The French Detective's Woman Page 5

  Jean-Marc followed Belfort in. The office smelled like red ink and new carpet. “Still, I’d rather not—”

  Belfort rounded his desk and sat down with a decisive surge backward in his fancy suede-covered office chair. “This case could make...or break...a man’s career,” Belfort said, effectively putting an end to the argument.

  Because Jean-Marc knew exactly whose career he was talking about.

  Belfort disapproved of him. He knew that. Because of his background. Jean-Marc had grown up in le banlieues—the projects—the only French kid in his high-rise tenement, sucked into the fringes of crime at an early age. He’d only managed to extract himself from the quicksand of his surroundings because he’d excelled at math at school and attracted the attention of a nurturing teacher. That teacher had probably saved his life. Definitely changed it.

  However, his early years did give him an insider’s perspective on crime and criminals—one reason he now excelled at his job. Many of his peers frowned on his unorthodox methods—especially CD Belfort. But you couldn’t argue with numbers, and Jean-Marc’s closed-case record spoke for itself.

  “A win on this one could make that mess five years ago go away. Permanently,” Belfort said, giving him a level look.

  And a loss could make him go away permanently, he thought. Which was what Belfort was hoping for, no doubt. Record or no, the man did not like him.

  “Get out of here, Saville,” Belfort told the other commissaire with a dismissive wave. “Go and show me I made a mistake by relieving you.”

  One of the things Jean-Marc liked least about Belfort was his tendency to encourage rivalries between his officers.

  “Am I in charge, or is he?” Jean-Marc demanded softly. “Because if I am, nobody will do anything on this case without my say-so. Nothing.”

  Above the hum of the secretary’s copier, silence hung thickly for a moment between the three of them. Then Belfort puffed out his cheeks angrily. “Bon. Wait for his orders.” He jerked his head at Saville to leave. When he’d gone, Belfort said, “Better get yourself a plan, Lacroix. Fast. I’m through—”

  “As a matter of fact, I already have one. Is that all, sir?”

  Belfort’s mouth thinned. “Yes, that’s all. Don’t screw up, Lacroix. It’s both our heads if you do. But yours will fall first and farthest.”

  ♥♥♥

  On the way back to his own office, Jean-Marc found Pierre and brought him along.

  “Better sit down, mec,” Jean-Marc said, taking a seat and motioning to the visitor’s chair, which Pierre spun backwards and slid onto. “We are now officially in charge of le Revenant case.”

  Shock flashed across Pierre’s face. “We? You’re joking.”

  “Well, me. But you’re my second-in-command, so that puts you in the hot seat, too.”

  “Merde! How the hell did that happen?”

  “Belfort’s getting pressured. He wants a fall-guy for when things go bad.”

  Pierre made a noise of disgust. “Poulet.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on going down for anyone, so we better get busy.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Jean-Marc leaned back and swung his feet up onto the edge of his desk. His chair squeaked in protest.

  “Near as I recall, we began getting reports on this guy about two years ago. But he must have been doing jobs before that, non? Lesser stuff, maybe, that the local préfectures would have taken care of. Not big enough to involve us here at headquarters. Especially when he was just starting out.”

  Pierre nodded. “Right. But why do we care?” he asked, adding his own feet to the clutter on the desk.

  “The OCBC does good police work. We use witnesses, forensics, we find patterns, we find outlets, and all of that leads us to the subject and if we’re lucky we make an arrest.”

  “But...?”

  ‘None of that is working with le Revenant.”

  “True enough.”

  “Witnesses agree on nothing, he leaves behind no evidence, the fences are mute, and the only pattern that has emerged is that there seems to be no pattern to his work. Other than what he steals—jewels.”

  “Which means we have to dig deeper.”

  Jean-Marc nodded, folding his hands over his stomach. “Exactly. His early thefts might tell us where he lives. Criminals work in patterns, within a comfort zone. But this guy has already moved beyond that now. He’s a seasoned veteran. His pattern looks random and he’s comfortable all over France. If we can find out where and how he got started, we might learn something useful. Something that could lead us in the right direction.”

  Pierre’s brows rose. “You’re talking about profiling a thief?”

  “Why not? Hell, nothing else is working.”

  “You predicted his last target.”

  “Yeah, but that was a gimme. A flashy princess dripping with diamonds is too obvious to miss. Next time it won’t be so easy, trust me.”

  “Even the best criminals eventually make mistakes,” Pierre offered.

  “But how long will we have to wait for that to happen? We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?”

  He dropped his feet back on the floor and leaned forward. “Start with what we know and work backwards. We need to get inside his head. Find out what makes him tick. That’s the only way we’re going to catch him.”

  Pierre shot him a glance. “I think that FBI seminar you took last year in the States has you brainwashed. Besides, you already think far too much like a perp. It’ll only get you in trouble with Belfort again.”

  Jean-Marc gave a half smile. “Perhaps.”

  After a short pause, Pierre said, “You know, Marc, you have nothing to prove. Everyone has forgotten about that incident.”

  His smile faded. “Belfort hasn’t,” he drawled. “And neither have I. But this has nothing to do with that.”

