A Magnificent Crime (27 page)

Jack maneuvered into position; he had a clear view of the Seine and the motor yacht that belonged to Faulkner, which was moored along the riverbank. Amber streetlights lining the bridge of Pont Neuf shone against the dusky sky of twilight. The river waters shifted, creating fractal patterns of reflected light.

He stretched his neck and settled into a crouch. Finally, it looked like there was a development in his case. Which was good. Because if something didn't happen soon, Jack was going to be in a mess of trouble.

It was not that he hadn't tried to go through official channels. Before coming to Paris, he'd gone to Victoria Sullivan, his supervisor, with his suspicions about Faulkner. He'd shown her the surveillance tapes from the Smithsonian. He'd thought, just maybe she might be impressed.

Victoria, in no uncertain terms, had shut him down. In fact, she was so furious that Jack had done his own investigating, using his own hacker and everything, that she'd insisted Jack take a little time off, unpaid.

Which had supremely pissed him off.

Except once he started thinking about it, he'd realized this could work to his advantage. His schedule was clear. What was stopping him from going to Paris and continuing his investigation on the sly? In fact, it might be his only chance to save his job.

He'd booked a flight that very day.

So here he was, no backup, no official position. If only he could get some proof that would bring down the Gargoyle. And save his career in the process. Because right now it was not looking good. His record was terrible. His performance reports were going to be poor, he was sure.

In Jack's previous department within the FBI, his supervisor had valued intuition, hunches, and ballsy decisions. Things Jack specialized in.

Victoria Sullivan, in contrast, valued doing things by the book, following rules, and documenting everything in triplicate. Things Jack . . . well, needed to work on.

And if Jack didn't soon get a solid lead, some ironclad evidence that could be used, he might need to start looking for another career. Especially if his supervisor got wind of the fact he was in Paris. Would she believe Jack wasn't doing an illicit investigation?

The trouble was, so far he'd come up totally empty-handed. Until yesterday. While Cat had been in the shower, he'd received a message from his network of eyes and ears: Faulkner was having a meeting tonight on his boat.

Thinking about that incident in the hotel, though, set Jack's teeth on edge.
Fucking Jones.
The guy made his blood boil like nobody else. But also, Jack hadn't liked the way Cat had defended Ethan and his transparent offering of a bottle of wine. It didn't sit well with him, not at all.

But he couldn't think about that right now. He needed to focus. He repositioned himself and ignored the cramp in his thigh. Jack had been waiting a long time; maybe this was a false alarm.

As Jack waited, his mind spiraled away again. He wondered what was going on with the Fabergé egg quest. What was Wesley doing now? Maybe Jack shouldn't be here, chasing this weak lead. Maybe he should be with Wesley, doing something of significance.

No. This was where he belonged. On the right side of the law. The good side. Not that his position was officially endorsed by his superiors, of course, but he was still looking to uphold law and order. Right?

He frowned and cracked his knuckles.

Of course, Wesley was also trying to do the right thing. Just . . . through illicit channels. Finding the Fabergé egg and attempting to steal it . . . He was doing it for all the right reasons.

Jack felt a familiar tugging sensation. The familiar temptation flickered in view, like a shiny object in the corner of his eye.

No, just stay where you are. Keep the goal in sight. You are on this earth to stop criminals like the Gargoyle. Not to become a criminal yourself.

But then, on the riverbank, everything changed. Something was happening. A figure was approaching Faulkner's boat. The henchmen inside the yacht were taking up positions. This must be the person Faulkner had arranged to meet. Jack shifted, sharpening the focus on his binoculars.

And almost dropped them in the river.

It was Cat.

I drew near Faulkner's boat, walking cautiously down the cobblestone ramp to the edge of the Seine. My palms were sweaty; it was dusk, and I was leaving the safety of the bustling streets for the shadowy water's edge. This was a meeting Faulkner had requested. And the use of the word
request
here is rather polite.

I didn't know what to expect. I certainly didn't like that it was on a boat. Too many variables, not enough escape options for my comfort level, altogether too much water. But even though it had been Faulkner who'd summoned this rendezvous, I had a very specific agenda.

I needed money. Specifically so I could buy a Hope replica. We hadn't found one yet, but we knew the sticker price would not be pretty when we did.

So I was going to ask him for funding, and then I was going to get the hell off his boat as fast as possible.

