The Paris Caper (13 page)

For the first time since
walking out of Ciara’s empty apartment five days ago, he actually smiled.

It was too early to
celebrate, he knew that. They could be dealing with two different perps and no
one would pop.

But he didn’t think so.
Usually his cop instincts were pretty good. And right now they were doing the
Snoopy dance all over his gut.

♥♥♥

“The Picasso is a fake.”

Ciara’s jaw dropped and
she stared at Valois in disbelief. “A
fake
? But how is that possible?”

The old man looked nearly
as upset as she felt. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew,
ma cocotte
.
Viens
.”
He beckoned.

She’d pulled off the Michaud
job two days ago, and had hoped for a speedy turnover of the painting, since
the buyer was already in place. Obviously there was not going to be a turnover.
A
fake
? Jesus. Beck was already rattling his chains at the delay in
getting his blackmail money and it had only been four days. This was nothing
short of a disaster.

Ciara went with Valois
into the back of the antique store, then through a narrow corridor to a storage
room. He scooted aside a large trunk, under which was a trap door in the floor.
She helped him grab the ring and lift it, revealing a crude brick stairway that
descended into blackness.

Even as distracted as she
was, it always gave her a thrill and a tingle up her spine when she followed
Valois down into his little piece of the ancient Parisian sewer system. This
was not from the modern, post eighteen-hundreds sewers, but part of the much
older Medieval or even Roman works. There was a sense of history, and mystery,
unlike anywhere else she’d ever been in the world. Something like she imagined
she’d feel in the chambers of an ancient Egyptian pyramid, or an old Roman
catacomb.

Valois’s father had
discovered the tunnel under his shop quite by accident while digging out a
hollow under the floorboards to hide a Jewish friend in during World War II.
They’d ended up hiding a whole lot more than one friend, as well as most of the
shop’s valuable pieces. Now it served as a secure repository for Valois’s
illegal fencing activities.

Using flashlights, they
quickly made their way through a crumbling, deserted section to what looked
like a solid brick wall. After Valois pulled a hidden latch it swung away to
reveal a much larger slice of the tunnel. Clean and neat, the area had a wooden
floor and electric lights installed by Valois Senior. They switched off their
flashlights and swung the wall closed behind them.

The Picasso was set up on
an easel in the center of the room. A large nearby desk was covered with a
scatter of photos.

“The buyer’s appraiser
was here this morning,” Valois said, wiping his moist brow with a delicate
hankie from his pocket. “A professor from Canada. He was able to obtain these
authenticating photos from Dufour Auction House, where the Michauds bought the
Picasso.” He handed her a magnifying glass from the desk. “It’s not the same
painting. The strokes are similar but not identical. A very clever copy. But a
copy nonetheless.”

She roused herself long
enough to focus the glass on a section of painting, comparing the brush work
with a close-up photo from the same spot. Her eye wasn’t as well-trained as
Valois’s, but even she could see a subtle difference. “Oh, my God. It
is
a forgery!” Her heart sank. “I can’t believe I stole a fake.”

“How could you know? The
Michauds bought an authenticated Picasso from the most renowned auction house
in France less than three years ago. God alone knows what happened to the real
one.”

“God and the Michauds,
I’ll bet,” she muttered. “The lying cheats! They’re probably ecstatic about it
being stolen. They undoubtedly sold the original under the table, and now they
can collect insurance, too. And they have me to blame its disappearance on! If
I’m caught—”

“You won’t be. You and
Sofie were very careful,
non
?”

They had worked out the
switch together, Valois suggesting Sofie paint a substitute so the robbery
wouldn’t be discovered until after Ciara was long gone. It had been a good
plan. They’d both worn gloves at all times and taken every possible precaution
against leaving any kind of traceable evidence. They’d bought their original
materials from an art supply store that was part of a large European chain,
using cash. Ciara had made sure to remind Sofie not to sign the copy with her
usual Hand of Fatima signature. And she had gotten rid of her old lady disguise
immediately after the job, as always.

There was no way anything
could be traced to them.

So why was she so
damned nervous?

One word.

Jean-Marc
.

He was in charge of her
case now, and he’d been there at the Michaud’s. Why had he been standing in the
window as she left? Had he recognized her?

She squeezed her eyes
shut. “I hope you’re right, Valois. I hope to hell you’re right.”

♥♥♥

For the next several days
Jean-Marc and Pierre interviewed the Michaud’s soiree guests who lived in
Paris, and dispatched officers from the various regional police departments to
speak with the out-of-towners, of which there were quite a few. A team was
assigned the task of identifying and locating those people the countess
couldn’t put names to. Other officers re-canvassed the major art galleries
around the country, carrying photos of the forgery so they could ask about
artists who might have painted it.

Unfortunately, no one
turned up anything new. Nor did a re-interview of the discothèque patrons and
le
Revenant
’s more recent victims.

In frustration, Jean-Marc
put out the word with his informants among the demi-monde that it was now
Commissaire
Lacroix who was looking for
le Revenant
and the Picasso thief. He still
had some street cred from his youth—he may have been a math whiz, but he’d also
been very good with his knife—so the effort might actually pay off. Some of his
best friends growing up were now deep in the criminal element of Paris. You
never knew what kicking over a few old stones might turn up.

One afternoon a few days
later, the phone on Jean-Marc’s desk rang. Ever hopeful of a break, he snatched
it up. “Lacroix.”

“It’s Renard, down in the
video lab. I’ve got something you should see.”

Excitement buzzed over
Jean-Marc’s scalp. “Tell me you’ve got a match.”

Renard coughed. “Well.
Sort of. Better get down here and see for yourself.”

Jean-Marc leapt from his
chair and grabbed his jacket, stopping only to call Pierre. “Facial recognition
software has turned up something. Let’s check it out.”

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.

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.