Page 25 of The Devil Wears Orange
“It starts with the buyer,” says Jack, interrupting the porn story now unspooling in my head. “As for the thief, there are those who consider themselves to be a Thomas Crown figure, but they fall short. The golden rule is to stay hidden, fly under the radar. Others are connected to the criminal underworld, so...”
I note that the ending of his sentence hangs as though Jack’s trying to figure out which group I fall into. Staring at him, myeyes narrow, and I push aside any lustful, romantic notion I may have had. “I’m not involved in this.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’ve no idea what I’m going through.”
“I didn’t mean to offend.”
“But you did,” I say in a biting tone. I shouldn’t blame him. It’s not like anyone believes me. Except Harriet, who had no faith in me to begin with. “You have your Ph.D. And you’re published periodically.”
Jack flinches in surprise.
“I know how the world of academia works, obviously. Well, imagine after spending all those years working to get to this place in your life, someone suddenly accuses you of plagiarism. Now, you didn’t do it, but it doesn’t matter because you’re guilty until proven otherwise. And you can kiss that professorship goodbye. All those people whom you believed were your friends and loyal colleagues? They don’t want to be seen with you. You’re nothing more than a pariah, and you’re contagious. If they associate with you, they’ll be cancelled, too.” I pause for emphasis. “We need to be clear about this if we’re to move forward with whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”
“I assure you, I wantMistressfound. Nothing else.”
I nod, then wonder if his “nothing else” comment refers to me. I want the painting found, too, but I’m surprised to realize it bothers me that when this ends, we do, too.
Wait, is there even awe? Now, I’m back to picturing Jack’s hands on my breasts.Damn it.This is what France and Jack’s accent are doing to me. I shake my head as though the image of me with Jack pressed against a wall, hands tearing at clothes, can fall out. “Tell me how the criminal underworld works it?”
“Different ways. The auction house sells the painting unknowingly to another criminal buyer. The house gets a nicecommission. And the criminal organization has managed to launder millions right under their noses.”
“Brilliant.”
“It really is, especially in a business where everyone’s self-proclaimed ignorance helps to fuel the thefts. They used to steal in the middle of the night with less risk, but nowadays, art thieves are becoming dangerous with these daytime heists. Bravado at play.”
“Breaking the number one rule of staying out of the spotlight.”
“Exactly. The French police are likely questioning museum staff right now. There have been many inside jobs.”
“Someone from the Louvre? That would make sense. Tell me more about the anatomy of an art thief.”
“Some aren’t very bright. They can steal the artwork easily enough, but moving it is a different story. The Hollywood thief persona doesn’t exist, not an ounce of truth to it, although it makes for one damn entertaining story. The deception behind Thomas Crown is that he hides in plain sight, so transparent that he’s not even considered a suspect.”
By now, I’m lost in thought, mulling over Jack’s talk of Thomas Crown. Almost to myself and repeating Jack’s words, I say, “He hides in plain sight. Pierce Brosnan was at the museum during the theft.”
“I saw the McQueen version.”
I stare into Jack’s brown eyes as if held in a trance, then flash to the exact moment that sent me into a free-fall toward the River Seine. I saw my captor’s eyes. My heart races and my fingers tremble at the memory.
Jack continues. “Thomas Crown was a multi-millionaire and could afford to buy it, but he enjoyed the thrill. He enjoyed out-smarting everyone. No one suspected him.”
I can’t get the image of my captor’s eyes out of my mind, and my brain works through yesterday’s travesty and, as Jack prattles on, his words pierce into my thoughts.
“…and that’s the brilliance of this persona. But Crown is a figment of Hollywood.”
“But what if he’s not?” I say in a hurried tone and immediately regret it. It’s a thought too bizarre to share with Jack or the French police, yet my mind has brought me to a very dark place as I realize the thief’s identity.
Chapter 13
By midnight, a three-coursemeal and three bottles of wine are gone. Each time I finish a glass, it’s miraculously topped up again. The wine consumption is a blur, and the thrill of running away from my problems has left me giddy. By the time we move onto Scotch, a bad idea that stops neither of us from partaking, I have no inhibitions left.
Jack slurs, “It will grow hair on our chests,” and downs his Scotch.
In an even tone, I say, “I already have hair on mine,” and burst into raucous laughter. I would never say that on a date, my God,yet I feel so completely at ease with himthat my behavior seems innocuous.
We reach the point in the evening when whatever either of us says induces laughter. Finally, I – or perhaps it was Jack - yell “Bedtime,” and we head up to our rooms with Jack supposedly helping me up the stairs. His grip is tight on the railing, and he stomps his foot down on each step with determination, looksdown at his foot, and back to me. He tells me, “I’ve never been one to drink a lot, but being around a vineyard makes drinking wine seem more like drinking water.”
