The Paris Caper (22 page)

“Report what?” she asked
innocently. “I went to see
Brigadier
Beck as a follow-up to yesterday’s
incident. There’s nothing to report.”

She could actually feel
his scowl on the back of her neck. “Yeah. I so believe that.”

She turned and looked at
him impassively. “Believe what you like, Jean-Marc, but if Sofie or I turn up
dead or beaten to within an inch of our lives, you’ll know who to look for.”

She left it at that, and
started walking again. It was just past ten-thirty, and the morning had gone
well so far, but now she had a train to catch. She didn’t want to miss it.
Before he could argue, or even comment, she said over her shoulder, “I’m going
to the Orphans’ now. Spending the day there, and probably the night, too. Hope
you brought a book.”

Sneaking out of the
apartment wouldn’t be difficult, but keeping Jean-Marc at bay for twenty-four
hours while she went to Italy might prove tricky. With any luck, CoCo strolling
past the fifth story windows in a blond wig every so often would keep him from
becoming suspicious.

“Why spend the night?” he
asked.

“Sofie’s not feeling
well. It’s been a rough couple of days.” Which was true enough to satisfy him.

From the corner of her
eye she saw his hands shove into his trouser pockets and his face go serious.

They didn’t talk any
more. In fact, Jean-Marc dropped back and walked several paces behind her. He
didn’t sit next to her on the
métro
. Didn’t say a word when she went
into the Orphan’s apartment building and left him standing there, watching her
with an unreadable expression. He looked so forlorn, she almost felt sorry for
him.

Damn, this thing between
them was weird.

How could you be friends
and enemies at the same time? How could you feel bad about lying to the cop who
was systematically hunting you down? How could you still want to kiss the man
who had sworn to send you to jail?

Hell. Insane didn’t come
close.

♥♥♥

Unlike her relationship
with Jean-Marc, the Italian job went like clockwork.

Leaving the apartment on
rue Daguerre almost immediately via the attic escape route, she took the
high-speed train which put her in Turin just after sunset. That gave her two
hours to make her way to the hilltop villa and back before the last train back
to Paris.

If all went according to
plan, she’d be home around eight the next morning, and with any luck Jean-Marc
would be none the wiser. But if he should knock on the Orphans’ door before
that and demand to see her, they would tell him she’d taken the night train to
visit her relatives in Marseille.

In Turin, Valois’s
contact from Milan met her as promised and after the laydown took charge of the
antique silver items, making the return trip to France far less dangerous for
her

She got back to the train
station in Turin in plenty of time, and sat down with a cup of coffee to settle
her nerves. Idly she watched the electronic departure board cycle through to
the next set of trains, the small number and letter tiles flipping like mad.
When it stopped, at the top of the list was a train to Marseille.

Her coffee cup halted
halfway to her mouth as she was suddenly hit by an unexpected wave of
nostalgia. It had been several years since she’d visited her old stomping
grounds and her old friends and family. Or Etienne’s grave.

Maybe she actually
should
go to Marseille.

She looked at the clock
again and made some quick calculations. A detour to the coastal town would add
at least half a day to her trip. Possibly more, once she met up with family and
former compatriots, all of whom would want to lift a glass and reminisce about
the good old days.

So why not? She could use
some uncomplicated company and a strong drink about now. Maybe even several
strong drinks. And she’d like a chance to talk to Etienne again. He never
answered, of course. But sitting by his grave, pouring out her troubles, it was
like he was sitting there with her. She could always feel the love they had
once shared, wrapping itself around her like a warm, ghostly hug. Feeling
Etienne’s spirit always gave her the strength to make the tough decisions.

Maybe she’d tell him
about Jean-Marc. She wondered what he’d have to say about that little fiasco.
Hell, he’d probably laugh his ass off. Maybe he’d be jealous. Maybe he’d tell
her to stop being an idiot and get on with her life.

She just wished he’d tell
her how.

Maybe he would, if she
listened hard enough...

Hell, it was worth a try.

♥♥♥

The sun was just peeking
over the mismatched riot of rooftops that made up the Marseilles skyline that
surrounded the rundown, ancient graveyard in the worst part of town where
Etienne was buried.