As I climbed aboard and felt the slight wobble of the deck, I could tell they were making preparations to leave. A late-night cruise along the Seine perhaps? I took stock of my surroundings and started assessing my exit strategy.

It was a beautiful yacht—trimmed in rich wood, sparkling clean and shipshape, open terrace on the top and a covered area underneath with lounge chairs and tables, like a richly appointed conservatory. That just happened to be on a boat.

For now, we were moored and not yet ready for departure. I knew plenty about boats. Sailing was the hobby my father and I had shared for years. I experienced a brief pang in my chest at that thought.

“Miss Montgomery,” said Faulkner when I arrived at the lounge at the stern of the yacht. His tone was flat.

He was seated at a table, eating escargots, scooping the shells up with tongs and deftly forking the little creatures dripping with garlic and butter. He didn't offer me anything. This was not a social call, clearly. I tried to keep my hands still at my sides and to keep my face smooth.

At the same time, I started counting the weapons in the lounge.

“We have a couple of problems, you and I,” Faulkner said.

“Oh?”

“For one, I am concerned. The Hope Diamond will be in Paris for only another five nights before it is returned to America. You know this, and I know this.”

I nodded.

“I am concerned you may not be taking this seriously. I am concerned you will not be able to accomplish your goal. And I have started wondering if you are not sufficiently motivated.”

My mouth became cottony. Was he going to do something to me, hurt me in some way? I prepared to defend myself, trying to remember Atworthy's advice.

But nobody made any sign of moving.

“Additionally,” continued Faulkner, “it appears I have attracted the attention, unfortunately, of a certain FBI agent. I believe you know him. Jack Barlow?”

My eyes went wide. I couldn't help it. Jack was investigating
Faulkner?

“How do you know? What is Jack doing?” I blurted out.

“Mr. Barlow is sniffing around. He appears to be investigating my activities. He is here in Paris, and I know you know this. Now, was it you who set him on me?” His voice had a snarling edge to it.

“Me? No! Of course not. I wouldn't—”

“Enough,” he said sharply.

I swallowed and tried to think of what I would say next.

But Faulkner kept talking. “This displeases me highly. I'd been certain I'd told you not to involve him. And that if you did . . . what? What would happen?”

Did he want an answer here? Was this a rhetorical question? I stayed quiet, feeling this was the safest option. In my peripheral vision I could see two henchmen blocking the way I'd come onto the boat. There had to be another way off. The back of my neck felt clammy.

I started maneuvering myself toward the stern railing, standing with my back to the water, ready to attempt a quick exit if necessary.

“I believe you,” said Faulkner. “That Barlow's involvement was not your doing. But this is what you can do now.
Get him off me.
”

How was I going to get Jack to stop investigating Faulkner without incriminating myself, and without further arousing Jack's suspicion? Could I come clean and tell him what I was doing? Tell him exactly what was at stake? Would that make him stop investigating? Or would he investigate all the more?

I knew Jack. If I told him the full story, it would only strengthen his resolve to investigate more deeply. And the more he did that, the more he was going to anger Faulkner. And the more danger I would be in.

Faulkner swallowed his mouthful of escargots, and his expression turned thoughtful. “The thing that bothers me is that I think you are close to procuring the Hope. I do believe that. I can feel it. And, quite frankly, that's the most important thing to me right now.”

“I
am
close to finishing the job,” I said, keeping my breathing even. “It's all in place. I have just about everything I need.” I clenched and unclenched my hands, trying to relax. This was my moment to ask for the money I needed. “There's just one piece of, er, equipment that I need. It's very expensive.” I swallowed, my throat dry as chalk. “I wonder—”

“You want to know if I can front you the money?” Faulkner said, his eyes narrowing.

I nodded.

He ate another escargot, staring at me as he chewed it thoroughly. I had previously quite liked escargots. The very thought of them now turned my stomach.

“That, my dear, is entirely out of the question.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me. “Do not ask again. You will regret it.”

I hated being so toothless. If I were in a less vulnerable spot, I would demand what I needed. But the semiautomatic weapons lingering by the exits did not help me feel I was in a power position.

