The French Detective's Woman (6 page)

“
Putain de merde
.” This was just what he fucking needed. More negative publicity. Thank
God
he wasn’t the lead detective on the case. Because if he had been, it would be like a bad flashback—to the nightmare that had been his life five years ago. The nightmare that had sent him into the tailspin that lost him his wife and very nearly his job. And had made him the emotionally mistrustful bastard he was today.

He straightened, tossed the newspaper into the trash and took a deep, cleansing breath.

Non
. Thank God for small favors. He was not in charge, so this thief would not be getting the better of him. Not this time. That
wasn’t
going to happen again.

But he would not tempt fate, nor add fuel to the fire, by seeing that woman Ciara again, either. He had enough to think about, enough to do, without obsessing over getting laid.

He could live without her. There were other women. Plenty of them. Ones who didn’t disappoint or betray a man. Ones who only sought to please you...for the right price.

Mind made up, he determinedly stuck the faxes of her photo and Sorbonne application, along with the paper he’d written her name and address on, under the heavy leather blotter on his desk.

And sat back glowering at the ceiling, trying to come up with a new strategy to catch the troublesome Ghost. But his imagination had deserted the case for greener pastures.

Resignedly, he leaned over and fished the newspaper back out of the wastebasket and ripped off the front page. And for a long time he stared at the photo of himself with Ciara.

Alors
. He straightened his spine, stuck the news page under the blotter, too, and slammed his hands on the desk.

Done.

One all-too-tempting woman gone from his life. For good.

♥♥♥

As soon as he arrived at
36 Quai des Orfèvres
the next day, Jean-Marc was called into CD Belfort’s office.

This couldn’t be good.

He strode down the gray second-floor hallway wondering what he was going to be chewed out for this time. Despite having one of the best arrest records in the OCBC, he could never seem to please his boss. “A loose cannon,” Belfort called him. “Can’t tell the difference between you and the goddamned bad guys.”

Bon
, whatever worked.

He ran into Belfort coming out of an incident room with Michéle Saville, lead detective on
le Revenant
case. Saville marched after their boss with his hands clasped behind his back like an idiot, looking smug.

“What the hell is
this
all about?” Belfort demanded when he spotted Jean-Marc. He halted and snapped open a copy of last evening’s tabloid in front of his chest. The one with the photo. And the damning headline. “You were there
before
the robbery?”

He could tell it was going to be one long, fucking day.

“
Oui
, I was there all evening. On my own time,” he added, matching Belfort stride-for-stride as he resumed his march down the hall toward his office. Saville was forced to follow behind. “I believe I told you he’d go after the princess’s diamonds,” Jean-Marc reminded them pointedly.

Belfort’s jaw worked. “If you were there watching, why isn’t
le
goddamn
Revenant
behind bars?”

“I’m only one man, boss,” Jean-Marc said, striving for equanimity. “You may recall I did ask for a team to back me up, and my request was denied.”

Belfort whisked over to the espresso machine behind his secretary’s desk and brewed himself a cup. The burnt smell of too-strong coffee wafted through the air. “So it was.
Alors
, from now on I plan to listen to you more carefully.” He pointed a finger at Saville. “As of now, you are relieved of
le Revenant
case. I’m giving it to Lacroix.”

Jean-Marc came to full attention as Saville lodged a loud protest. “Sir, I object! I’ve been working this case for—”

“Far too long,” Belfort interrupted, adding hot milk to his coffee. “Time someone else took over.”

“Let Saville keep the damn case,” Jean-Marc said emphatically. “I don’t want it.”

“I don’t give a shit what either of you want.
I
want this bastard caught. The
préfet
is starting to get calls. Which means
I’m
starting to get calls.”

Belfort’s secretary pretended not to listen to the CD’s rising voice, but several other officers milling about the common area weren’t so subtle in their observation.

“The
préfet
?” Jean-Marc asked in surprise. “About a common thief?”

The
préfet
was the overall head of
le Direction Central
, Belfort’s boss’s boss. He didn’t normally concern himself with such trivial matters as one lone criminal, unless it was a serial killer or terrorist.

“There is nothing common about
le Revenant
,” Belfort refuted, turning on a heel and heading for the frosted glass of his private office. “He’s thumbing his nose at the OCBC—hell, the whole DCPJ—and the press is making a mockery of us because of it. The insurance companies are complaining about the money they’re losing. The nouveau riche don’t feel safe showing off their expensive baubles in public. The aristocrats are angry because he’s breaching their security at home so easily. They are all becoming annoyed.”

They weren’t the only ones. Ever since the OCBC realized that the escalating wave of high-end jewel thefts throughout the country could be attributed to one person, Jean-Marc had tried to convince Saville he was going about the investigation the wrong way. Traditional methods weren’t going to cut it. The thief was smart. He never struck in the same place, nor in quite the same way. From the crowds of Le Mans to isolated castle fortresses, no setting had daunted him, or deterred him from pulling his clever heists. He never took old or distinctive pieces that could easily be identified, or new ones that had serial numbers etched into them. He stuck to expensive, but unremarkable stones. And he was getting ever more daring. Last night he’d known he was being watched, but hit anyway, against a highly-guarded public figure. Right under Jean-Marc’s nose.

Saville hadn’t listened to him. However, the last thing Jean-Marc wanted was to head up the case.

“Truly, sir—”

“And if that weren’t bad enough,” Belfort continued as though he hadn’t spoken, sailing through the door to his office, “the bastard is building up a legend around himself, thanks to the media. Becoming a fucking folk hero to the working classes. A goddamned Robin Hood. We’re losing our credibility out there, Lacroix. I don’t like it.”

They’d all been chagrined when tabloids had dubbed the thief
le Revenant
, a play on words referring back to the famous Belgian cat burgler from the fifties—
le Phantom
.
Le Revenant
also meant phantom, or ghost, but one that walked the earth again, for the second time. It sounded almost romantic. But there was nothing romantic about crime.

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.”