A Magnificent Crime (14 page)

At daybreak the next morning, I sat beneath the red awning of a sidewalk café in the leafy neighborhood of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. A weak sun was just starting to break through the misty chill, and the street sweepers were out, whisking away the previous night's litter with their green-bristled brooms. Bakers had fired up their ovens long ago, and now the irresistible smells of brioches and croissants filled the narrow streets.

Right across from the café was Monsieur Severin's home. I was waiting for him to leave for work. I knew I wouldn't be able to get anywhere near the Hope without one key thing. Severin's fingerprints.

My café au lait rested atop a tiny round table. Waiters in long white aprons moved between the tables, looking very bored and annoyed. The café was surrounded by the gracious architecture of five-story Haussmann buildings of honey-colored stone and ornate black Juliet balconies.

I flipped a page of the newspaper
Le Monde
and took my first sip. Hot, frothy foam and an exquisite blend of rich, bittersweet espresso were the perfect balm to soothe my jumpy nerves.

I adjusted my oversize sunglasses and moved the long blond ponytail of my wig off my shoulder. Hair is a key component of a woman's disguise, of course. It's amazing how dependent people are on hair color and style when describing someone, particularly someone suspected of shifty business. My disguise was complete with a stone-colored trench coat. As a career criminal, I'm delighted at the return of trench coats to the fashion table. Makes it even easier for me to blend in.

Butterflies of apprehension flitted in my stomach. Actually, not so lovely as butterflies, exactly. More like crickets and grasshoppers.

I glanced at his front door. Still nothing. Fortunately, it was completely expected for a person to occupy a seat in a sidewalk café in Paris for the better part of the morning. Even the majority of the afternoon was totally acceptable.

As the waiter brought me another café, sliding it deftly onto my table, my phone rang.

I frowned at the number—Mel, one of my girlfriends in Seattle.
Odd.

“Hi, Mel. Everything okay?”

“Cat, I have some news I think you need to know.”

I took a peek over my newspaper at Monsieur Severin's door. Still no sign of him. But it could be any minute now. “Actually, I'm a little busy right now. Any chance this can wait?”

“No. Listen, this is important. A woman named Sandra Appleton just died in a car accident outside Baltimore.”

If this was supposed to mean anything to me, it didn't. “Okay, well, that's sad. Someone you knew?”

“No. But it's important because she was the woman who won a contest to have an up close and personal encounter with the Hope Diamond last month at the Smithsonian.”

I frowned. “That's a shame. But you're telling me because . . . ?”

“The
curse,
Cat.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh no. Not you too?”

“I know. It's ridiculous. But I'm really starting to think there's something to this. And it's not just Sophie making this connection. Listen to the newspaper headline. “
THE CURSE OF THE HOPE DIAMOND STRIKES AGAIN, AFTER ALL THIS TIME
.”

“You know they're just trying to sell newspapers, right?”

“Maybe. But that doesn't make it any less true.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat back in the chair. “Okay, I have to admit, it's odd. But it's just a bizarre coincidence. The curse is fiction, Mel. But you know what's real? What will happen to me if I don't do this job.”

“Cat, just listen. I think you're making a big mistake—”

At that moment, the glossy black door at 3782 rue Dauphine opened, and Monsieur Severin walked out his front door. My stomach lurched. Go time.

“Listen, Mel, sorry, but I'm going to have to talk to you later.” I hung up. I waited until Severin had walked a block and disappeared down the Metro staircase. Then I left money on the café table and strolled toward his apartment. But instead of going straight to the door of his apartment, I made a quick stop at the silver WC pod, the public restroom, on the corner.

Inside the pod, I removed my trench coat, revealing a house cleaner's outfit: a pale blue uniform dress, knee length with short sleeves with a white cuff, an apron, and flat white sneakers. Tidy and tasteful, just like all the housemaids with Eclat, the company Severin's building used. Another little tidbit courtesy of Gladys, who had hacked in and found his bills.

Severin didn't use Eclat for his own apartment. Evidently, he was too distrustful for that. But it would be enough to get me in the building.

As I zipped up the uniform, I reminded myself that I had simple goals here. Get into Severin's apartment, get his fingerprints, and get out.

I walked up to the small alcove of the front door and buzzed the panel. It took me two tries to find someone who would answer.

“Bonjour,” I said and continued to speak in French. “Package delivery for Monsieur LeMarc.” I read the name from the small label beside the button. A brief pause, and then I heard the buzzer. The door clicked, and I walked in.

Much like you can always count on two ice cubes refusing to pop out of the tray, you can always count on someone buzzing you through a secure entrance with only the scantiest information.

The staircase was dark and cool and smelled of the breakfasts being cooked behind apartment doors. It was an old building, and there was no elevator. The steps were made of old stone with smooth, weathered treads in the center. I climbed to the top floor, four stories up. I stood outside Severin's door and made sure nobody was in sight as I withdrew my lock-pick set.