“So here's what we're going to do. You are going to get Mr. Barlow off my case. Immediately. And you are going to step up your efforts and be absolutely certain that you are going to get the Hope for me. And to be sure that we are on the same page, in terms of motivation for these tasks, I'm providing a little incentive. It's something I should have done originally. I don't know why I let myself get talked out of it.”

My heart rate sped up. What was he talking about?

“I was wrong,” he said, nodding, almost talking to himself at this point. “I can admit that. I was wrong to think I could sufficiently motivate you by threatening you. I forgot all about the power of fear for someone you love. But I am not above admitting when I am wrong and taking steps to correct my mistake.”

My chest tightened as I waited for whatever was coming next.

“Which is why it is important for you to see this,” he said. One of his executive assistants handed him an envelope. From it, he pulled a sheaf of photographs and passed them to me.

I held the thick, slippery photography paper and looked at the first picture. It was my mother, outside in her garden. Then my father, at the boatyard. And my friends, at a café in Seattle. They were surveillance photographs. My loved ones were unharmed, but clearly, someone had been following them and photographing them.

Terror surged through my every nerve at seeing those images.

Faulkner took them back from my trembling hands. He gazed at them, flipped through them, smiling affectionately. Like he was looking at a prized collection. “Hmm,” he said, frowning slightly. “No siblings? Tsk, tsk. That's a shame. People are often highly motivated to protect a younger brother or sister.”

This brought up fresh memories of my sister, Penny. My alarm mixed with anger as heat flushed up my neck. But I couldn't lose my temper here. I had to do whatever it took to keep my family and friends safe. “What are you going to do?” I said in a low, clear voice.

At that moment the boat deck rumbled beneath my feet as the engines fired up.

“Nothing. Hopefully,” Faulkner said. “If everything goes according to plan, your family will be fine. I can't say the same, however, if things do not work out between us. If anything goes wrong with the Hope job or if I get hassle from Mr. Barlow or the FBI or Interpol . . . well, you can use your imagination.”

My fists clenched at my sides ineffectually. What could I do? “Yes,” I said in a hoarse whisper, nodding. “I understand.”

Faulkner looked at me with that pinchy, penetrating bird-of-prey look. And then nodded at the henchman nearest me.

The man reached forward and pushed me straight off the stern of the boat, right into the Seine. The cold water sent shocks through my brain and stole my breath.

As I surfaced, coughing, I became vaguely aware of Faulkner's boat pulling away from the bank and moving quickly downriver. I was left in the freezing water, head spinning.

Suddenly there was a strong hand around my arm. And then another. I heard gruff male voices through my waterlogged eardrums.

I looked up, straight into Jack's face. I blinked. No, it was Ethan's face.

No.
It was both of them.

Ethan had been watching Cat at her meeting on the boat. When she'd sent him the message, he'd headed down to the riverbank right away. He'd watched as she spoke to Faulkner. And when they'd pushed her off the boat, a cold hand of panic clutched his heart. He had been in motion immediately.

Ethan knew Cat was a good swimmer. She'd be okay. That was what he told himself as he raced down to the water's edge. He saw Cat reach the riverbank and cling on to the edge like a kitten in a bathtub.

In the corner of his eye he saw a figure sprinting down to the same spot. A bystander coming to help.

But as Ethan got closer, he realized this was no bystander. It was Jack Barlow.

And Jack got to Cat first, just a second ahead of Ethan. Maybe Ethan should have left it to Jack to fish her out. But, damn it, Ethan cared about her, too. And it was not in his nature to sit back.

“I got you,” Ethan said, grasping her arms, looking into her eyes.

“What are you talking about? I have her,” Jack said, pushing Ethan aside. “I can handle this.”

“Right. Yes, you're handling it beautifully so far. I guess that's why she's in the river—”

“Would you two stop!” Cat choked out, slapping both their hands away. “Get your hands off me. I can crawl out on my own, thank you. Give me some room. You're both going to end up drowning me.”

Both men stepped back. Jack refused to look at Ethan. Ethan was fine with that.

When Cat had managed to pull herself up and out of the water, with no help from either of them, Jack quickly wrapped his coat around Cat, and Ethan helped remove her sopping shoes.

Jack was shooting poison arrows at Ethan the whole time, but Ethan didn't give a shit. He wasn't going anywhere. He was going to help Cat. And he was going to find out what the hell had happened with Faulkner.

