The French Detective's Woman Read online

They met at the elevator. On the way down to the video lab, one of the forensics techs got in and rode with them for a couple of floors. “Still haven’t unearthed anything useful on your Michaud case,” he told them. “No fingerprints or any other physical evidence. Sorry about that.”

  Disappointing, but not unexpected. “What about the painting?” Jean-Marc asked.

  “The chief is still working on it. We’ll let you know.”

  Jean-Marc thanked the tech as he got off, then he and Pierre continued on to the video lab.

  “Who’ve we got?” Jean-Marc asked, striding up to the oversized flat screen monitor Renard was peering at.

  “Well...” Renard turned the screen toward them.

  Jean-Marc blinked. Twice. It was the snooty old lady with a flat tire he and his driver had picked up on the way to the Michaud’s soiree.

  He gave a bark of laughter. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Not really. You see—”

  “She was in prison?” he asked incredulously.

  “Non, not exactly.”

  “Then why the hell did the software spit her out? You were cross-checking arrest and prison files, right?”

  “Yes, but also the disco patrons from Club LeCoeur.”

  He stared. “Club LeCoeur. Now you really are kidding me.”

  “Alors. She’s a facial match for someone who was there that night.”

  Jean-Marc started to laugh for real. Pierre was already chuckling. “Renard. There were no old ladies at the disco. I’d have remembered that, believe me.”

  Renard looked slightly offended. “This is a very reliable computer program. Not always a hundred percent accurate, but fairly—”

  Jean-Marc held up his palms. “All right. Show me the match.”

  Renard punched a few keys and all at once Jean-Marc was gazing at the last face he’d ever expected to see again.

  Chapter 8

  Ciara!

  Stunned, Jean-Marc felt his jaw slacken and every thought flew from his brain. What the hell?

  Staring at the video monitor, Pierre started to laugh madly. “She’s your match with the old lady? Ciara Alexander?”

  Renard spread his hands. “The facial structures are a sixty-eight percent match. Not perfect, admittedly, but pretty darn—”

  “In other words, there’s a thirty-two percent chance it’s wrong,” Pierre pointed out, wiping his eyes. “Mec, when the weather man says thirty-two percent, I always bring an umbrella.”

  Renard’s chin rose. “If I had a sixty-eight percent chance of winning at the roulette wheel you can bet I’d be packing for Monaco.”

  Jean-Marc shook himself mentally and interrupted. “Thanks, Renard. This is very interesting, and you did exactly right to call me. But I fear Pierre is correct. This is not a match. Continue to run the program, though. And keep me informed.”

  They managed to hold it together until they were back in the elevator. Then they looked at each other and Pierre burst out laughing again. “My God. Ciara Alexander and some old lady!”

  “The wonders of modern technology,” Jean-Marc said with a dry smirk. “Computers are never a substitute for good police work.”

  “They have their uses, but not this time,” Pierre agreed. “Although...” he added teasingly, “no one seems to know who the old bat is. And she did have a big enough handbag to hide the canvas in....”

  Oh, for chrissakes. “Shut up, Pierre,” he said, but in the back of his mind he was mentally measuring the purse. It was big enough... And there was something else about the old lady. From an upstairs window he’d observed her leave the party within half an hour of arriving, and remembered thinking there was something odd about that. Or her car. Or...something.

  Non. He gave himself a silent upbraiding. This was completely absurd. The old lady was not le Revenant. Or the Picasso thief. The thought was totally ridiculous. She was a woman. And she had to be at least seventy! A couple of the jobs le Revenant had pulled involved climbing in second and even third story windows and balconies. No way could an old lady do that.

  “How about some lunch?” Pierre asked, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly noon.”

  “You go ahead. Think I’ll hit the last of the art galleries and rattle the owners a bit.”

  “In that case,” Pierre said with a wink, and grabbed one of the boxes they were done with, “Maybe it’s time to return these files to Archives.”

