A Magnificent Crime (31 page)

Later that afternoon, Jack sat by himself at a sidewalk café. He'd already packed up his things in the suite he'd been sharing with Cat, and checked into the Hôtel de Crillon several blocks away.

He'd brought case folders with him to the café. Being left alone with his thoughts was not a good idea; it would be much better to plunge into work. He reached into his bag and pulled out a file, the stuff he'd been working on with Taylor.

The Fabergé trail had gone cold again. After Monaco, Jack had flown back to Paris. To avoid going insane from wondering what had happened to the Fabergé, he'd dug straight back into the Gargoyle case. What he'd told Cat about getting a local hacker's name from Gladys was true.

The information she'd helped him unearth was useful. So Jack had pushed all thoughts of the Fabergé away—Wesley could handle it—and instead had focused on the new lead in the case. Specifically, the deaths linked with the Hope Diamond.

He'd asked Taylor to dig up all the information about the victims and the circumstances surrounding their deaths. Since he was FBI, Jack's sixth sense had been triggered by the rash of events. There had to be a connection between the Gargoyle, the Hope, and the recent murders.

Truth be told, the whole thing smacked of organized crime. And that was Jack's department. If he could get to the bottom of it, he'd go a long way toward forging a return to his previous status with the FBI. At this point, his digging around in this case had nothing to do with helping Cat or liberating her from Faulkner. That was over. It was dead. It was just about him now. At least, that was what he was telling himself.

It pissed him to no end that he had to go through underground channels to get this information, but he knew his supervisor would not support an aboveboard investigation. He thumbed through the pages Taylor had unearthed and copied. Confidential files and e-mails and the like. There was a lot of chatter about the curse.

He certainly didn't believe in a curse. When there were coincidences—especially when those coincidences resulted in people dying—there was usually someone behind them. He just needed to figure out who.

His first thought, of course, was Faulkner. All the evidence Jack had found so far pointed to Faulkner being the Gargoyle. But even still, there was something about this case that didn't make sense. Jack couldn't quite put his finger on it.

He pored over the evidence again, trying to make some connections. There was the local police file on the case in the United States and a Police Nationale file on the incidents in France. But nobody appeared to be investigating a connection between the cases, as far as Jack could see. Not yet, anyway.

He pawed through the pages, looking for discrepancies, searching for links. A peal of laughter burst out from kids climbing on a nearby statue, sending a flock of pigeons up to the sky in alarm.

Then something caught his eye. It was in the photograph of the restaurant in Paris where the man had died from a seafood allergy. Jack's heart skipped a beat. He urgently flipped to the other files, reading the witness statements more closely.

No.
How could this be?

The ground dropped out from under him as he made the connection and realized, once the FBI and Interpol made the same connection—any minute now, probably—who they would be going after. Who they might already be targeting.

I strode along the path beside the Seine, eyes stinging with hot tears, throat tight. I'd been walking the city for an hour, ever since leaving Jack. I couldn't concentrate on anything else.

And then my phone rang in my pocket.

My heart leaped. Was it Jack? Maybe he was calling me to apologize, to tell me in soothing tones that we would work it out, that he missed me already—

I pulled out my phone and glanced at the call display.
Ethan Jones.

Disappointment mingled with a faint ripple of happiness. Maybe talking to Ethan would make me feel a little better. It would be a distraction, at least.

“Hi, Ethan. What's up?”

“Where are you? I thought we were going to meet to review the final details? I'm at Chez Christophe right now, staring at a very lonely glass of Syrah.”

I pressed my lips together. I'd forgotten.

Wallowing, over. Time to get back to business, princess.
“I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Just hopping on the Metro right now.”

When I arrived at Chez Christophe, I walked straight over to Ethan. He was nestled in a dark red upholstered booth near the polished brass bar. Smells of roast lamb, garlic, and buttery potatoes made my stomach groan with hunger. When was the last time I'd eaten, anyway? I pressed my personal issues to the back of my mind.

Ethan turned to me under dim, rosy lights and smiled. He wore an oxford striped shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. It was like he'd gone lengths to look extra hot right at that moment. Did he know somehow that Jack and I had just broken up?

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, flashing a grin.

I slid into the booth and tried to sit tall with a smile on my face. I really didn't want him to detect that anything was wrong, as I wasn't interested in getting into a whole conversation about Jack.

