Page 13 of The Devil Wears Orange
Baffled, I pull away. Did the Keystone Cops get to Anne too? Have they presented her with falsified evidence and turned my friend against me?
“Anne, I didn’t do anything wrong. Tell them what that man told you this morning when you were in the Tuileries with Chase.”
Skittish, Anne looks down and mutters something under her breath.
I say, “I didn’t catch that.”
“I’m sorry,” says Anne, “but I already told them. No one threatened me.”
“I saw that man threaten you. You looked horrified.”
Anne’s eyes widen, and her mouth falls open. “Oh,thatman. He didn’t threaten me. He told me a frightening piece of news about this toxic material found in baby bottles that becomes dangerous when heated. I stopped breastfeeding after my nipples became chapped and bled, and have been lying to my militant pro-breastfeeding mommy’s group ever since. OK, sure, breastfeeding is probably better, but maybe this isn’t a onesolution fits all scenario, you know? Choosing not to breastfeed doesn’t make me a horrible mother.”
I blink. I will spend eternity in a jail cell isolated by a cliff overlooking the ocean, with only a spoon to dig my way out, but somehow Anne has made this about herself. “Anne, please listen to me. I need you to speak to someone at the American Embassy.”
“I already have. They said they’ll keep a close eye on the trial.”
“Trial? I haven’t been charged with anything.”
Riel grows agitated and waves Anne off. As he escorts her out, I try to get in as many words as I can. “Go back to them. Have Pierre get me a lawyer.”
Before the door closes, Anne wails, “Oh, Charlotte, the theft is all over the news, and, well, Pierre says you’re done atCatwalk!”
The door slams shut, the reverberation resonates with those last few words.Pierre says you’re done at Catwalk!There’s plenty of ramifications packed in those tiny words. Now, who will protect Anne from Pierre? Certainly not Harriet. And how dare Pierre fire me? I was at the gallery doing my job for his magazine when I was threatened and literally kidnapped. I need to get my hands on a phone, speak to Pierre, explain the whole thing, and get my job back. Sounds simple enough, but what if he says no? Stupidly, I believed that my friends would rally behind me and that the American Embassy would demand my release, yet Anne has confirmed my worst fears. I’m alone in a foreign jail under some awful lighting that is washing me out.
Chapter 8
Professor Jack Carey looksat his watch, a digital model that does things he has no use for. When he first began teaching, he carried an old pocket watch his grandfather gave him, but it made him look old and stodgy, much like his grandfather had been, so he stopped carrying it. He removes his round-framed glasses, lifts a kerchief from his breast pocket, and wipes his lenses, never mind that they were already clean before this little ritual of his. He inspects them under the harsh, fluorescent lights and, accepting them as clear, rests them high on the bridge of his nose where he likes them. He picks at a thread fraying from his tweed jacket and doesn’t know enough to stop before he causes too much damage. It unravels the cuff of his sleeve, and he decides to leave it for Mrs. Getty, his housekeeper, to mend when he returns home.
Finally, he looks back to the other side of the one-way mirror and stares at a dejected woman identified as Charlotte Milton. Her interrogator, Capitaine Favreau, was cold and harsh and lefther in a state. Jack was granted partial access to a Parisian police file assembled on her. There’s little to indicate her involvement in the high stakes game of cat and mouse in the world of art thievery, at least not as an experienced player. Hollywood’s version of an art thief is the Thomas Crown type – dashing and rich, educated, and cunning. This, Jack knows, is an absolute fabrication. There are plenty of thieves who don’t understand the game and bite off more than they can handle, stealth-like when breaking into a home to steal a painting but lacking the know-how to dispose of it. They assume if the painting’s worth one million dollars, they should clear at least half that when, more than likely, they’ll make a small fraction of its true value. Unloading the painting is problematic if they don’t know how to filter it back into the legitimate art market without anyone wising up to it. These stupid thieves would do well with Jack’s expertise.
Charlotte doesn’t fit the profile of an art thief, nor, Favreau has told him, do they consider her the architect behind the daring theft. They believe she was handpicked for an inside job. The masterminding criminals probably uncovered Charlotte’s financial mess, just as the police did, and exploited her vulnerability, persuading her that a minor transgression would lead to a significant financial gain.
Favreau appears next to him. Jack hadn’t even heard the door open. Both stare at the suspect, her head forward against the palm of her hand, biting her lower lip.
“I trust your flight from Oxford was smooth?” Favreau asks him.
“It certainly was, thank you.”
“And you are finished teaching for the year?”
“No.” Jack has a couple more weeks left but can rely on his teaching assistant if need be. He had been in the middle of class, watching his Art History students hunched over their desks,furiously writing their final test when he received the call from Detective Chief Inspector Crane of the Art and Antiques Squad in Scotland Yard.
“Mistress In A Red Dress,”DCI Crane had said, “was stolen this morning from Paris.”
And would he, could he, if at all possible, get on a plane to Paris immediately to help?Jack knew it was on loan from The British Museum in London just as it had been the last time it was stolen.
Montréal was the first time Interpol had asked for Jack’s help, flew him over and set him up with a couple of detectives from their art theft unit. Several high-profile paintings were stolen, includingMistress in a Red Dress. After nearly a year into the investigation,Mistresswas the only one found during a sting operation that saw Jack play decoy as a would-be buyer for a Lord in England. With the intelligence gained from Jack’s reconnaissance, they followed a group of men into a small town outside Montréal. They discovered the painting hidden in the trunk of an abandoned vehicle on a farm. Jack spent four hours sitting withMistress in a Red Dressat the police station, and the French-Canadian police joked he was courting his new girlfriend. For his involvement, Jack met the Queen and personally returned it to her in a show before the cameras. It was his proudest moment.
“There are no checks and balances in this world of art,” says Favreau with weariness in his voice. “The world has gone mad in some way. Criminals behave like spoiled children wandering through a shopping mall with their parents, pointing to a Rembrandt, a Munch, saying I want this and that,maman et papa, s’il te plaît. They possess an inherent sense of entitlement. If it’s there, it must be stolen.” A heavy sigh escapes Favreau. “Nowadays, most of the galleries and museums don’t discover the robbery until much later.”
“That must make it difficult for you,” Jack offers, suspecting Favreau needs to unload his burdens.
“Of course. One must work backward, look into the art world, follow the trail that will lead you to the person or persons of interest. Ah, but this time, we got lucky. We have her.”
Favreau points to Charlotte, his index finger pressed against the mirror, paint rubbed on his digits’ tips. Favreau strikes Jack as the type of man who fancies himself an artist, painting nudes on his days off. This is personal to him, and he’s in it for the long game, patiently biding his time to wait out the thieves for theMistress.
“And we have you,” Favreau says. “You have quite the reputation. How do you see this playing out?”