  “Just remember, no San Tropez until both cases are solved,” Jean-Marc warned, a spike of unexpected envy jabbing his chest. Pierre had been smart to be drawn to a woman who was actually obtainable. He, on the other hand...

  Merde. Not going there.

  Jean-Marc decided against taking a cruiser, instead fetching his own car from the parking garage. His Saab was forest green and some would say old enough to be seriously out of style. He preferred to think of it as pre-vintage. He’d owned it since he was a teenager—his first major purchase, bought used with the winnings of a nationally televised high school math competition. His mentor and teacher had been thrilled with his win, but Jean-Marc had been astounded...mostly by the windfall. That anything other than extortion or selling drugs could make him money had opened his eyes—to a lot of possibilities he’d never considered before.

  His green Saab reminded him of that, of the potential often hidden in unexpected places. Especially on the days he needed reminding.

  Today was one of those days.

  It seemed like every time he took one step forward in the investigation, he landed two steps further back.

  And then there was the shock of seeing Ciara’s photo on Renard’s screen. That had really jolted him. He’d almost managed to forget her over the past week, along with the betrayal and anger he’d felt over her disappearance. But now the feelings returned in full force.

  Where the hell were the hidden possibilities when he needed them? Locked in his anger, he decided, as he strode into the first gallery on his list.

  So he used that anger. To put the fear of God into those shady characters who were buying and selling stolen merchandise. And let them know if they chose to do it on his watch, he’d take them down so hard their heads would crack.

  By the fourth art gallery, he’d had enough. Frustrated and hungry, he resolved to make one more stop, then grab a bite to eat somewhere before returning to headquarters to see how Pierre’s lunch date had gone. He needed a pleasant distraction to get him back on track.

  He happened to be just up the street from Valois Vielli, the unassuming antique storefront for France’s most infamous fence. Alors, alleged fence. Valois had never been convicted—hell, he’d never even been arrested, although everyone on both sides of the law knew exactly what he was up to. Valois was a legend, as Valois Sr. had been before him. Even over sixty years later, the heroicism of the last war clung to the family name like a tricolored cloak of protection, far outweighing the fact that that same war had also given birth to the other, less honorable family business.

  Jean-Marc didn’t give a damn how many refugees the old man had saved during World War II; if Valois was helping le Revenant, or had anything to do with the Picasso’s disappearance, he was going to jail. Period.

  “Ah, Monsieur le Commissaire!” Valois greeted him as he came into the cave-like shop, removing his dark shades. “Bien revenue! I understand congratulations are in order.”

  Which only confirmed his involvement in illegal activity, in Jean-Marc’s mind. Why else would a civilian know or care about his promotion to lead detective?

  “Thank you,” he said, folding his sunglasses into his breast pocket. “I need your help, Valois. There seems to be a Picasso missing. And you know where it is.”

  Naturally, the old man denied all knowledge. With a smile, of course. They had a very civilized conversation. Unproductive. But the old geezer knew something. In fact, at one point Jean-Marc was certain he was about to give him a morsel of information, but at the last moment he clammed up. Interesting.


  This was as close to a lead as Jean-Marc had gotten in weeks. The man bore watching. He’d assign one of his officers to sit in the small café across the street and snap photographs of everyone who went in and out of Valois Vielli.

  That should send a message. And with any luck might even yield something useful.

  He left his card with a cordial request to be notified if anyone turned up at the shop trying to sell a Picasso. Valois smiled and bowed and said he most certainly would.

  Right.

  The bell above the door tinkled as it shut behind Jean-Marc. The warm afternoon air was redolent with the scent of strong, sweet coffee. His stomach growled in response. Slipping on his shades, he glanced across the street at the Café Constantinople. Its specialty was Turkish coffee. Perhaps they also had sandwiches.

  He strolled over and took a seat at one of the white iron bistro tables on the sidewalk outside. After placing his order with the owner who came around to greet him, he sat back to think about his next move.