My hands were stock-still, the hands of a surgeon. Or a professional burglar. So far so good. But would I have a panic attack while in here? What if something went wrong? My brain started spinning out images of the various ways this could go wrong. I had to push that all down and focus.

It took me a little longer than usual, but at last I had unlocked the door.

I crept inside. All the extra adrenaline racing around my system gave me heightened vigilance, widened peripheral vision, and a faint buzz. Severin's apartment was brightened by morning sun beaming through tall windows. The place was pin tidy. If I kept my apartment this shipshape, my mother would put an announcement in the local papers. Or have a stroke.

I pulled out a duster and started sweeping for prints. Doorknobs are usually the best place to begin.

But these were clean.

I swept the brush over the smooth surfaces of the door, the doorjamb, adjacent walls . . . then into the kitchen. I tried the fridge door handle. The faucet handle.

All spotless. No prints.

How could this be? Did the guy wear gloves around his own house?

And then, thinking about it, I realized that each time I'd seen him, he had been wearing gloves. At the Louvre. And just now, outside his apartment door, he'd been wearing a pair of fine leather gloves.

Shit.
He was a security guru. How paranoid was he about his own security? Maybe he protected his fingerprints every chance he got.

Okay, fine.
Where would it be impossible for him to keep gloves on?

I quickly made my way to the en suite. The room was a gleam of sparkling white tile, chrome, and glass shower doors. And clean as a new car.

Even still, there had to be a set of prints somewhere in here.

The drawer handle of the vanity caught on my maid's uniform skirt, and I turned, opening the drawer a crack. A pistol rested in the drawer.

Okay, we were moving from fastidious about security into the fanatical category. Why would you need a weapon in the bathroom?

I closed the drawer and kept dusting, sweat breaking out between my shoulder blades. My maid's uniform started sticking to my back. Time was ticking.

After several minutes, I'd lifted a complete right hand. But for the left hand, I'd found only the fingers. The thumb was missing. I dusted everything I could find in the vicinity.

Okay, I needed another brilliant idea. What would he be sure to use his left thumb for—

I heard a key in the lock of the front door.

My heart slammed into my rib cage. I needed a way out. But there was only one door. And although there were plenty of windows, I wasn't prepared for climbing. I hadn't brought any ropes or a harness. I could slip out the window, but . . . we were four stories up. Right on the borderline of a guaranteed fatal fall.

Fuck.
This was exactly why I needed to get over this fear thing. It was going to be the end of me.

Well, if I couldn't escape, I'd have to hide. I moved soundlessly to the bedroom, opened the door, and slipped inside.

And then I saw it. Too late. A tiny strip of paper resting on the wooden parquet floor.

It was a trap Severin had left—a classic trick. A tiny strip of paper stuck in a doorjamb will silently flutter to the floor if the door is opened. But far worse than this, I realized if there was such a trap on the bedroom door, there was likely such a trap on every door. Including the front door.

I then realized things had gone extremely silent in the front hall. Which meant one thing. Severin knew someone was in his apartment.

I immediately thought of the gun in the bathroom. Unlikely it was his only one.

I raced to the bedroom window as fast and silently as I could, expecting the entire time to receive a bullet in my spine.

Where was he? I mapped how far he could possibly have gotten in the time since opening the door and discovering I was there.

I made it to the other side of the bed without being shot or otherwise killed. The window was huge, reaching up to the ceiling, and I pulled up hard on the sash, trying to be silent. It stuck for a heart-stopping moment, then gave way.

A black wrought-iron balcony ledge beckoned just outside the window. Unfortunately, this was the worst possible spot: a window on the street side. I would never go this way if I had another option.

I scanned for something helpful, like restoration scaffolding. No such luck. Still, the building was ornate and very belle epoque, with plenty of balconies and carved bits of stone, which meant lots of handholds and footholds.

It would have to do.

I climbed out onto the balcony, my fingers curling around cold iron. A cool breeze ruffled my housemaid's apron, and my ears filled with the clatter and hum from the street. The morning bustle had reached its zenith, but I was high enough that the bustling businesspeople and swerving cabdrivers paid me no attention. There was no sign anyone had noticed me clambering out.

I started to climb down. And then I heard the gendarmes. The sirens wailing, coming this direction. Of course. Severin had called them.

Over my shoulder I saw flashing lights heading toward the building. If I climbed down now, there was a good chance I would land on the ground the exact moment they pulled up to the curb.

I had to go up to the roof.

My head spun and my breathing came faster, but I began climbing. And then, just before I reached the top, I heard a sound behind me. I glanced back in time to see the face of Severin peering around the open window glass. With a Glock 17 in his hand.