  A lie. His wanting to solve this case had everything to do with screwing up on that other one five years ago. He’d been made a fool of, the object of pity and jokes throughout the whole division.

  This thief was his ticket to redemption. One way or another.

  Pierre sighed. “Bon. Please just don’t start obsessing. Treat this like any other case.”

  “I’m not obsessing. I’m determined,” Jean-Marc said. “There’s a difference.”

  Or so he told himself.

  His friend regarded him, then sighed. “D’accord. So, where do we start? Putain, there have to be thousands, tens of thousands, of petty thefts every year. How do we know what to look for?”

  Jean-Marc got up and started to pace behind his desk. “We’ll need to map his patterns of behavior. Tendencies such as time of day he prefers to work, days of the month, venues, anything else that stands out as statistically significant. When we add that to what we’ve already established about what he steals, we should be able to follow him back in time, concentrating on the unsolved cases that match.”

  “It won’t be easy,” Pierre said, stroking his chin. “This guy does his research. His jobs are obviously carefully targeted, as opposed to crimes of opportunity.”

  “At least now they are. Which is good. Totally random would be much harder to follow backwards.”

  “I suppose.”

  “The other thing I noticed is, the value of the jewelry has been steadily rising. I’d like to know why. Is his confidence rising, or is it his need that’s rising for some reason?”

  “Drugs, maybe?”

  Jean-Marc stopped pacing and shook his head. “No. He’s far too organized and contained for an addict. Which is why I think we have a real shot at figuring this out. Something is driving him. When we find that, we’ll have the bastard.”

  Pierre rose as well, flipping the chair back around. “In that case, we’d better get to it.”

  Jean-Marc grabbed a short stack of files off his desk. “First stop, the archives. To order up all the unsolved robbery cases from all over the country for the past
five years.”

  Pierre choked on a laugh. “Jesus, that’s going to make us popular.”

  Jean-Marc snickered. “Hope you’re not still trying to chat up what’s-her-name down there? Nicole?”

  Pierre made a pained face as they walked out together. “Guess I can kiss her goodbye, eh?”

  “Désolé, mon ami.”

  “Sure you’re sorry. Speaking of which, how did it go last night with your latest female obsession? You were in awful early this morning.”

  Jean-Marc ignored the involuntary curl of anger in his gut at the mention of Ciara. “I didn’t speak to her.”

  Pierre looked surprised. “But why? I thought you were in love!”

  “She’s not.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “She promised to call me. She didn’t. Besides, I don’t need the distraction. Especially now, taking over this damn case.”

  Pierre lifted a palm. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but after we’re done in the archives, you’ll have to call her.”

  Jean-Marc halted at the elevator and stabbed the down button. “Oh? And why’s that?”

  “Because you took over this case. She was a witness to the robbery last night. We’re in charge now, mon ami, and I don’t intend to lose my job just because your male ego got bruised. She may have seen something. We’re interviewing her, and that’s that.”

  Jean-Marc ground his jaw. He really hated it when his partner was right. They couldn’t afford to ignore a single witness. Especially one who’d danced as close to the robbery victim all night as they had done. He may have had eyes only for her, but obviously she didn’t share his blinders.

  “I don’t have a phone number,” Jean-Marc said, still looking for a reasonable way out.

  “Then we’ll go to her place.”

  His stomach tightened at the thought. Could he see her again without doing something monumentally stupid? He sincerely doubted it. But Pierre was correct. She had to be interviewed. Even if it would strain his self-control.

  “Okay, fine,” he gritted out. “But you’re asking the questions. If I open my mouth I’m liable to get us both in trouble.”

  Chapter 4

  Every time there was a knock at her door, panic skimmed up Ciara’s spine. This time was no exception.

  Firmly, she pushed the fear into the far corner of her insides where she normally kept it at bay. She’d already taken the diamonds to Valois. There was no reason to panic, regardless of who was knocking.

  Nevertheless, she swept a quick glance over her tiny living room, making sure nothing incriminating was lying out in the open. No stolen goods. No bits of elaborate disguises. No maps, floor plans or notes for her next job.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “Police Nationale,” came a loud male voice.

  Panic tore back through her veins, this time for real, riding on a burst of adrenaline. How had they found her? The police had never been to her apartment before. Never!

  What should she do? Fight or flight?

  Neither. Answer the man.

  “Oui?” she called. The word cracked in half and she had to clear her throat. “What do you want?” she asked in French dosed with a deliberate American accent.

  “Open the door madamoiselle, s’il vous plais.”

  With a final check around, she took a steadying breath and plastered what she hoped was an innocent expression on her face. Then she opened the apartment door.

  And froze. A familiar man in a suit stood there in the cramped hallway, holding up a credentials wallet. It was Jean-Marc’s friend from Club LeCoeur. A holstered gun peeked out from his jacket, tucked under his arm.

  “Sorry to disturb you, mademoiselle, but we need to ask you some questions about last night.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  “We?” she croaked, for some reason homing in on the pronoun he’d used. She fought to get her brain back into working order. Surely, Jean-Marc hadn’t—

  Her heart stood still as her lover emerged from behind the central stairwell. Oh, God.