  But before he could, his attention was caught by a slim, dark-haired girl inside the café. She was on a ladder, painting the wall. Or rather, she was painting a large design onto the wall. It was ornately beautiful, and blue.

  A Hand of Fatima.

  Exactly like the one above Ciara Alexander’s bed.

  Before he was aware of what he was doing, he found himself inside the café, standing below the ladder, hands on hips.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “What?” Surprised, the girl quickly turned, grabbing the ladder to keep herself from falling. Taking him in at a glance, for a split second she looked terrified.

  “Ciara Alexander,” he said, pressing his advantage. “I want to know where she is. And you are going to tell me.”

  ♥♥♥

  The girl’s eyes shuttered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, and turned her back to Jean-Marc. She continued to paint, but the brush strokes came out wavy. Her hand was shaking.

  She knew exactly what he was talking about.

  She appeared to be very young. Middle Eastern by the look of her olive skin and long brown-black hair. Algerian, probably. And by her reaction, well used to male intimidation. Strong-arming her wouldn’t work, Jean-Marc realized. But the opposite might.

  He sat down at a table below the ladder and let out a sigh, chin in hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Ciara had a design like that over her bed when we... Anyway, I miss her and just thought...” He sighed again.

  “This guy bothering you, Sofie?” the owner said, frowning as he came over.

  She didn’t look around, but shook her head. “No,” she said softly.

  “Just admiring the painting,” Jean-Marc said. “She has a very unique style. Thought I recognized it. Guess I was mistaken.”

  The owner grunted, and went back for Jean-Marc’s coffee, bringing it to him with a suspicious glare. “He bothers you, habibi, let me know.”

  “I will, Ghalil.”

  Jean-Marc took a sip of the thick, aromatic liquid and smiled. “Damn, that’s good.” He looked up. The girl—Sofie—had turned on the ladder and was watching him.

  “You’re the cop, aren’t you?” she said.

  He tipped his head, mildly surprised. “Ciara, she talked about me?”

  The girl gnawed her bottom lip and studied her paint brush silently for a moment. Finally, she said, “She liked you. A lot. She’s been sad since...” Her words trailed off into more silence.

  Sad.

  A ripple of disbelief, or maybe renewed anger, sifted through his chest.

  Sad?

  He wanted to challenge the girl. Make her tell the truth. But he knew that would only shut her up again. So he said, “I’ve been sad, too.” And waited.

  His sandwich came, and she went back to painting. Her strokes were flowing and sure now, skimming over the white wall, turning the blank space into a delightful work of art. Curlicues and intricate designs surrounded the elegant blue fingers of Fatima’s hand.

  Suddenly, she turned and said, “She trusted you, you know. That’s not why she left.”

  He bit back the urge to ask the obvious, and asked instead, “Why wouldn’t she trust me?”

  The girl snorted delicately and went back to her painting.

  “Because I’m a cop?”

  “What do you think?” she said, a wealth of information contained in her soft drawl. More curlicues appeared.

  All at once it hit him. Maybe Ciara had not been afraid of him being a cop because of something she’d done. Maybe she was afraid because of what some other cop had done to her.

  Outraged at the thought, he tore a bite from his sandwich to keep from demanding to know what had happened.

  “People like us,” the girl said, glancing over her shoulder at him, like she could sense his turmoil, “we have little reason to trust le flic.”

  “Sofie,” he said, meeting her gaze head-on, “I’m not so unlike you. I grew up in les banlieux. I know all about bad cops. And I’m not one of them.”

  She gnawed on her lip again, and a bleak smile broke through. “Yes. She said you were different.”

  He couldn’t read the girl. Couldn’t figure out if she thought that was a good thing or a bad thing. He was more confused than ever.

  “Sofie, please. Where is she?”

  She turned back to her wall. “I can’t tell you.”

  His blood bloomed with impatience. Fine. He’d have her followed. Eventually she’d lead him right to Ciara.