Ethan also had something important to tell her. He'd learned where they could get a superb replica of the Hope, at a very affordable price. But they would have to go there in person. And it wasn't around the corner.

But he'd save that for later. Now was not exactly the time.

Cat was shivering. Jack turned to Ethan. “Why don't you do something useful and go hail a cab?”

Ethan remained there, crouching by Cat. The last thing he wanted to do was take orders from Jack. But it was a good idea. Somebody needed to do it, anyway. He stood and looked at Cat, huddled in Barlow's jacket. At that instant, she looked up into Jack's face. And her face was full of gratitude for his safe, warm embrace. At least, that was how it looked to Ethan. And, to his chagrin, Ethan noticed his chest tightening.

Fuck.
It was official. He had totally fallen for Cat.

And now he was in the extremely annoying position of being second goddamned fiddle. He suddenly felt extraneous. A third wheel. And whatever other cliché you wanted to throw into it.

The trouble was, Ethan simply could not shake the feeling that they belonged together. But what was he going to do? Give up? Or fight for her?

Cat's shivering grew more violent. She needed to get somewhere warm.

Ethan flexed his jaw. “Just stay here. I'll be right back.”

I watched Ethan stride up the ramp to street level to hail a cab. My chattering teeth were so loud, rattling my head, I was having a hard time concentrating.

But this was important. I needed to come clean with Jack. And I needed to find a way to make him stop investigating Faulkner. I knew Jack, though. The more I tried to put him off doing something, the more he was going to want to do it.

He beat me to the subject, however. “Why were you meeting with Albert Faulkner?” Jack demanded. His brow furrowed with concern.

“He's just . . . It's nothing. He's just a jewel collector.”

“A jewel collector who pushes you off the back of a boat?”

I pressed my lips together. “I'm doing a job for him, if you must know.”

“What job?”

“Jack, you know I can't tell you that.”

“This has to do with the Louvre, right?”

Ugh.

He was just way too close to all this, way too wrapped up in all the stuff I also happened to be wrapped up in.

“Jack, you don't want to get involved in all this. I'm too involved. And you and I . . . well, we need to keep our professional lives separate, don't we?”

I could see the struggle on his face. He knew I was right. He was wrestling with his professional obligations and his personal obligations to me. It was the sort of conflict we had worked so hard to avoid.

“It's too late,” he said. “I'm involved.”

I closed my eyes. This was not good. We were not going to be able to get this toothpaste back in the tube.

“But here's what I think,” he continued. “You need to get out of this. Faulkner is bad news. He's dangerous. He's a major criminal, and he's violent.”

No kidding.
I wished I could talk to Jack about it, but my old instinct to protect him, to keep him in the dark, kicked in. “It's fine. Faulkner is just an old man who's a lot of talk,” I said. I hoped my voice came out more confident than I felt.

“Cat, stop. You don't understand—”

“No, listen.” I needed to find a way to get him off the trail. I had to figure out a way. If I could just give him something else to sink his teeth into.

And then I had it. Reilly and Madeleine. A little corruption within the Smithsonian. That should prove interesting to an FBI agent.

“If you really want to investigate someone, take a look at Madeleine York. She's the director of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, but she's actually working behind the scenes with a thief to steal . . .”

I stopped there, not particularly keen for Jack to know what was being stolen. The last thing I wanted was increased security around the Hope, making my job that much more difficult.

I reconsidered. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Okay, never mind that,” I said quickly. “That's not really your department, anyway. Just trust me. Albert Faulkner is nothing to worry about. He's just an old, somewhat fanatic jewel collector.”

I looked sideways at Jack and tried for a smile. His face was flat with skepticism. He was not buying it for a second.

“I want to get you out of Paris,” Jack said. “I'm worried about you and this job.”

At that moment Ethan returned. “Cab is waiting. Let's go.”

Jack turned to him then and said, “There's a lot I don't like about you, Jones, but I believe we do share a concern for Cat. I just told her I wanted her to get out of Paris. Are you gonna back me up on that?”

First, they were fighting over helping me, and now they were teaming up against me?

Ethan's expression was odd, unreadable. Almost like there was something funny. “Actually, I think you're right,” he said. “I think that's the best idea you've had, Barlow.”

“What?” I said disbelievingly.

“In fact, I know just the place you should go,” Ethan said. “Where
we
should go, I should say. How do you feel about Thai food?”