Page 14 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Well,” Jack starts, contemplating his answer, “she won’t tell you anything, probably because they kept all the other details from her. It’s how they operate; don’t tell the right hand what the left hand is doing and you won’t get caught. Chances are she knows who they are.” Jack mulls it over for a moment. “Offer her a deal. Or get her to trust you, and she will lead you to them.”
Jack looks at his watch again, the lateness in the day now taking its toll. This was easy enough,he thinks, surprised the Parisian police haven’t asked much from him. Jack has been called upon exactly three other times by Canada, Belgium, and Switzerland. Clearly, Interpol doesn’t hold the incident in Belgium against him, for it was someone there who supplied his name to Favreau.
The Belgian authorities approached Jack about a Devereux painting stolen from a museum in Portugal. The plan was simple. An undercover police officer impersonated a buyer, but they required Jack to confirm the painting’s authenticity before an arrest could be made. All that was required of him was to establish “yay” or “nay,” but when he sat with the undercover cop and the two thieves in the lobby of a hotel, the Devereuxwrapped in plastic, Jack became furious. He admonished them for not protecting the work that should have been covered in a velvet cloth and stored flat in a room temperature at 70 – 72 degrees Fahrenheit.
His lecture continued for another ten minutes while the undercover cop next to him grew agitated with each passing minute. Jack finally confirmed its authenticity by the brush strokes and numbering on the back of the painting. They retrieved the painting, arrested the thieves, but the Belgian police refused to use him again after that.
As for the Swiss, well, Jack swore he’d never work for them again after they made him close a transaction in a hotel room without a wire for fear the thieves would search him. He was literally on his own with no way to contact help. Matters worsened when a breakdown in communication between Interpol and the local police had the local authority charge into the room. Wires were crossed, information not shared, and they believed an illegal gun transaction was taking place. The police, fully armed in battle dress uniform from head to toe, peered at him through red goggles. Jack recalls throwing himself to the floor and tried to remember the Swiss-German words for “Don’t shoot. Civilian.”
“There was a time,” says Favreau, interrupting Jack’s memories, “when I had more resources, but now between stolen art versus worker protests, violent crimes, and now terrorism, art loses. The resources available to me are limited to listing the stolen painting with Interpol, Art Loss Register, and sending out a media release across Europe, North America, and Asia. These are things people ignore. All this to say, there’s another option. The lady won’t trust me, however, she doesn’t knowyou, Professor.”
This sounds too much like Switzerland. Don’t the police understand his role is to offer expertise, not to be thrown intothe fire? Though perhaps he needs to retrieve that assured cockiness he had with the Belgian job. That would be one way to deal with this Milton woman.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” Jack answers adamantly, flustered and shakes his head so hard he’s afraid he’ll sprain it. “I have tests to mark so I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” Besides, he’d like to tell Favreau, he has a planned vacation, which includes a lecture in London on the relationship between Van Gogh’s art and his color choices. And before he runs off, he’ll need to prep his private garden, which once received an Honorable Mention of Recognition from the Oxford Horticultural Society of Women. Jack is the only male in the group. This year, he’s determined to place in the top three.
Favreau doesn’t seem to have heard him because he says, “Do a little reconnaissance, track her whereabouts, gather information, and report back to me. After all, it is a little flattering for you,non?”
“How so?”
“The thieves, too, admire the painting. They keep stealing yourMistress, Professor.”
Chapter 9
Iwon’t survive prisonalone. Chances are I’d make a finefemme, a tasty little morsel for the most terrifying female serial killer in the French prison system. Sure, there’d be a learning curve or two, but from there, I’d do quite well. Oh, the power I could wield. The favors I could demand. If boredom settles in, I will hold a fashion show. Or even better, design my own clothing line from behind prison walls.Chateau d’If Milton.
Down the corridor from the cell I’m sitting in, a door opens and clanks shut. I lift myself from the hard bench I’ve sat on for more than an hour now and stretch; my body cracks as I lengthen each limb. A police officer comes to my cell; the nameCoteauappears in white on a black nameplate.
“Charlotte Milton, you’ve been released. Follow me, and we’ll get forms signed,” he says. His English is impeccable. Where was he earlier when I needed him?
Undoubtedly, I’ve misunderstood, and when he unlocks the cell door and stands aside with the door ajar, I wonder if Ishould make a run for it. My eyes dart around the room. No, they’d intercept and toss me back in with their maniacal Parisian laughter drifting into my cell.
“Out,” he says again.
I follow him out of the cellblock in a daze, down a blue and white corridor, and into the station’s central area. Dozens of police officers sit at wooden desks either on the phone or banging away at computer keyboards with all ten digits. My nose catches a whiff of cigarette smoke when an officer returns from break.
“This way,” Coteau says and leads me to a desk where a bookish gentleman sits. When I near him, he offers me his chair, and I nod in thanks. He appears to be in his early forties, clean-shaven, with an attractive face tucked beneath circular, old man glasses. He’s wearing a tweed jacket with tan slacks I’m sure my grandfather wore in the ’80s. Before I sit, I mentally give him a makeover, picturing him in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a checkered Prada jacket. I’d complete the look with white sneakers. That would take care of his civil servant vibe.
“Sign here,” says Coteau, sitting at the desk across from me, “and here.”
I scan the document he places in front of me. “It’s in French. It will take time to read through it.”
Coteau sighs. “It says you understand the charges against you are still pending, and further investigation into the matter is required in a shellnut, as you Americans are fond of saying.”
I refrain from correctingshellnut. “There must be more than that.”
Coteau cocks his head. “Mademoiselle, it takes ten French words to every English word, but please, feel free to use theCapitaine’s private office while you sound out the words for two hours.” His facetious tone sounds worse with the accent.
“There’s no denying you’re French.” Turning to the bookish man next to me, I say, “Are you going to allow him to speak to me this way, or does the American Embassy have some backbone?”
The gentleman appears caught unawares, his mouth gapes open, and his eyes flicker between me and the officer. He babbles a response. “I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am. Ms. Milton, my name is Professor Jack Carey, and I teach Art History at Oxford University.”
“Oh,” I say and take the hand he has extended. “Nice to meet you.”
I’m desperate to get out of here, exhausted from the physical and emotional ordeal, so after a beat of hesitation, I sign my name at the bottom. I’m not thinking clearly, and right now, I want a bacon cheeseburger and to soak in that spa tub in my hotel room to get the stench of the day off. Before releasing the form, I say to Coteau, “Now, are you sure it doesn’t say anything else that I should know about?”
“Non.”
I relinquish the document.
