The French Detective's Woman (13 page)

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.