by Nina Bruhns
After several minutes, her groggy voice asked, “Qui est la?”
“C’est moi.”
He heard a sigh. “Go away.”
“Let me in, Ciara.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Since when does that matter? I’ve brought coffee.”
Another sigh. But this time the door opened. “You really are annoyingly persistent.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said, attempting to step past her into the apartment. He felt surprisingly calm. Not at all like he was there to ruin the life of a woman he’d much rather be getting to know better.
Correction: she’d already ruined her own life. He was just there to dole out consequences.
She blocked his way. “What makes you in your wildest dreams think I’ll let you in?” she asked grumpily. She looked delightfully sleep-rumpled, all warm, wrinkly pajamas and tousled hair. “You’ve made it abundantly clear what you have in mind for my future. I’d have to be a fool—”
He steeled himself against her homey girl-next-door image. She was a thief. He was a cop. “During my search I noticed you were out of coffee,” he said calmly, lifting the bag from under his arm. “I brought Costa Rican. Best in the world.”
She blinked at the shiny silver package, then gave him a wan smile. “Nice try, Lacroix. I’m going back to bed.”
The door closed in his face.
So much for that strategy.
Just as well. Distance was undoubtedly a better option.
He trotted back down the stairs and went out to the Saab, which was parked a bit down the other side of the street, but still had a good view of her windows and the front door to the building. Waving the surveillance officer over, he got in and made himself comfortable, rolling down all the windows and loosening his tie. God knew how long he’d have to wait until she decided to come out.
The rookie officer who’d drawn surveillance today came up to the driver’s side and hunched down. “What’s the plan, boss?”
“Gonna be a long day,” Jean-Marc answered. “When she comes out, I’ll follow her. I want you to stay at your post. Monitor all activity at her apartment—photos and times of everyone coming and going. Never know who might turn up.”
The other officer patted the small digital camera sticking out of his breast pocket. “Will do, sir.”
There were plenty of comings and goings at the building that morning, but it wasn’t until just after ten that Jean-Marc finally spotted Ciara emerging.
She looked around and saw him immediately. To his surprise, she waited patiently until he got out of the Saab, then she took off at a brisk walk down the sidewalk.
He followed easily for several blocks, wondering if she’d try to lose him again this morning. But when she went into a local branch of the Zurich National Bank, she glanced back, as though to make sure he was still there. Strange. Writing the specifics down in his notebook, he waited outside the entrance, leaning against a bus stop where he had an unobstructed view through the glass front. She conducted her business at a teller’s window, then strode back out the door and came up to him. She had something in her hand.
“Hold this a moment, will you?” she asked, thrusting it at him.
He took it and looked down, seeing to his astonishment that it was a bundle of hundred-euro bank notes.
“Christ, woman, what the hell is this?” he demanded angrily, and glanced quickly around to find whoever was pointing a camera at them for blackmail purposes. He didn’t quite believe it when he saw no one.
Meanwhile she had withdrawn a largish manila envelope from her shoulder bag, and now she waved it in front of his face. “Observe,” she said.
On the outside was written “Brigadier Louis Beck.” What the--?
The name distracted him from his avalanche of conspiracy theories. She snatched the packet of bills back from him, stuffed them into the envelope and licked the flap, gluing it shut. By the time his cloudy thinking had cleared and his mouth dropped open in disbelief, she had marched halfway down the block.
“Ciara!” he shouted. She didn’t turn. Or even slow.
He ran to catch up, but didn’t make it in time. The eighteenth arrondissement police station was right around the corner. She halted just outside and leaned close to his ear, hissing, “For godsake, stay out of sight. You don’t want to be seen with me.” Then she disappeared through the door.
Christ. She was paying off Beck with that stack of hundred-euro notes! Right at the préfecture! For once the cop inside Jean-Marc was in complete agreement with his much beleaguered male side. Neither one liked what she was doing a damn bit.
He wanted to rush into the station and do something. But what? Jean-Marc was not usually an impulse kind of guy. Accusing a fellow law enforcement officer of corruption was a serious thing, with far-reaching consequences. Before he did anything at all, he had to think through his actions. He needed to be absolutely sure of his facts.
Because what if he was wrong?
He slashed a hand through his hair as something even worse occurred to him. His stomach sank at the very thought.
What if she was actually telling the truth?
What the hell would he do then?
Chapter 16
Ciara felt a certain amount of satisfaction at Jean-Marc’s horrified face when she came out of the police station and her meeting with Beck. It almost made up for emptying her Swiss account in order to make up the difference for the blackmail money. Almost.
It had been a stroke of genius coming to Beck’s own station to give him the payoff. He had been furious—both over her showing up there, of all places, and also over her paying the blackmail at all. He’d obviously never expected them to come up with the money; his real motive had been getting Sofie under his thumb again. But what could he do when Ciara presented him with the envelope of cash? Make a scene at his work place? Arrest her for bribery?
From the look on Jean-Marc’s face as she emerged, he finally believed her about Beck.
