Page 2 of A Real Good Bad Thing

I took off, hightailing it out of the courtyard and onto the sidewalk. I skirted around two men in suits, both talking loudly on their phones, and nearly trampled a gray-haired French woman wearing a tweed skirt and knit hat and pushing a shopping bag.

“Excusez-moi,” I told the startled woman.

I glanced behind me. The two Stradivarius abusers rushed out of the courtyard, spotted me right away, and pushed their way toward me. I gently ushered the French lady—and her shopping—safely to the side, and said “Bonjour, madame,” before I took off again.

Six years of Army PT came in handy. I lengthened my stride, barreling past a café with its scarf-and-coat-wearing and espresso-sipping crowd, and past the red awning of a butcher shop, keeping an eye out for cops, who might not take “No, officer, I’m not stealing this priceless musical instrument. I’m stealing it back,” as a justifiable excuse for my behavior.

Ahead was my goal—a busy boulevard full of traffic, where I spotted a green taxi, passenger-less and idling at a red light.

I sprinted to the door, grabbed the handle, and slid inside. The cabbie turned his head and arched a bushy eyebrow.“Oui?”

I gave the address of my hotel in the Seventh arrondissement, adding in French,“Quickly, please.”

“How fast?” the cabbie asked without moving.

“As fast as you can.”

The two thieves stepped out onto the boulevard. The driver shrugged laconically. “It’ll cost you extra.”

“Yes. I know,” I rushed out.

The light changed, and the cab peeled away, leaving two Stradivarius thieves behind me on the outskirts of Montmartre. I caught my breath as I settled into the backseat, slinging the backpack around so it was safely beside me.

“You running away from something?” the cab driver asked as he tore through side streets toward the Seine.

“No. I don’t run away,” I said. “I’m returning something to its rightful owner.”

Some called me a private detective, others called me a bounty hunter, and sure, technically, now and then, my clients needed to find other people. But mostly I hunted down items—usually precious objects—that had disappeared for some reason or other. So I preferred the titleretrieval expert.

That was what I did—found things and brought them back.

And once I’d delivered the Strad into the loving arms of my client, I was looking forward to bringingmyselfback home to Key Largo where I could recharge with a run on the sand, a bike ride on the boardwalk with my nephew, and a spot of fishing with my brother. Paris had a lot of nice things, but it didn’t have a beach, and it was an ocean away from my family.

* * *

Nothing ever went according to plan—one of many things I learned in the Army.

My plane had barely touched down back home when my sister called. I stretched and ran my hand through my hair before tapping the screen.

“Where are you?” Kate asked as soon as I answered.

“I just exited the aircraft,” I said as I walked along the jetway. “Your timing is scary.”

“Well, don’t get too comfy. We have another job.”

I groaned. I’d been traveling for a week. Goodbye recharge plans.

Kate quickly assured me. “This is easy. All you have to do is find a guy who’s barely trying to hide.”

But I don’t trust easy.“If he’s barely trying to hide, sounds like they don’t really need me,” I said dryly.

“Come on, Jake. You’ll like this one. It involves art and chocolate and one of your favorite things.”

“A day on the boat? Season tickets to the Miami Aces? A cold beer and a barbecue?”

“Try gorgeous tropical beaches and new places to scuba dive.”

I started paying attention with more than half my jet-lagged brain. “Tell me more about this job.”

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