I heaved myself onto the roof and flattened myself down on the zinc roof sheeting. I glanced over the edge to see Severin clambering out the window himself with a determined grit to his mouth.

I stood, willing myself to get out of there. But I couldn't move normally. I tried to run across the roof, but my normally fluid movements were stiff and halting. It was like those nightmares where you can't move, can't get away, like you're trying to run through water. If I could just sprint across the rooftops here, I could get away. But I was picking my way across, instead of racing and leaping.

My eyes filled with visions of my body lying broken in the streets of Paris. My rational thinking began to crumble. My legs felt like pudding.

And then things got so much worse.

Ethan swept at a particularly stubborn patch of sidewalk litter, gripping the green street broom tightly in his hands and trying to ignore the massive internal battle waging inside his head. He adjusted the coveralls, which were two sizes too big for him.

He was disguised as a Parisian street cleaner on rue Dauphine. He'd seen Cat slip into Severin's apartment building fifteen minutes ago.

The smell of garbage rose up and made his eyes water. As far as jobs went, this had to be the worst. But it did provide excellent cover. Nobody spared him a glance.

Cat had no idea he was here, which was exactly how Ethan wanted it . . . for now. He really wasn't sure he wanted to reveal his presence to Cat just yet.

In fact, he wasn't sure this was the right decision at all, coming to Paris.

At first, Ethan had refused Templeton's request. He'd assured Templeton that Cat would be fine. She didn't need him. And—more importantly—he didn't need Cat.

But it turned out he couldn't get her out of his mind. So he'd decided he might as well come and see for himself, see how much trouble she was in. Maybe Templeton had been exaggerating.

Ethan glanced at his watch. Montgomery should be exiting by now. No matter what she was up to, she'd been in there too long.

While he swept the sidewalk, Ethan scouted the building. If it came to it, he'd be able to climb the exterior. There was window-washing scaffolding just around the corner. However, it was a full block away. It would give him access only to the roof. He'd have to make his way from there.

But he wasn't going to do any such thing.

No matter what Templeton said, Cat was an extremely capable and resourceful thief. She would be fine.

And then Ethan saw Severin return to his apartment, looking flustered, like a man who'd forgotten something at home.

He knew Cat was in trouble.

Come on, Montgomery. Get a move on. Get out of there.

Ethan kept sweeping, thinking hard about his next move. The minutes ticked by. Then he saw a window slide open right at the top of the building. Cat, dressed in a pale blue housemaid's uniform, clambered out. Her face was pale and grim.

Good.
She was making an escape. She'd be fine now. Except why had she gone out on the street side? What the hell had made her do that? It was so exposed.

It was still early in the morning, and people weren't paying much attention to the rooftops of buildings. Generally, they were looking down or toward the nearest café. Ethan seemed to be the only person who'd noticed what was going on. For now.

But . . . there was something wrong with Cat. Instead of her normal agile self, she was awkward and shaky.

A pit opened in Ethan's stomach as he realized Templeton had not been exaggerating. She really was in trouble.

And then he saw Severin look out the window. He'd spotted Cat. Without hesitation, Severin tucked a semiautomatic pistol into his waistband and began to clamber out.

Ethan's vision focused to a laser and his muscles contracted as he immediately went into action.

In three strides he was at the Vespa he'd parked on the street beside the apartment building, and he slid the key into the ignition, leaving it there. On foot still, he turned the corner and climbed up the scaffolding just as he heard the sirens of the gendarmes barreling down the street.

He climbed all the way up to the roof and leaped parkour-style across the rooftops. This was familiar territory for Ethan. He experienced a momentary flashback to his recent escape in Rome and briefly wondered how often art history teachers were required to execute rooftop escapes in their line of work. He smiled to himself.
Definitely the right career move.

But although this was a thrill for him, the edges of that bright feeling were clouded with dark worry for Montgomery.

And then he spotted her. She was clinging to the roof, looking utterly paralyzed. She glanced up, startled at first, and then recognized him. Her face changed to a look of hope.

Effectively causing his heart to burst open. He was going to rescue her if it killed him.

In a few more strides he reached her. “Come on, Montgomery. Let's get you out of here.”

“Sounds good, but . . . I can't move.”

“I know. That's why I'm here.”

“How did you know—”

“No talking. Later.”

Ethan helped her, keeping her steady, as they made their way across the rooftops. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Severin climbing up and over the roof's edge. They were out of range of his Glock, but not for long. Sirens blared from the street below; the gendarmes had arrived at the curb. Ethan knew they were out of sight from the street below, up on the roof like this, and he imagined the gendarmes spilling out of their cars into the building.

Which might give them the slice of opportunity they needed. He looked ahead—the scaffolding was too far away. They needed to get off the roof now.

“We're getting down from this roof,” he said. “Now.”