Not that it mattered. The bastard would leave them alone now that he had his fifteen thousand. Besides, she had no illusions Jean-Marc ever would have done anything about him anyway. Still, on the off chance that something bad ever happened to Sofie, or even to herself, she now had a reliable witness who knew about Beck. She trusted Jean-Marc that far. If it came down to it, he would do the right thing, she had no doubt about that much, at least.
“Are you nuts?” he demanded, falling into step next to her. “Do you realize I’m bound to report this?”
“Report what?” she asked innocently. “I went to see Brigadier Beck as a follow-up to yesterday’s incident. There’s nothing to report.”
She could actually feel his scowl on the back of her neck. “Yeah. I so believe that.”
She turned and looked at him impassively. “Believe what you like, Jean-Marc, but if Sofie or I turn up dead or beaten to within an inch of our lives, you’ll know who to look for.”
She left it at that, and started walking again. It was just past ten-thirty, and the morning had gone well so far, but now she had a train to catch. She didn’t want to miss it. Before he could argue, or even comment, she said over her shoulder, “I’m going to the Orphans’ now. Spending the day there, and probably the night, too. Hope you brought a book.”
Sneaking out of the apartment wouldn’t be difficult, but keeping Jean-Marc at bay for twenty-four hours while she went to Italy might prove tricky. With any luck, CoCo strolling past the fifth story windows in a blond wig every so often would keep him from becoming suspicious.
“Why spend the night?” he asked.
“Sofie’s not feeling well. It’s been a rough couple of days.” Which was true enough to satisfy him.
From the corner of her eye she saw his hands shove into his trouser pockets and his face go serious.
They didn’t talk any more. In fact, Jean-Marc dropped back and walked several paces behind her. He didn’t sit next to her on the métro. Didn�
�t say a word when she went into the Orphan’s apartment building and left him standing there, watching her with an unreadable expression. He looked so forlorn, she almost felt sorry for him.
Damn, this thing between them was weird.
How could you be friends and enemies at the same time? How could you feel bad about lying to the cop who was systematically hunting you down? How could you still want to kiss the man who had sworn to send you to jail?
Hell. Insane didn’t come close.
♥♥♥
Unlike her relationship with Jean-Marc, the Italian job went like clockwork.
Leaving the apartment on rue Daguerre almost immediately via the attic escape route, she took the high-speed train which put her in Turin just after sunset. That gave her two hours to make her way to the hilltop villa and back before the last train back to Paris.
If all went according to plan, she’d be home around eight the next morning, and with any luck Jean-Marc would be none the wiser. But if he should knock on the Orphans’ door before that and demand to see her, they would tell him she’d taken the night train to visit her relatives in Marseille.
In Turin, Valois’s contact from Milan met her as promised and after the laydown took charge of the antique silver items, making the return trip to France far less dangerous for her
She got back to the train station in Turin in plenty of time, and sat down with a cup of coffee to settle her nerves. Idly she watched the electronic departure board cycle through to the next set of trains, the small number and letter tiles flipping like mad. When it stopped, at the top of the list was a train to Marseille.
Her coffee cup halted halfway to her mouth as she was suddenly hit by an unexpected wave of nostalgia. It had been several years since she’d visited her old stomping grounds and her old friends and family. Or Etienne’s grave.
Maybe she actually should go to Marseille.
She looked at the clock again and made some quick calculations. A detour to the coastal town would add at least half a day to her trip. Possibly more, once she met up with family and former compatriots, all of whom would want to lift a glass and reminisce about the good old days.
So why not? She could use some uncomplicated company and a strong drink about now. Maybe even several strong drinks. And she’d like a chance to talk to Etienne again. He never answered, of course. But sitting by his grave, pouring out her troubles, it was like he was sitting there with her. She could always feel the love they had once shared, wrapping itself around her like a warm, ghostly hug. Feeling Etienne’s spirit always gave her the strength to make the tough decisions.
Maybe she’d tell him about Jean-Marc. She wondered what he’d have to say about that little fiasco. Hell, he’d probably laugh his ass off. Maybe he’d be jealous. Maybe he’d tell her to stop being an idiot and get on with her life.
She just wished he’d tell her how.
Maybe he would, if she listened hard enough...
Hell, it was worth a try.
♥♥♥
The sun was just peeking over the mismatched riot of rooftops that made up the Marseilles skyline that surrounded the rundown, ancient graveyard in the worst part of town where Etienne was buried.
Ciara could smell the salty brine of the sea on the crisp dawn breeze, hovering beneath the pervasive stench of fish, refuse and diesel fuel that always choked the harbor district. Sea gulls cried out in their distinctive voices, swirling overhead in their never-ending quest for survival among the detritus of mankind.
She shivered, pulling her sweater closer to her body as she picked her way through the sagging headstones and unkempt graves. The churchyard was a tiny square of greenish brown in an otherwise cement-gray world, clinging to the side of an eighteenth-century stone chapel which looked like it might tumble to the litter-strewn ground at any minute. This was the chapel Etienne’s family had worshipped in for three hundred years. Those who were still alive continued to attend every Sunday...despite its outward state of decay, and despite their seedy professions. Inside, the chapel was all polished wood and gleaming stained glass, immaculate in its humble homage to its Lord. This was where Ciara had gone through her second marriage ceremony—the civil one in New York didn’t count to his family—where she had first met CoCo and Hugo, and where she had buried Etienne just a few short years later.
