Did you tell Arlo we were coming?” Jack asked, putting his hand out to brace against the dashboard as Nico stomped hard on the brakes to keep from hitting the car in front of him after that driver halted unexpectedly.
But honestly, crazy driving aside, I could almost forget my anxiety by focusing on the view out of the windows. I didn’t think any city in the world was more beautiful at night than Paris. From the twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower to radiant light touching all the streets and buildings across the rest of the city, Paris was as beautiful as any woman could ever be. Oh, sure, the streets were made for military processions, and the monuments championed victories, but this city always made me think of a lovely, strong, feminine spirit.
“No,” Nico answered Jack. “As far as he knows Laurel is still waiting for permission from the London police.”
When we got checked into our hotel and the bellman took us up to our room, I saw Nico had really outdone himself on the booking. Paris was literally outside our balcony, with a distant v
iew of the Eiffel Tower, the lit-up pyramid of the Louvre, and the Tuileries Garden sat across the street. The night air was cool, but not so cold I wanted to step back inside. Jack joined me, wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin on my head. Things felt pretty perfect.
“We’re having breakfast right here in the morning,” I said. “Feeding our souls with positive vibes while we eat to feed our bodies.”
“I’ve already placed the order.”
I squeezed his hands. “Gotta tell you, Hawkes, you scare me sometimes with how well you know me.” Not that I had a clue even half the time about what he was thinking.
“We just like the same things,” he said.
Good enough, I thought. I twisted in his arms to face him, and our lips met. As I fell into the kiss I could feel Paris’ approval.
Seventeen
As planned the night before, Nico left early in the car to Montmartre, intending to network until he heard from Arlo. Jack and I finished breakfast and dressed in clothes we could comfortably walk in all day. I wore my hair up, hoping it made me look less like my internet image. But if that and a change in locale didn’t do the trick I’d be buying a dark wig like Jack suggested. The nearest Metro stop sat at the end of the block.
“I love Paris for so many reasons,” I said, as we held the handrail and made our way down to the train tunnels. “I think public transportation is one of my top three. So many gorgeous entrances.” I pointed to the unique decorations. “Look at this one with its gold and silver balls floating above us. You’re never more than five hundred meters from a Metro stop or another form of public transport. Though it almost seems a shame to ride the subway because it means you miss seeing the city when you do.”
“You realize you’re arguing both sides of your own issue.”
“Yes, I’m versatile that way.”
In minutes we had tickets, found our platform, and could see the light on the train hurtling toward us from its tunnel. I took a firmer hold of my Prada. Pickpockets seemed at their worst at points like this, often boarding with passengers, then grabbing bags and jumping off to escape just as the doors closed.
“Enjoy your Metro beauty moment,” Jack said. “But don’t complain when you have to climb all the stairs out at the Abbesses.”
“The bakery down the street won the best baguette in Paris award,” I said. “Knowing world-class bread is so close makes the stair climb worthwhile. President Macron even initiated a measure asking that the baguette receive a World Heritage cultural designation for France, like Italy accomplished for pizza from Naples.”
“Bet food is your number one reason for loving Paris.” He grinned.
“Of course. That’s a given.”
Because of the hilly region that comprised Montmartre, the Abbesses station was the deepest in the Paris Metro system. But oh, the views from Montmartre—spectacular. The only point higher than Montmartre was the Eiffel Tower. And because so much of Paris was flat, the view always seemed to go on forever.
When we came out at Montmartre, I acted like any tourist and turned in a circle to take it all in. What was once a small bohemian village on the hill had become one of the most famous areas of Paris, yet still retained its boho charm. In the past, the rolling hills were covered with vineyards, and more than two dozen windmills to ground grain for the residents’ bread. This was where the working classes and artists came to live, an attractive area to these groups because rents were low and wine priced cheaply. All the great artists called the hilly region home at some point: Lautrec, Renoir, Picasso, Van Gogh. Plaques around Montmartre pointed out the houses where famous artists lived, and at places like the Lapin Agile Cabaret, tourists learned how the smaller clubs catered to artists and gave them a place to hang out, while the better known Moulin Rouge Cabaret was more for the wealthy and the tourists. Sometimes, in small clubs, artists exchanged paintings for food or a pitcher of wine. Even Picasso bartered his art in this fashion when he went through his own starving artist phase while living and working in Paris.
I pulled a pair of sunglasses out of the Prada, and hoped they helped in my disguise, wondering if we’d have time for me to do some shopping to replace my missing clothes and see what new up-and-coming designers were making their name onto the scene. My fingers itched to pull out my overused credit card.
“Shall we head for Place du Tertre and see if we spot any artists we know?” Jack asked, lacing his fingers with mine as we strolled.