A waiter brought food. “I took the liberty of ordering a little something for us,” Ethan said. The waiter set down a platter of foie gras, olives, and crackly fresh bread.

“Where's Brooke?” I asked, digging into the foie gras with a silver-plated knife.

Ethan shrugged. “Said she'd be here. She's probably on her way.”

He was probably right, but I couldn't help the small worm of worry that began burrowing into my brain. I was counting on Brooke for a lot here. What if she let me down?

Ethan pulled out his notebook. We reviewed our plans, going over every step. Just about everything was in place.

And as long as I managed to avoid having a panic attack, I just might be able to pull this off. The thought of that, of course, started freaking me out. I dug into the food again, distracting myself with the mouthwatering flavors.

The waiter then brought two bowls of steaming onion soup with a thick layer of melted cheese and croutons on top. It was Jack's favorite. I closed my eyes briefly and tried to wipe him from my mind. I did not want to get stuck thinking about him right now.

“So, Montgomery, are you going to tell me?” Ethan asked. I looked up to see him gazing at me steadily.

“Tell you what?”

“What's up with you? You are a million miles away. Did something happen?”

I opened my mouth to make up some excuse, to claim that everything was fine. But I just couldn't do it. “Jack and I broke up.”

He watched me carefully. “You okay?”

I shrugged and took a sip of my wine. I didn't trust myself to speak.

“I get it, Montgomery. We don't have to talk about it.” He reached across the table and placed a hand on mine. “You're gonna be fine. You're a survivor.”

I nodded. My hand felt warm where he was touching it. The warmth spread through the rest of me, and I looked up at Ethan with soft eyes.

And immediately felt a cramp of guilt in my chest.

What was I doing, taking comfort in Ethan's arms? Well, not his arms, exactly, but close enough. This was precisely why Jack and I had broken up. Ethan was clearly not out of my system. Maybe Jack had been right to cut me loose.

At that moment, Brooke walked into the bistro. I exhaled with relief. I knew she wouldn't have left me in the lurch.

Ethan followed my line of sight and turned to see her walking over. “Oh, good. There you are.”

Brooke strode toward us with purpose, her face bright and hopeful. Did she have a new idea for the job? A new development?

“Right on time,” Ethan said when she arrived at our table. “We were just getting to your bit.”

“Well, belay that,” she said. “Because I have to tell you both that, unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to do it.”

My mouth went slack. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Um, what I just said. No can do. Sorry.”

Silence followed as she plucked a piece of lint from her black merino wool skirt. I waited for her to make her meaning clear. But a further explanation was not forthcoming.

“Are you going to elaborate on that?” Ethan demanded.

She sighed. “Listen, I got an offer that I can't refuse. LNY contacted me, and a very big job has come up in New York. They say enough time has elapsed from my previous job, the heat is off, and I can go back and start getting prepped for this new job. It's the Star of India Sapphire, in New York. A big opportunity, something I've been wanting for a long time.”

I stared at her in the way I typically stare at my credit card bill after Christmas. Stunned. Speechless.

“I'm flying back right away,” Brooke said. “This afternoon, actually. I'm on my way to Charles de Gaulle right now.”

I looked at Ethan. His reaction was much the same as mine.

“Listen, it's nothing personal,” Brooke continued. “You knew I was just biding my time until I could go back, of course.”

“Brooke, I don't see how we can do this job without you,” Ethan said.

She flashed him a bright smile. “Oh, Ethan, darling, flattery is not going to help you here.”

“It has nothing to do with flattery,” I said through my teeth. “You're a key part of the plan. You can't just abandon us now. Can't you stay a couple of days?” I knew I was begging, and I hated myself for it.

How could I have been so stupid? This was the old Brooke I knew and loved. How could I have trusted her?

She laughed lightly. “Of course I can't stay. This job is waiting for me back home. Now.”

Ethan put down his glass. “Brooke, you have totally fucked us,” he said.

She scowled at him and folded her arms, tapping her finger on her forearm with annoyance. “This has nothing to do with either of you. If I stay here, I'll be screwing myself. I'd be messing with my own career. I'm not going to do that. You guys will be fine. You'll figure it out.”

With that, she walked out. Leaving me staring at Ethan in disbelief, wondering what the hell I was going to do now.

I gazed out the cab window at the lights of Paris as they slid by in an amber blur. Ethan and I were taking a taxi back to our respective hotels. My brain was churning. Brooke had abandoned me. What was I going to do now? How was I going to pull off the Hope job without her?

