Page 28 of The Devil Wears Orange
Jack would love to undo the previous night’s events, which didn’t go as planned. In fact, he fears he may have made themworse. He wants to agree on an emotional level (a hopeful thought, really) that she’s not responsible for the theft and was merely a pawn. During their tour of the vineyard, he said as much, agreeing aloud but secretly harboring the belief that he may have his guilty party. He ruminated on her indignation when he voiced his dirty little secret last night, certainly not something he would have expressed sober. Truth be told, and despite the image some may believe of British men, they, too, think with the wrong head sometimes. Jack was all too willing to jump into that giant bed with her.
When Jack awoke that morning and the fog from the hangover lifted, he reconsidered everything Charlotte said. It wasn’t difficult to work out whom she alluded to the night before, and he spent the better part of the morning Googling Prince Rashid Mohammed Salah al-Zayed, learning about his businesses, partnerships, and personal life. Prince Rashid did not steal Jack’sMistress. Perhaps he’s the intended buyer. How clever Charlotte is, Jack reasons, to ask how the criminal network operates, leading him to consider the painting has already made its way out of France. Indeed, if Prince Rashid is the buyer, he wouldn’t travel with the stolen art. No, someone in his standing would ensure he’s safely out of the country first, then the painting would follow. According to a tabloid Jack discovered during his internet sleuthing, the Prince plans to attend a charity casino event in Monaco a few days from now.
Brrrring. Brrrring.
Jack’s pant pocket rings, an old-fashioned telephone tone he set expressly forCapitaineFavreau. He’s grateful it isn’t set to vibrate. He fumbles to grab the phone, all while trying to keep the car steady on the road. In his peripheral, Charlotte sits up. Speaking to Favreau with Charlotte sitting next to him is high risk, and he lets it ring. Jack gets a surprising jolt when Charlotte’s hand thrusts deep into his front pant pocket.
“Relax, Big Boy. I’m only going for your phone,” Charlotte says in a near-perfect Mae West impression.
He takes the phone from her and maneuvers the car back to the road. “Thank you,” he says sheepishly and answers in a gruff, “Hello.”
“You were to call me last night, Professor. I tried you several times. Where are you?” Favreau sounds frustrated on the other end of the line.
Jack glances at Charlotte, worried she can hear the conversation, and discern Favreau’s voice. “One moment. Charlotte, in the glove compartment is a map to theVille de Loire. Can you please pull it out?”
Charlotte opens the compartment and pulls out various pieces of paper, flips them over in her hands. “There’s no map. I thought you’ve been to the village countless times?”
“It’s the hangover. I just wanted to be sure,” he offers as an excuse. The little diversion is all Jack needs to get their whereabouts across to Favreau.
“Ville de Loire. Have you learned anything, Professor?” The million-dollar question with a million-dollar answer. He’s learned plenty, Jack wants to tell Favreau. Besides, without concrete evidence, would Favreau believe him about the Prince? Can he admit that, maybe, Prince Rashid is a buyer for the stolen painting on a hunch and nothing more? Absolutely not. It was Favreau who insisted Jack keep Charlotte close to gain her trust and, now that he has accepted that challenge, he’s determined to see how this will play out. And he needs to see hisMistressagain, whatever it takes.
“Comme ci, comme ça.” Jack glances towards Charlotte, her squinted eyes staring at him. “Always ready for a new learning opportunity.”
“Très bien.And the tracking device?”
At the station, Favreau had given Jack a device as a backup in case Charlotte threw away her phone, something the police expect her to do, destroying the electronic trace on her through the GPS.
“In place,” Jack says.
“One more thing, Professor Carey. Next time I call, I expect you to answer.”
“Understood. I will have the Assistant Professor take care of that until I return.” Jack hangs up and places the phone in his front shirt pocket.
“I know what you’re up to,” Charlotte says, fixing a deep stare at him.
“I’m not up to anything.” The words tumble out in a hurry.
“Were you speaking to the media?”
“I most certainly was not. It’s the University. I do have obligations that I have put aside to help you sort through this mess.” It isn’t a lie. Yesterday, before his much-needed nap, he reached out to his teaching assistant and provided him with lecture notes and, when he offered to grade the tests, Jack took him up on it.
“Help me? You made it clear last night you believe I’m a thief. Your only interest is in the painting,” she says in a sharp hiss.
His eye twitches. “I was intoxicated. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s been my experience that alcohol merely eliminates a filter.”
Jack searches for what to say next, something that will satisfy her, an answer so definite that she wouldn’t dare question it. “You’re absolutely correct. Favreau has influenced my judgment of you, and I’ll admit, I’m greatly torn. No doubt you helped them steal the painting. It’s possible it happened as you say, and that you were merely a pawn in their heist and a victim in all this.”
Charlotte faces forward, and in a quiet voice, says, “That’s right, I am a victim.”
Saved.
“I want the painting found, but I’d also like to help clear your name.”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, if you didn’t do it, you deserve justice.” Right answer, he thinks, honest, yet non-committal about her guilt or innocence. “Besides, that was a magnificent Mae West impression.” Jack catches her blush, and she veers her head to look out the window, her lips turn up in a smile.