  “You remember Lieutenant Rousselot,” Jean-Marc said evenly. “And me, peut être?” His eyebrow flicked up infinitesimally.

  She made herself say, “Of course.”

  Lieutenant Rousselot stepped forward again, insinuating himself into the small space between them. He smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then you won’t mind if we come in and talk for a few minutes?”

  “Well, actually, I—”

  Too late. Rousselot was already walking past her. Jean-Marc also stepped through the narrow doorway, silently crowding her into the tiny living room with his towering bulk. His eyes were hot, volatile, as he shut the door firmly behind them and leaned his back against it. Trapping her.

  She smoothed her hand down her thin blue skirt, suddenly wishing she were wearing something a lot more substantial than the flimsy camisole she’d put on hoping to beat the summer heat.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

  He didn’t answer, but flicked his gaze to his partner.

  “We need to ask you about last night,” Rousselot said, his smile widening. It seemed incongruously genuine. “We want to know exactly what you did at the club.” He looked at her expectantly.

  This couldn’t be happening. “I, um...”

  “Yes, I know you were—” he made one of those expressive Gallic gestures with shoulders, hands and face “—busy...with Commissaire Lacroix, but we hoped you might remember something. Anything. You two were dancing close to the princess before the bracelet went missing. Any little detail you could recall would help tremendously.”

  Help?

  She regarded him for a moment, letting the sweet rush of relief sink in. He was treating her as a witness.

  Not a suspect.

  Her gaze stuttered to Jean-Marc for a brief second. His face was expressionless, except for his turbulent eyes... He stood like an angry statue guarding the door. Clearly, he had a different agenda than his partner.

  “Naturally I’ll try, Lieutenant,” she said, gathering her wits.

  “Please. Call me Pierre.”

  She gestured to the miniscule main room of the apartment, which suddenly seemed even more dwarfed, filled to bursting by these two giant men. “Won’t you sit down...both of you? Something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea? Beer?”

  Ignoring her offer, Jean-Marc folded his arms across his chest and studied the apartment, such as it was. The Latin Quarter had been built in the Middle Ages, and the size of the apartments hadn’t grown since. Her entire space was maybe two-hundred square feet, on a really hot day.

  “Merci, non,” Pierre said, but he sat down on the sofa.

  Nervously, Ciara took a seat in the mismatched easy chair. Both pieces of furniture were old, probably Victorian, and not really her style. But they’d come with the apartment, along with the two bedroom pieces. Someday she’d buy furniture of her own, but this surprise visit reminded her vividly of why she hadn’t, yet.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. “I wasn’t really paying attention to anything except—” She darted a glance at Jean-Marc, and felt her face go hot.

  Thank goodness he was still ignoring her, now perusing the collection of books on her one shelf and the few paintings on her walls—mostly interpretive copies of well-known artists, done by Sofie.

  Pierre gave her a grin. “I understand.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a manila envelope, from which he extracted several sheets of glossy paper with rows of photos printed on them. “Perhaps you can look through these, tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  She leafed through them, recognizing several people from the club last night. Presumably the photos were taken from a video surveillance camera at the entrance.

  “Tell me what you remember about them,” he urged. “One at a time.”

  One thing Valois had taught her well, always stick to the truth as fa
r as you can. Cops were real sticklers for detail. If you lied unnecessarily about something small, they’d be all over it like sharks on blood, circling in for the kill.

  So she told the truth about everyone and everything, including about her and Jean-Marc. With the one small omission—that she was the thief they were looking for. It took her over half an hour to go through everything, making sure to occasionally stumble over her French. Her flawless language skills were a big part of her usual disguises; a vital fact to keep from the police.

  As she spoke, Pierre wrote in a pocket notebook and Jean-Marc continued to prowl wordlessly around, examining everything in sight. At one point she heard him open the door to her bedroom, which was behind her, and go in. Her pulse skittered. What was he doing in there? Would he find anything? No. She was always careful to put things away.

  As she told Pierre the part about her and Jean-Marc having sex, she didn’t dare look up from her hands. She could feel her lover’s eyes bore into the back of her neck from inside her bedroom. Pierre just nodded and took more notes.

  Breaking off in embarrassment, she fanned her flaming face with the photo sheets. Paris wasn’t usually this warm, even in the dead of summer. “I’m sorry it’s so hot in here. No air conditioning.”

  Suddenly she felt the whisper of fabric against her shoulder. Startled, she realized Jean-Marc had taken off his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of her chair. His scent lingered on it, curling around her like a python, robbing her of what little breath she had. Reminding her of being in his arms. Of him being inside her.

  She shook off the memory. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some iced tea?” she asked Pierre.

  “Well, maybe—” But just then his cell phone rang. “Excusez-moi,” he said, and answered it, listening for several moments before saying, “D’accord,” then hanging up. He stood abruptly and gathered up the photo sheets from her. “My apologies, but I must go.” He glanced at Jean-Marc. “Commissaire Lacroix will finish the interview. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”