“How?” Her voice wavered.

Ethan pointed down to the red café awning they were directly over.

Cat lost the last bit of color in her face. “No way. That just happens in the movies. And even then, it doesn't usually work.”

Ethan nodded. “This time it will. That awning is new. I checked it out while I was sweeping the streets. The canvas is strong, and it's reinforced with steel. It will function like a trampoline. It will support us. Well, one at a time, anyway.” He looked at her and gripped her shoulders, locked onto her blue eyes. “You can do this, Montgomery.”

She looked back at Severin, who was growing closer to them. “Okay.”

“See that black Vespa? That's where you're headed. Now go.”

Ethan waited.
She's not going to do it.
She was shaking like a meth addict. And then she nodded grimly. And jumped.

She free-fell down to the awning, then slid and bounced. And then just kept sliding right off the end of the canvas.

Her body must have gone into automatic pilot, because she tucked and curled before hitting the ground. Ethan couldn't help a victorious grin. He knew she had it in her. She just had to get out of her own head.

But there was no time to stand around admiring her skills. Once Montgomery was clear, he jumped, too. Ethan's stomach flipped into his chest as he fell, and then everything jolted when he hit the canvas. Sky and trees blurred as he slid and then flew off the end feetfirst, to land on the sidewalk.

Ethan raced a few feet to the waiting Vespa and got there a second after Cat. He leaped on, and Cat jumped behind him. She clamped her arms around him, he twisted the key, and they were instantly flying across cobbled streets.

In the rearview mirror Ethan saw a police car—bright royal blue with a red and white stripe on the hood—suddenly mobilize, lights flashing, racing after them.

The chase was on.

He felt Cat's arms tighten around him as they took a sharp turn and zipped and veered between cars. Paris traffic was the fifth circle of Hell at the best of times. And this was something he could use to his advantage, because he was able to slip through unmoving lines of cars, instead of being caught up by them.

The task at hand was to lose the single police car that was chasing them, because undoubtedly, that car was calling for backup, and then they'd be screwed.

And where was the best place to lose someone in a chase? Ethan needed a broad street, where he could get some speed, with lots of traffic, into which he could vanish.

Boulevard Saint-Germain would be perfect. He sped toward the big artery, leaning forward, feeling the engine vibrate underneath him.

Then he heard another siren coming toward them. Now there were two cars chasing them. It was only a matter of time before there would be many. And then getting away would be impossible.

The police car behind him was keeping pace. But the minute they got to the bigger road, Ethan would be away. He just needed to get there.

The other siren was getting closer.

Ethan's heart rate sped up. The idea of getting caught was barely conceivable. French prisons had a brutal rep.

He was not rescuing Montgomery for both of them to get caught. No way.

The engine gave a subtle chug. Ethan glanced down and saw the gas gauge was dangerously low.

He could see the intersection for boulevard Saint-Germain just ahead. It was their salvation, with four lanes of traffic and endless options for ditching this pursuit.

He squinted into the side-view. The other police car was going to catch up with them before they got there.

And then there was another slight pull of the engine.

Ethan made a decision. “Hang on,” he said to Montgomery. She clutched tighter.

He pointed the wheels up and onto the curb, onto the sidewalk, and zipped through pedestrians the last half block to Saint-Germain. Shocked, angry faces turned to them, but Ethan ignored them all.

In the mirror he caught a glimpse of the police car behind them getting tangled in traffic. They were powerless to follow.

At last, the Vespa burst onto Saint-Germain, with its blissfully broad lanes and numerous intersections. Ethan glided the moped through, weaving among cars, and putting a lot of distance between the Vespa and the two gendarmes chasing them.

The big artery took them straight into the heart of the Latin Quarter, and Ethan steered the bike abruptly off Saint-Germain. They entered a rabbit warren of ancient streets around the Sorbonne, the university, and bumped across old cobblestone roads and lanes.

He took a zigzag route, and then, in a small side alley, Cat leaped off. Ethan ditched the Vespa and filed it in the middle of a row of similar vehicles parked at the curb. Cat quickly removed her wig and pulled a long coat—swiftly liberated from a sidewalk vendor—around her maid's uniform. Ethan climbed out of his coveralls, revealing a T-shirt and jeans underneath. Then they strolled out of the alley casually, joining the crowds of students and tourists in the maze of streets around the Sorbonne.

They were clear. It was over. He glanced at Cat, whose cheeks were flushed. She was beaming gratitude at him.

The thrill of the victory sent exhilarated ripples through his chest. He felt amazing. He grinned back at her.

And immediately regretted everything he'd just done.

One of the reasons he'd decided to come to Paris was to prove to himself he was over Cat Montgomery. That she was just like any other female in his life—a brief interest. Fun but, ultimately, a throwaway.

Now he knew he was really in trouble.