A Magnificent Crime (30 page)

Monaco

 

Underneath a velvety night sky, the villa was perched on a cliff overlooking the Monte Carlo harbor. Yachts and casinos glittered far below, a sparkling fringe to the wine-dark Mediterranean.

The view was spectacular. But Jack wasn't there to admire the view.

“So whose house is this?” Jack asked Wesley as they skulked along outside the villa. Dressed all in black, carrying night-vision binoculars, they slipped past palm trees and exotic gardens.

They paused to duck behind an elaborate fountain, eyes pinned on the villa beyond. “Apparently, it belongs to someone in the DOA,” Wesley said. “Name of Franco DeAngelis.”

They stayed immobile, watching the doors carefully.

“The advantage we have,” continued Wesley, “is that the DOA is functioning under a false illusion of security. They think nobody knows the Fabergé is here.”

Jack understood the urgency. It wouldn't be long before other people discovered its location, too. One group in particular simply couldn't get its hands on the Fabergé. Jack and Wesley didn't mention Caliga Rapio often, but they didn't need to. Caliga was always the unspoken threat in the shadows.

Except this time, Jack and Wesley had the jump on them.

Wesley kept his gaze locked on the villa. Seconds and minutes stretched by.

This wasn't the first time Jack had staked out and broken into a house with Wesley. They worked well together. It probably had something to do with the fact that Jack trusted him completely. Which was an interesting contrast to working with Hendrickx.

The rest of Wesley's team was stationed around the villa complex, covering them with a web of surveillance.

Jack shifted. “So what are we waiting for, exactly?” he asked.

Wesley stared through his binoculars. And then nodded. “That,” he said.

A silver Ferrari pulled out of the garage and drove up the driveway. It disappeared along the curving cliffside road with a gentle roar.

They scanned the villa again. There were no signs of life—no lights, no movement through any of the multitude of windows. Wesley got the all clear from the rest of his field team. He and Jack began to move, slipping around the back of the villa.

Jack knew his role here. He was Wesley's backup. “It's an enormous house,” Wesley had explained when they were planning the job. “We'll go in once we think it's deserted of all personnel, but we won't be a hundred percent sure.”

So while Wesley picked the locks and hacked into the security, Jack watched his back. For a moment, he thought of how much he wished he could do this for another thief in his life, someone else whose safety was always a concern of his. There would be something highly fulfilling about being Cat's personal security. Her bodyguard. They could be a great team.

But no. He had to stop thinking along those lines, because that could never happen. This job with Wesley was a one-off. He was going back to his own side immediately afterward.

“Well, that was easy,” Wesley said, disabling the security system.

Jack's head snapped up. “What do you mean,
easy?
”

“It just turned off. No sweat.”

Jack frowned.

“Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Barlow,” Wesley said.

But gift horses were exactly the sort of thing that set Jack's alarm bells jangling. On Jack's insistence, Wesley double-checked everything before they crossed the threshold into the villa. Jack himself did a thorough sweep of the front hallway and adjacent rooms. Nothing suspicious, nothing out of keeping.

They kept moving forward.

Wesley knew exactly where they were headed, and he'd shown Jack the blueprints before they'd gone in. They passed through opulent rooms full of antiques and lavish furnishings and made their way to the basement, to the safe.

In spite of everything going smoothly, Jack experienced a growing sense of creeping concern. Something was wrong.

But then he reminded himself he was breaking into a house without a warrant. For a Fed, that was plenty of reason to feel uneasy. He schooled his warring instincts and kept moving forward. Several minutes later they arrived at the basement safe.

Jack smelled the blood before he saw it.

In the center of the room, a man lay motionless on the floor, an impossible amount of blood pooling underneath his body. He was clearly dead.

Jack's weapon was out in a second. He crouched into ready position, taking in the room in an instant. There was no movement; the space was otherwise empty. It was clear, no threats. And there were no corners in which to hide.

Whoever had been there was long gone.

Wesley went to the dead body and looked down into the staring face. “This is Franco DeAngelis, the owner of this house.”

“Then in the Ferrari . . . ,” began Jack.

“The man who killed DeAngelis,” Wesley said, nodding. “And made off with the contents of the safe.”

They both looked up at the safe on the wall. The door was hanging slightly off kilter. Blown with a jam shot probably.

A crude job. No finesse whatsoever. Jack looked at the dead guy. “Looks like he refused to give up the combination.”

Wesley briefed the field team, and they retraced their steps out of the house, vigilant for an ambush, but nothing happened. When they returned to the main security panel, Wesley stared at it, thinking.

“Now it makes sense. The security wires must have been cut,” Wesley said. “That's why it was so easy to turn off the security. It wasn't on in the first place.”