Her role had been crucial. She was going to be the one to take Reilly out of the equation on the night of the gala. We knew both Madeleine and Reilly would be at the Louvre on the night of the gala. And part of Ethan's job would be to distract Madeleine. It wouldn't be a problem for Ethan. He'd be able to charm the pants off her.

But I had been equally worried about Reilly.

“Reilly will see through the disguise. He's seen me enough,” I'd said to Brooke. “Do you think you can distract him sufficiently?”

Brooke had smiled her wickedest grin. “I think I can handle that.”

But now that she'd bailed, who was going to deal with Reilly? I couldn't just leave him to watch everything and interfere, but Ethan was going to be busy dealing with Madeleine.

We needed to find someone else to substitute. We needed another accomplice. In the cab, Ethan tried to call in a couple of favors with people he knew in town. But he kept coming up empty.

And then my phone rang. I picked it up and, to my shock, heard Jack's voice. “Cat, where are you now?” he asked urgently.

I frowned with confusion and could only mutter, “Uh, why—”

He cut me off. “You need to get somewhere safe. I need to talk to you. Is Ethan with you?”

I hesitated. “Um, yes . . .”

“Good. Bring him, too.”

“Where?”

“It has to be somewhere very private. Safe.” There was a pause on the line as he was thinking. “Can you meet me at the Père Lachaise Cemetery?”

“Now?”

“Yes. Be there in twenty minutes. At Oscar Wilde's grave, okay?”

I hung up and stared at the phone in my lap. What did Jack want? He hadn't sounded angry on the phone. More . . .
concerned
. But why?

Did he want to reconcile? Had he changed his mind? The timing was terrible. I was alone with Ethan. This was going to confirm everything Jack suspected. But then again, he seemed to expect me to be with Ethan. And he sounded more relieved than anything else.

I instructed the cabdriver to take us to Père Lachaise Cemetery.

The driver seemed unconcerned at the change of destination. Ethan not so much. “What are we doing, going to a cemetery?” he demanded. “Who was that on the phone?”

“It was Jack. And I'm not really sure why we're going to the cemetery. But that's where he wants to meet us.”

“Us?” Ethan looked at me uneasily. “Montgomery, he's not likely to flip into a full-blown psychotic, jealous ex, is he? I really don't feel like dealing with that tonight. . . .”

I laughed. Jack was many things, but psychotic? Never.

A small niggling doubt hooked into my thoughts, though: He
was
FBI. Was there any chance this could be . . . some kind of a trap?

No. It was impossible. This was Jack. Yet somehow my churning, fluttering stomach wasn't entirely reassured by that.

A short while later we pulled up to the cemetery and got out of the cab. We approached tall stone gates and walked through into the hushed, darkened cemetery. A crushed stone pathway led us into the center, toward Oscar Wilde's tomb.

A chill rose on my arms. A cemetery was a disturbing place to go at night, particularly for someone who had recently developed a terror of death. But it was a good clandestine meeting spot. I had to hand that to Jack.

When we arrived at the tomb, Jack was already there, waiting for us. My skin crawled with the supreme awkwardness of this moment. Jack glanced at Ethan, and I caught only the briefest glimmer of emotion—anger or sadness or something—before Jack rearranged his face into a neutral mask.

He then proceeded to ignore Ethan and instead turned to me. “Cat, I have to talk to you about something. It has to do with the Hope Diamond. More specifically, about the curse. And the recent deaths.”

Any thoughts I might have had about reconciliation quickly crumbled and blew away. And were immediately replaced by the cringing awareness that he knew the Hope Diamond was my target.

“For starters, I want you to know I think you're insane. You know that, right?”

I gave a weak smile.

“But it gets worse than that. Because there's now an investigation into these deaths,” Jack said.

“The ones that have to do with the Hope?”

Jack nodded. “Interpol, the FBI, and the Police Nationale are working on it.”

“Okay. And?”

“And you are the prime suspect.”

I uttered a strangled, choking sound. “What? Me? Why would they suspect me?” I reached out and leaned back on a headstone for support. It felt cold and rough under my hand.

“They have evidence.”

“What evidence could they possibly have? I had nothing to do with it!”

I became aware that Jack was watching me very closely, watching my reaction.