Ciara could smell the
salty brine of the sea on the crisp dawn breeze, hovering beneath the pervasive
stench of fish, refuse and diesel fuel that always choked the harbor district.
Sea gulls cried out in their distinctive voices, swirling overhead in their
never-ending quest for survival among the detritus of mankind.

She shivered, pulling her
sweater closer to her body as she picked her way through the sagging headstones
and unkempt graves. The churchyard was a tiny square of greenish brown in an
otherwise cement-gray world, clinging to the side of an eighteenth-century
stone chapel which looked like it might tumble to the litter-strewn ground at
any minute. This was the chapel Etienne’s family had worshipped in for three
hundred years. Those who were still alive continued to attend every
Sunday...despite its outward state of decay, and despite their seedy
professions. Inside, the chapel was all polished wood and gleaming stained
glass, immaculate in its humble homage to its Lord. This was where Ciara had
gone through her second marriage ceremony—the civil one in New York didn’t
count to his family—where she had first met CoCo and Hugo, and where she had
buried Etienne just a few short years later.

When she found his grave,
she sat down on the dew-laden grass beside it, curling her legs under her. She
didn’t worry about her safety, or about prying ears. In this place, there
really
was
honor among thieves. She was one of them; she belonged. She
would be protected. And so would her secrets.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she
murmured, placing the bunch of tiny roses she’d purchased at the train station
at the foot of his already weathered headstone. “How are you?”

The wind whispered
through the tall, dry weeds, rustling dead leaves and lifting the ends of her
hair.

“Me?” she said with a
sigh. “I’m fucked.”

It was silly, she knew,
to talk to ghosts, but she let the whole long, miserable story pour out of her.
She reminisced about the dreams she’d had as a young bride making a brand new
start in a new country with him. How much she’d had to look forward to back
then. How little had actually come to pass...

She told him about her
present life and asked him how she could have ended up where she was. It was a
rhetorical question. They both knew. It would have been a miracle if she
hadn’t
ended up doing what she was doing.

Looking back, she
realized her life had been doomed from the start. Her mother had been such a
sterling example. Drug addict, occasional prostitute, loser. She’d never wanted
a child, and nothing Ciara did had ever changed her mind. By comparison,
Etienne had been like a fairytale prince come to rescue her on his white steed.

And yet, how had she ever
thought marrying a petty criminal, no matter how handsome, loving and kind to
her, would lead to anything but heartache?

Yes, they
had
been
happy. In spite of it all, those years had been the happiest of her life,
before or since. Would she ever find that kind of blind cheerfulness again? A
snort of humorless laughter escaped her and wafted into the balmy glow of dawn.
Hardly. By now she knew too much about the world’s possibilities—and lack
thereof—to be quite that stupidly naïve.

Could happiness make up
for Etienne’s profession, or the path he’d inevitably led her down? It wasn’t
as if her life up until that point had been all roses and angels... And yet,
until then she had managed to survive without systematically turning to crime.
She’d wanted to be a translator. She’d wanted to be a good wife, and eventually
a mother to a couple of kids whom she’d shower with all the love and affection
she’d never gotten from her own. Modest enough wishes.

But ones never destined
to come to pass. Especially not now. She’d been found out. It was only a matter
of time before Jean-Marc put her in jail. God knew for how long.

The thought was so
depressing, she curled up next to Etienne and let her eyes drift shut. She was
so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of losing. Tired of hoping for more and
getting less.

The one bright spot in
her life was what she had done for her Orphans. They were her redemption. If
she saved them, kept them from making her mistakes, the loss of herself would
be bearable. She turned to let the rising sun warm her tear-streaked face.

She could do it. She
would
do it. They were almost there.

She had to hold on, keep
Jean-Marc at bay, just for a few months more. Then the Orphans would make it on
their own. She knew they would.

Then come what may, she
would finally be at peace.