They retreated quickly from the villa, slipping back down the hillside to the car they'd stashed partway up. Jack knew he couldn't do anything about this crime. He'd have to arrange an anonymous tip somehow, but even that was risky. He was never supposed to have been there.

When they climbed back in the car, Jack looked over at Wesley. The other man's shoulders were slumped in defeat, and frown lines had formed on his forehead. Just like that, the egg was gone again. And with it, the Gifts.

“Who do you think did all that?” Jack asked, tasting bitter disappointment and frustration.

“Give you one guess.”

Jack didn't need to say it. They both knew.

Caliga.

I settled into the luxurious leather seat of the private jet that was lifting off the Bangkok runway, winging us back to Paris, and tried not to smile outwardly at the con we had pulled off to make this happen. I looked over at Ethan; he was wearing his trademark grin.

See, Ethan's look was a little bit Brad Pitt, a little bit Chris Pine, with a dash of Bradley Cooper for good measure. All it took was a pair of aviator Ray-Bans, a man scarf, and me posing as a harried personal assistant who insisted we had chartered the jet and surely they must have lost our reservation and “
Kindly
recheck your system, because my employer, who absolutely
must
remain incognito, is late for his premiere in Paris. . . .”

This scam would never have worked at home in the United States, but overseas it was a different story. In fact, Ethan had told me he'd pulled it off once before, in Zambia.

The sun beamed through the airplane windows, reflecting off the glittering crystal of our glasses. A dish of warm almonds rested on a tray in front of me, and Frank Sinatra crooned softly through the speakers. All we had to do now was let the pilot steer us back to France.

Except there was something that didn't sit well with me.

“How did Interpol know we were in Bangkok?” I asked.

Ethan looked at me and rubbed his jaw. “You're not going to like this. But have you considered maybe it was Jack?”

“What are you talking about? Jack would never betray me.”

Ethan looked at me seriously. “Montgomery, he's FBI. When push comes to shove, he's gonna have to choose a side.”

A queasy, raw-eggs-for-breakfast feeling developed in my stomach. But I denounced the thought. There was no way Jack would betray me like that.

There was more, though. Why, exactly, was Hendrickx coming after us so hard? I knew he suspected we were involved in a potential theft in Paris, but why would he be trying to arrest me before the crime? There had to be something else. I just couldn't put my finger on what it was.

I circled the problem in my mind over and over, until I began to develop a headache. Never mind. Maybe a little distraction was in order. I turned on the TV in front of me and selected an entertainment feed, a sitcom. One commercial, a brief news update, and then the show would start.

I was only half paying attention to the news when I heard the words
death
and
Paris.
I sat up sharply and paid attention.

A trench coat–clad reporter was speaking into a microphone, with a drizzly shot of Paris in the background.

“Two nights ago a man fell over a bridge in central Paris and died, drowning in the river Seine below. There were very few witnesses of the tragedy. But the reason for the interest is this. It was the third death in recent weeks that is connected to the Hope Diamond. The man was said to be one of the jewelers who had examined the Hope when it arrived in Paris last week. After three such deaths, people are starting to raise the alarm now. Is the curse of the Hope back? After so many years of good luck for the Smithsonian and the American people . . . is the Hope Diamond going back to her old ways?”

The image in the background was of a bridge, black iron. Underneath, its name appeared in small letters: Pont des Arts.

Instantly, a connection clicked in place. Reilly and Madeleine York had mentioned the Pont des Arts. At the time, I hadn't known what they were talking about. But it must have been about the murder. They were behind it. They were probably behind
all
the deaths. The hairs on my arms stood up.

“Madeleine and Reilly have been killing people,” I said, piecing it all together. “Oh my God, I just figured it out.”

Ethan looked sharply at me. “What? How can you be sure?”

“I can't be sure. But think about it. That seafood allergy incident in Paris—that could have easily been a murder made to look like an accident. And now, this incident at the bridge . . .”

“What about the other one? The car accident in the States?” Ethan said.

I nodded. “Yes, that one, too, I bet. That happened while Madeleine was still in the U.S. I can't believe I didn't see it before.”

“Okay, so let's say hypothetically they're behind it.
Why?
”

I thought for a minute, chewing on a fingernail.

“People who are getting in their way?” Ethan suggested. “People who know what they're planning and are in a position to interfere or stop them? People who know too much?”

That made sense. I looked out the airplane window, deep in thought. We were flying above a landscape of sculpted clouds. The plane drew closer to Paris with every passing minute.

“There's another explanation,” I said, still rolling it over in my mind.

Ethan looked at me, waiting.

“All this talk about the curse has increased the gemstone's value. It said so at the end of that news segment,” I said. “What if—”

“That's all part of the plan?” Ethan said, finishing my sentence.