When she found his grave, she sat down on the dew-laden grass beside it, curling her legs under her. She didn’t worry about her safety, or about prying ears. In this place, there really was honor among thieves. She was one of them; she belonged. She would be protected. And so would her secrets.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she murmured, placing the bunch of tiny roses she’d purchased at the train station at the foot of his already weathered headstone. “How are you?”
The wind whispered through the tall, dry weeds, rustling dead leaves and lifting the ends of her hair.
“Me?” she said with a sigh. “I’m fucked.”
It was silly, she knew, to talk to ghosts, but she let the whole long, miserable story pour out of her. She reminisced about the dreams she’d had as a young bride making a brand new start in a new country with him. How much she’d had to look forward to back then. How little had actually come to pass...
She told him about her present life and asked him how she could have ended up where she was. It was a rhetorical question. They both knew. It would have been a miracle if she hadn’t ended up doing what she was doing.
Looking back, she realized her life had been doomed from the start. Her mother had been such a sterling example. Drug addict, occasional prostitute, loser. She’d never wanted a child, and nothing Ciara did had ever changed her mind. By comparison, Etienne had been like a fairytale prince come to rescue her on his white steed.
And yet, how had she ever thought marrying a petty criminal, no matter how handsome, loving and kind to her, would lead to anything but heartache?
Yes, they had been happy. In spite of it all, those years had been the happiest of her life, before or since. Would she ever find that kind of blind cheerfulness again? A snort of humorless laughter escaped her and wafted into the balmy glow of dawn. Hardly. By now she knew too much about the world’s possibilities—and lack thereof—to be quite that stupidly naïve.
Could happiness make up for Etienne’s profession, or the path he’d inevitably led her down? It wasn’t as if her life up until that point had been all roses and angels... And yet, until then she had managed to survive without systematically turning to crime. She’d wanted to be a translator. She’d wanted to be a good wife, and eventually a mother to a couple of kids whom she’d shower with all the love and affection she’d never gotten from her own. Modest enough wishes.
But ones never destined to come to pass. Especially not now. She’d been found out. It was only a matter of time before Jean-Marc put her in jail. God knew for how long.
The thought was so depressing, she curled up next to Etienne and let her eyes drift shut. She was so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of losing. Tired of hoping for more and getting less.
The one bright spot in her life was what she had done for her Orphans. They were her redemption. If she saved them, kept them from making her mistakes, the loss of herself would be bearable. She turned to let the rising sun warm her tear-streaked face.
She could do it. She would do it. They were almost there.
She had to hold on, keep Jean-Marc at bay, just for a few months more. Then the Orphans would make it on their own. She knew they would.
Then come what may, she would finally be at peace.
♥♥♥
Jean-Marc’s train pulled into the Marseille St. Charles station and he hopped off the outside step where he’d been hanging on, anxious to get where he was going. Striding quickly toward the exit, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the same number he’d already called twice today—once this morning before leaving Paris, and again during the brief stop in Lyon.
His friend at the local Marseille const
abulary picked up on the second ring. “Cheveau.”
“Anything?” Jean-Marc asked after his greeting.
“Still no thefts matching any of your parameters reported for last night,” Cheveau said. “Sorry.”
Jean-Marc asked to be contacted if anything showed up later, then hung up feeling acutely frustrated. He didn’t know whether to be glad, or more furious than he already was. Was Ciara playing some kind of game with him? Or had she really left the Orphans apartment last night to visit her late husband’s family, as CoCo had insisted when he’d stormed in this morning demanding to know where she was? He’d finally seen through CoCo’s blond wig routine, kicking himself soundly for not twigging to it sooner.
Damned if he bought this in-laws ruse for a nanosecond. Ciara could have told him about that kind of visit. Never mind she’d never actually told him she’d been married... Non, renewing family ties was not why she was here, he’d bet a year’s salary on it.
Well, he’d know soon enough. Cheveau had told him the whole shady Alexander clan lived within five square blocks of St. Antoine’s, north of the docks. He’d checked to find out where Etienne Alexander was buried. Same place. Which was as good a place to start as any. If she was even in Marseille....
Jean-Marc hailed a taxi and had the driver let him off close to St. Antoine’s. As soon as he got out, a group of tanned, whipcord-strong men hanging out in front of a seedy building threw him suspicious looks. A weathered brass plaque by the building’s front door read Dock Workers Local XXVIII. Jean-Marc glanced down at his impeccably stylish suit. Maybe Dries van Noten wasn’t the right look for the slums of Marseille.
Ah well, let them come. If the flash of his badge and gun didn’t stop them, his blade was tucked in its usual spot against his right ankle. The black stiletto was sharp as a razor, and he knew how to use it.
Hell, the situation might even turn to his advantage. There was no better way of gaining respect among thugs than winning a knife fight.