“You believe me, right? Jesus Christ, Jack, I may be a thief, but I'm no murderer. You have to know that.”

He was silent for several seconds, during which my entire body turned inside out. Would he believe me? Was he here to arrest me?

“I know, Cat,” he said in a low, calm voice. “I know you're not a murderer. Of course I believe you.”

My heart resumed beating.

“But they are not going to believe you,” he continued. “This is a big problem. They're already looking for you. I'm sure of it.”

“What am I going to do? What sort of evidence do they have?”

“An item of your clothing. Credit card charges that place you at the site of one of the murders. And a witness.”

I shook my head. “
What
? How could that possibly be? It makes no sense.”

“You're being framed,” said Ethan, who'd been quiet through this whole thing so far.

“He's right,” Jack said. “It's the only explanation.”

The witness could be easily faked. Somebody could be blackmailed or paid off. But what about the other lines of evidence?
Credit card charges.
Oh my God, I remembered now—those faulty charges on my card that had originated from Baltimore. But what about the clothing?

“A cardigan of yours—confirmed with DNA testing—was found under the table at the restaurant where the victim died of anaphylaxis to seafood. Like it had slipped off the chair or something. Not suspicious enough by itself, but taken together with everything else . . .”

My missing cardigan. I felt a perverse vindication. I
knew
it had been taken.

A crisp breeze stirred suddenly, whispering through the leaves and fluttering my hair. The hairs on the back of my neck went up, and I felt cold. A storm was coming.

“Who is behind all this?” I asked.

“Who else?” Ethan said calmly. “Madeleine York.”

“Madeleine York?” Jack said with surprise and confusion. “What about Faulkner?”

Ethan shook his head. “No, Faulkner wants Cat to succeed. It's Madeleine who wants to stop her. And it's Madeleine who was behind the murders in the first place. Framing Cat is probably just insurance for her.”

Panicky, I looked between the two of them. “What should I do?”

Jack rubbed his face, frowning. “You should lay low. Ideally, you should get out of here.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I can't. The Hope gala is tomorrow night. That's when I'm taking it. I have to. If I don't, Faulkner will—”

“Cat, are you kidding?” Jack said. “There's no way you can risk it. You will be arrested on the spot.” Jack put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes with concern.

I knew what he was saying. It made sense. For my own sake, I had to get to safety. But I couldn't just abandon the quest. Images of those photographs in Faulkner's possession flipped before my eyes. For my family's safety, I had to do the job.

“Not if I'm in disguise. And not if I pull it off and don't get caught,” I said.

“What does Faulkner have over you, Cat?” Jack demanded.

I explained then about Faulkner and the threat.

“Can't you just—and I can't believe I'm actually suggesting this—but can't you just take the Hope Diamond later, another time? Like when it gets back to the States? Does he really care when you get it for him?”

I shook my head. “Reilly is going to steal it while it's en route to Washington. They've already fixed it.”

“Unless you think you could stop that theft,” said Ethan to Jack.

I shook my head. “You won't be able to. They'll have several decoys flying back at the same time, and by the time you figure it out, it will be in Reilly's hands. Besides, they've got an inside man. I heard them saying that. You won't have a chance.”

There was a somber silence then. Doing it myself was the only way. I couldn't risk losing the Hope.

“I have to do it,” I said. “I have no choice.” I turned to Jack. “I will be fine. I'll be in disguise. Nobody will know it's me.”

He stared at my face then for a long time. I knew he knew I was determined. He'd seen the look before. At last he nodded. He knew I wasn't going to change my mind. “And then you'll get out of Paris, right?”

“Of course.” If I was successful, that was.

He looked at me uncertainly. “Are you . . . are you going to be able to pull it off? Are you ready?”

I took a deep breath. “I thought we were. But—” I glanced at Ethan.

“But what? Cat, what's gone wrong?” Jack demanded. “Is there a problem?”

“It's nothing. I'll figure it out.”

“Cat, tell me.”

Reluctantly, I told him about Brooke abandoning me at the last minute. He looked supremely pissed off, but not terribly surprised at what she'd done. I shouldn't have been, either.

I was exhausted. I needed to rest. I had a big day tomorrow.

“You need to get some sleep,” Ethan said, echoing my thoughts, looking at me with concern.

I nodded.

Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair. “There's something else,” Jack said. “You can't go back to your hotel, Cat. They're already there. That was the first place I looked for you. The police were all over it.”