I nodded. I closed my eyes. Oh my God, that was it. The whole purpose of the murders was to revitalize the fears of the curse. To increase the value of the Hope right before they stole it. That way, Madeleine would get top dollar when she broke it up and sold it off piece by piece.

It was devilish. It was evil. It was murder for the basest reason. People's lives were taken to improve profit.

That had to be the explanation. But if true, it meant we were in even more danger than I'd thought. Madeleine and Reilly were even more ruthless than we'd realized.

I gritted my teeth with renewed conviction. More than ever, I needed to stop Madeleine. I could not let this succeed.

And the best way for me to do that was to steal the Hope before she and Reilly did.

Back in Paris, Ethan and I took a cab into town. I dropped Ethan at his hotel and continued to mine. As the leafy boulevards slid by in a blur, my thoughts turned to Jack. I wondered what he'd been up to while I was gone, and I started craving his embrace.

But I wouldn't be able to tell him anything about the harrowing experiences I'd just lived through in Bangkok. He would never know what I'd gone through, and more than that, he would neither be able to soothe my nerves nor share in the victory of my narrow escape.

And then, as if merely thinking about him had summoned him bodily, I saw him standing on the sidewalk outside a hotel.

“Pull over here,” I said to the driver.

I grabbed my backpack and leaped out of the cab. The civilized chaos of the street hit me right away. The smell of good coffee and fresh pastries from a nearby café curled around me like a favorite sweater. I'd missed the Parisian streets. Maybe Jack and I could go to that café, linger over drinks for the afternoon....

I approached the hotel front where Jack was standing. A woman came out of the lobby and walked up beside Jack. He turned to her.

“Here Jack. You forgot this upstairs,” she said, handing him his jacket. She was slender, blond, in her early twenties, with a heart-shaped face and a red, pouty mouth. “That was great, Jack. Thank you again. I'll call you.”

My chest constricted.

Could this be anything other than
exactly
what it looked like? I thought about turning and running away. I thought about ducking behind a parked car at the valet stand, hiding, eavesdropping some more. But I just couldn't stomach it.

I walked straight over to them. “Hello, Jack,” I said. I waited for an introduction while various shades of red flashed before my eyes.

Jack's mouth opened with surprise. “Cat . . . you're back? When did you get back from Bangkok?”

This startled response, this faux innocence, this hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression, well, they made me want to vomit. And gouge something.

I ignored Jack and turned to the woman. “I'm sorry. You are?” I said with an arsenic tone.

She smiled and thrust out her hand. “Taylor,” she said. “And you?”

Jack jumped in and said, “Taylor, this is Cat, my girlfriend.”

For a long time I let her stand there with her ridiculous hand outstretched. Then a small doubt crept in. Maybe this wasn't what it looked like.

I darted my hand out, hedging my bets, and briskly shook her hand.

“Cat, Taylor is a tech consultant,” Jack said. “She's helping me with my case.”

I nodded stiffly. It actually sounded viable. Taylor left after a polite interval, striding away down the sidewalk, leaving me and Jack standing there, staring at each other.

I turned on him with narrowed eyes. Now I would get the truth. “Why did she thank you?” I demanded, my voice dripping with accusation. “Why did she say, ‘That was great,' if she's helping
you
on a case?”

Jack just stared at me. “Are you serious?” He looked genuinely taken aback. Then his frown deepened. “You know, you're acting crazy. If anyone should be suspicious, it's me. You spend day and night with Ethan Jones—”

I turned and walked away, crossing the street to the Seine riverbank, darting between speeding cars and ignoring their furious honks. I couldn't stand it anymore. He was evading the question. Which, in my mind, was basically the same thing as admitting he'd been cheating. I wanted to throw up.

A nasty tangle of emotions twisted around me, though. Who was evading
whose
questions? Was he right? Was I doing the same thing?

Jack caught up with me on the other side of the road. “Stop,” he said, reaching for my arm. “Just stop, Cat. Taylor was thanking me because I was helping her with her career. Gladys—your hacker—gave me Taylor's name because she is here in Paris and is trying to amass experience and referrals. The more jobs she gets, the more she moves up in the hierarchy.” He looked really angry now.

Okay, that sounded plausible.

I stood there quietly beside the green
bouquiniste
stalls of antique books and old prints. I didn't know what to say.

Below us, the
bateaux mouches
plied their way slowly upriver, serving lunch and sending up faint notes of music on the breeze. People rode their bicycles past us, along the promenade that lined the river.

Jack set his jaw. “You know, I'm not sure this is going to work.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. But I knew what he meant.

“You don't trust me. I don't trust you. Things are broken between us. And I'm not sure it's fixable.”

My heart crushed inward. I looked down at my feet.

We stood there in silence for another minute. A family strolled by, carrying ice cream cones and a bouncing red balloon.

Then I said, “I know. I think you're right.”

It was over.