“Okay, but I don’t want to sit for any portraits—and especially no caricatures—no matter how much they try to twist our arms,” I said. The Place du Tertre was about a block from the Sacre-Coeur church and teemed with artists who created street art for tourists and offered their own studio works for sale each day. “If Arlo doesn’t make contact with Nico, we can hang out on the church steps later. Someone there likely knows him. I think half the population of Montmartre is on those steps most days.”
We took a few side trips a block or two off the main tourist routes and let the neighborhoods show us their charms. The houses weren’t the kind of stately Haussmann architecture that helped define the Latin Quarter. Here the designs were more wonderfully artistic, and each seemed to possess its own unique spirit.
“I adore how quiet it is in Montmartre,” I said.
“Yes, the twisty cobblestone streets discourage anyone from wanting to drive anywhere,” Jack said.
“I wonder why Nico decided we need a car. Parking here has to be difficult.”
“I’m glad he did. With all the unknowns in this case, it’s good to be certain we can make a fast getaway if necessary.”
Jack’s phone rang, and the screen showed it was a call from Danny. We moved into a little alleyway before he hit the speaker. “What did you find, Williams?”
“It was exactly like you thought. I pulled the films all the way back to the start of the party, and she was in the thick of things for the first hour or so. Then she disappeared, and I couldn’t find her anywhere until after you and Laurel took your walk and came back through the front door. Finally, just before the police arrived, she reappeared and rejoined the party, with all the girlfriends pulling her back into the group and keeping her close.”
“Have you called DI Markham yet?” Jack asked.
“No, I just finished confirming the hypothesis and thought you should know first.”
“To be honest, it was Cassie who spotted it. Remember the other night when she said she noticed something in the videos, but couldn’t put her finger on what bothered her?”
“Tell her I owe her dinner,” Danny said.
“Will do.” Jack scratched his chin. “Not to pressure, but did you get the security cam footage from Laurel’s office?”
“Yes, and I started on it a little yesterday but moved on to this today after your call last night. This afternoon, I’ll get back on tracking the woman who broke in, but I have to tell you, she is cagey. I about lost her a couple of times yesterday and had to backtrack.”
“Cagey is one adjective that would fit her,” Jack said. “Okay, thanks, Williams. And make sure Markham takes you out for beers. You saved him a ton of legwork.”
“Couldn’t have done it without Cassie. Talk to you later.”
“The interview with the Russian’s wife regarding the appearance and disappearance of a certain entourage member should be interesting for DI Markham,” I said. “Wish I could be a fly on the wall.
Jack pocketed his phone. “Probably even more enlightening to her husband. Hope the Russian had her sign a prenup, because he should definitely entertain divorce options.”
We linked arms and continued our stroll. I was back to wearing low-heeled boots to accommodate the hilly cobblestone streets. I’d left my steel-toed beauties in London. Still, it didn’t take long for me to start feeling the effects of the terrain in my calves, and as we neared the Place du Tertre
I was ready to find a sidewalk café and people watch. Tourists with maps were likely looking for Picasso’s apartment or the house where Van Gogh lived with his brother Theo. I had other goals.
“Do you want to get some coffee?” Jack asked.
“Yes, bless you.”
He laughed and steered us toward a small shop with a bright awning and several sets of tables and chairs outside. We were settled in nicely when a third chair was pushed up to our table and Nico dropped into the seat.
“I thought you’d call,” I said, taking a sip of my heavenly coffee flavored with a cinnamon stick.
He shook his head. “I’ve been following your progress on GPS. I’ve already touched base with Cassie, and Arlo is set to phone in a few minutes.”
Jack squinted in the sun. “Can you put the call on speaker, or will that spook him?”
“Everything spooks this guy.” Nico frowned. “I just hope he has something worthwhile to tell us.”
Nico ordered a cup of coffee for himself, and Jack gave an update on what Danny had found after Cassie’s aha! moment regarding the CCTV video. He laughed. “That does not surprise me at all. She’s smart.”
His phone rang then. Nico looked at the screen, nodded, then spoke in French. I didn’t even try to follow the conversation. I knew Jack was, and he would interject if necessary. A few seconds later he did shake his head fiercely in obvious disagreement with what was being said. Nico made a calming motion with his hand and spoke for several seconds. I heard silence on the other end, as if Arlo was thinking about how to answer, then an onslaught of French followed.
The phone call lasted several minutes, with most of the talking done on the other end. Nico said a final “Oui,” and hung up, then turned to Jack. “Did you catch most of that?”
“Yes. So, Laurel will get the meeting place and time from a street artist.”
“Sì. I know which artist he means,” Nico said and sipped his coffee.