  Though why he wanted to know was beyond him. He had no desire to renew their affair. She’d made it clear where he stood with her. Why push it?

  But he couldn’t let it go. He had to know where she was. Had to see her again. To find out why she didn’t want him. It was like an obsession, his need to find her. A sick obsession.

  What was wrong with him?

  “She takes care of us, you know,” the girl said solemnly. “All of us. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  The quiet statement brought him back to reality. “How?” he asked, interest piquing. He felt instinctively that in the answer lay a key to the puzzle that was Ciara Alexander.

  Sofie’s lips parted, as though he’d caught her off guard. She shook her head, dipping her brush into the Aegean blue.

  “I want to understand,” he said. He also wanted to know who “all of us” were, but one thing at a time.

  The design on the wall was nearly complete. He followed her graceful movements as she filled in the thumb and put finishing touches on the curls and flourishes surrounding it. When she was done, she climbed down from the ladder.

  “Aren’t you going to sign it?”

  She looked at him, startled, then back at the wall. “That is my signature,” she said.

  He frowned, not understanding. But before he could question her meaning, she slid into the chair opposite him. Wiping her fingers on a bright orange cloth, she studied them like she had something to say.

  Her hair fell over her eyes, making her look extremely young. How old was she? Fifteen, sixteen, max. He thought about what she’d said and wondered why Ciara was taking care of her, and not her parents.

  “Ciara has very little money,” Sofie said, barely above a whisper. “But what she has she shares with us. Without her help, we would all be living on the streets instead of having a decent place to sleep and food in our stomachs. She keeps us on a good path.”

  After a pause to digest that unexpected information, he gently asked, “We?”

  “The Orphans. There are five of us.”

  What the hell? “Street kids?”

  She nodded at her hands.

  He leaned back in his chair, slightly taken aback. His vivacious, sexy Ciara was caring for five young runaways? Of all the things for her to be doing, of all the reasons for her to avoid him, that was one he’d never seen coming.

  “She’s afraid to get involved with me,” he deduced aloud, “because she thinks I’ll con
tact social services. Take you all away from her.”

  Sofie swallowed but didn’t look up. “Something like that.”

  Was she right? Would he?

  He was a sworn officer of the police judicaire, bound to uphold the law. If the kids were underage, he’d have no choice but to report the situation, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.

  He blew out a breath. Merde. Had Ciara pegged him so accurately after three nights in bed? He didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

  Across the street, the bell above Valois Vielli’s door tinkled and he realized he’d completely forgotten about calling for an officer to keep watch over the place. A sophisticated woman with short black hair and large sunglasses emerged from the shop, looked both ways down the sidewalk, then over toward the café. High heels clicking smartly, she crossed the street and came in, seating herself at a table on the other side of the room.

  Jean-Marc turned back to Sofie. It was time for him to go. Before he overstayed his welcome and she got suspicious.

  “Thank you for explaining,” he said, and rose. “Next time you see Ciara, would you tell her—”

  Tell her what? That she’d been right in her assessment of him? That he was a heartless bastard who saw life in black and white, with no room for extenuating circumstances? That it was better she had made the choice than he? Because although in his heart he admired what she was doing more than he could say, he’d always be a cop first.

  “Tell her I still want her,” he murmured. Because that much was also true.

  Ignoring Sofie’s blush, he tossed a ten on the table and started to walk away. But before taking two steps, he went back and handed her a hundred euro note. “Buy her something pretty,” he said, “Something she’d like.” Then he turned and strode out of the café.

  As soon as he’d rounded the corner, he pulled out his cell phone.

  “Pierre?” he said when his partner picked up. “Send me an officer. I need someone watched.”

  Chapter 9

  Ciara averted her face and held her breath as Jean-Marc’s tall frame disappeared through the café door. Her heart beat like thunder. She couldn’t believe he was here! Talking with Sofie! But how?