♥♥♥

Jean-Marc’s train pulled
into the Marseille St. Charles station and he hopped off the outside step where
he’d been hanging on, anxious to get where he was going. Striding quickly
toward the exit, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the same number he’d
already called twice today—once this morning before leaving Paris, and again
during the brief stop in Lyon.

His friend at the local
Marseille constabulary picked up on the second ring. “Cheveau.”

“Anything?” Jean-Marc
asked after his greeting.

“Still no thefts matching
any of your parameters reported for last night,” Cheveau said. “Sorry.”

Jean-Marc asked to be
contacted if anything showed up later, then hung up feeling acutely frustrated.
He didn’t know whether to be glad, or more furious than he already was. Was
Ciara playing some kind of game with him? Or had she really left the Orphans
apartment last night to visit her late husband’s family, as CoCo had insisted
when he’d stormed in this morning demanding to know where she was? He’d finally
seen through CoCo’s blond wig routine, kicking himself soundly for not twigging
to it sooner.

Damned if he bought this
in-laws ruse for a nanosecond. Ciara could have told him about that kind of
visit. Never mind she’d never actually told him she’d been married...
Non
,
renewing family ties was not why she was here, he’d bet a year’s salary on it.

Well, he’d know soon
enough. Cheveau had told him the whole shady Alexander clan lived within five
square blocks of St. Antoine’s, north of the docks. He’d checked to find out
where Etienne Alexander was buried. Same place. Which was as good a place to
start as any. If she was even in Marseille....

Jean-Marc hailed a taxi
and had the driver let him off close to St. Antoine’s. As soon as he got out, a
group of tanned, whipcord-strong men hanging out in front of a seedy building
threw him suspicious looks. A weathered brass plaque by the building’s front
door read Dock Workers Local XXVIII. Jean-Marc glanced down at his impeccably
stylish suit. Maybe Dries van Noten wasn’t the right look for the slums of
Marseille.

Ah well, let them come.
If the flash of his badge and gun didn’t stop them, his blade was tucked in its
usual spot against his right ankle. The black stiletto was sharp as a razor,
and he knew how to use it.

Hell, the situation might
even turn to his advantage. There was no better way of gaining respect among
thugs than winning a knife fight.

He got as far as the
stark, unwelcoming square in front of the church before they surrounded him.

He went into a relaxed
stance, prepared for anything, making sure his shoulder holster was visible.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked calmly.

“
Keuf
,” spat out
the gorilla who appeared to be their leader. “This is
our
neighborhood.
What are you doing here?”

Jean-Marc tilted his
head, unoffended by the insult. He’d been called far worse by respectable
people. “Just out for a morning stroll.”

“It’s afternoon. So fuck
off.”

He made a show of
checking his watch. Just after twelve. “So it is. No wonder I’m hungry. Know
any good places to eat around here?”

A long, lethal knife
appeared in the gorilla’s hand. “You can eat this,
poulet
.”

He hiked a brow. “You do
realize I have a gun,” he said conversationally.

The gorilla grinned. “So
do I.”

Jean-Marc also allowed a
slow grin to spread across his face. “Well, then. In that case...” In a
twinkling his stiletto was balanced in his hand, at the ready. “Looks like
we’re even.”

A murmur went through the
five or six other men who surrounded him. At the gorilla’s signal, they moved
backwards in a circle to give them room to maneuver. Jean-Marc slid off his
suit jacket and tossed it over a nearby bench. “Touch the jacket and I will
shoot you,” he said to no one in particular.

The gorilla’s first lunge
came quickly. This was going to be easier than he thought. The guy was strong
as an ox, but his technique sucked. Jean-Marc stepped aside, feigning surprise.
The other man whirled and lunged again. Jean-Marc spun away, pretending to be
worried.
Like candy from a baby
. The gorilla gave a sneering laugh and
closed in on him. Jean-Marc’s blade sang through stiff cotton fabric and
slashed soft flesh. The other man’s arm spurted blood. His face registered
shock. Outraged, he roared and came at Jean-Marc, who easily avoided his
thrust. The ring of muttering men tightened around them. They didn’t sound
happy. This could get interesting. Jean-Marc turned and held his ground. Knees
bent, knife ready.