Remi and Cyril sat at Perla di Napoli, a lovely Italian restaurant near the university. Over the past few months, they had tried all the French restaurants in the area and Remi had found them all lacking. She had come to the conclusion that you could not get good French cuisine outside of France.
Luckily, America had enough of an Italian population that you could find several acceptable Italian options.
They sat in a quiet corner, a candle stuck in a chianti bottle between them. They clinked glasses and smiled as cheerful Italian music played through the sound system.
They took a sip of a rich Sicilian Nero d’Avola, enjoying its deep flavor and heady bouquet.
“Sooo,” he said, leaning a little closer. “We need to think of a date.”
He was referring to when they would get married. Cyril was divorced, and so he hadn’t gotten on one knee, ring in hand, and proposed. Instead, he had discussed it with her a couple of months before in a practical, matter-of-fact manner as if he wanted to change a syllabus.
He had pointed out that they loved each other, got along well, and while the university frowned on relationships between professors, they didn’t have a problem with those who were married. An odd quirk of the American educational system. In France, people did what nature demanded.
Cyril had reminded her that her work visa would expire in nine months. Cyril wanted her to stay and getting married would be the most practical solution.
Cyril was always practical.
At least for his own life.
What was she supposed to do for work? Georgetown didn’t have the funds to turn her temporary position into a permanent one, and no other universities in the region were hiring. Cyril hadn’t thought of that until Remi pointed it out.
And that set off alarm bells in her head. If he wasn’t thinking about her career before they even got married, would he think about it even less after? And his businesslike handling of the proposal made it seem like she was a box being ticked off a to-do list.
But she loved him. While he could be a bit selfish and clingy, he had so many good traits too. Kind, affectionate, her intellectual equal, a wonderful father to the daughter he had with his first wife, and his volunteer work showed his selfishness didn’t run too deep.
A flicker of impatience ran across Cyril’s features and Remi realized she had paused a moment too long.
“Yes, a date. Um, I wanted to talk with you about that. I have a research trip to go on soon, and it would be better to get that out of the way first.”
“A research trip?” Cyril said with surprise.
“Yes. To Florence. I’d only need a week. I need to look at the unpublished archaeological reports of a Tuscan church.”
“Which article is this for?”
Currently she was working on two academic articles for leading journals, neither of them on churches.
“It’s for a new line of inquiry. Well, actually an old one,” she could feel herself babbling, fumbling. Just come out and say it!
“About what?” her lover asked. The wary note in his voice hinted that he was beginning to suspect.
Just then her phone rang. Usually she put it on silent when on a date with Cyril. Fortunately, this time she forgot.
She checked it, not looking at Cyril’s face. She knew how it would look.
Her heart did a backflip when she saw it was FBI Agent Daniel Walker.
Why would he be calling? Some loose end with the cryptex case?
“Sorry,” she said to Cyril, “It’s the FBI. I have to take this.”
Surprise and annoyance vied for prominence in her lover’s expression. Annoyance looked like it was winning, so Remi turned away and lowered her voice.
“Hello Dan—Agent Walker. How are you this evening?”
“Good. Is this a bad time?”
“You didn’t ask that when you burst into my class a few weeks ago,” Remi said, covering her wry smile with her hand.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Daniel said in an offhand manner that told her he was anything but sorry. “Look, I’ve been dumped with a case that’s a bit beyond me. It involves a stolen painting, a figure of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Death, to be exact. I have a feeling the painting the killer stole has been stolen before. I don’t know much about the art market, and I could use your help. Can you come to Quantico tomorrow? I’m at the murder scene right now on Long Island but I’ll be flying back on the evening flight.”
“All right,” she said without thinking.
Wait, what was she getting herself into?
“Oh wait,” she corrected. “Tomorrow? I have a morning and afternoon lecture tomorrow.”
“I’ll write you a hall pass.”
“A what?”
“I’ll call your department head and tell him its FBI work. He’ll have to say yes.”
“Maybe call the dean like last time,” she said. Her department head was sitting opposite her, wine in hand, trying to figure out what was going on.
“All right. I still have his number.”
He kept the dean’s number? Was he expecting to use me again?
That felt even more exciting, although Remi did not pursue just why she felt that way.
“How long will I be needed?” Remi asked.
“This is just an initial consultation. You might even be back in time for your afternoon lecture.” Remi felt a sting of disappointment, quickly soothed by what Daniel said next. “But if you do come aboard, it might last a while. You can never tell with a case. I can’t talk much about it over the phone, but the victim was an important person. We’ll have all the resources we want for this one.”
“I’ll see you at your office at nine tomorrow morning. Text me the directions.” Remi glanced at Cyril, who stared back at her, obviously impatient. “I really need to go now. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it! I mean, um, I really could use your input.”
“Great. Until tomorrow.”
She hung up, resisted the urge to do a little dance, took a deep breath, and turned to Cyril.
“It’s the FBI, isn’t it?”
Cyril’s voice did not sound approving. Remi shifted in her seat.
“Yes,” she said, looking down at her food.
“What do they want? Are there loose ends in the case or something?”
“Um, no. It’s a … new case.”
“A new case!” Everyone in the restaurant turned to look. Cyril gave an embarrassed glance around, learned forward and in a harsh whisper said, “A new case? What do you mean a new case?”
“It seems someone was murdered over a stolen painting. They need my help.”
Remi swelled with pride.
“How is that your business?” Cyril demanded. “You’re a university professor for Christ’s sake!”
“Don’t make a scene. Agent Walker needs my help as a consultant.”
“They can get another historian. You nearly got killed last time.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
Actually, Cyril was saying more than he knew. Remi hadn’t told him how close to death she had come.
“This isn’t your job, Remi. You’re not a policeman.”
“They need me.”
“The department needs you. I need you. And it looks bad if you go gallivanting off on another case when you should be teaching your students.”
Remi crossed her arms and frowned. “It looks bad for who, me or you?”
“Both of us. Look, you had your fun with your little case. You caught that horrible man and did some good for the world. Now try and be more sensible.”
Little case? Little case! She helped track down a serial killer who had murdered at least half a dozen people. She had discovered one of the most sought-after artifacts in history. And he calls that a little case?
Remi grabbed her purse and got up.
“Where are you going?” Cyril asked.
“Home. I have to get up early tomorrow. Quantico is an hour’s drive away and I have an appointment at nine.”
“But—”
Remi ignored him, turning her back on him and nearly colliding with a waiter, who was just approaching their table with their dinner.
Remi ducked past him and hurried out the door.
She had another “little case” to solve. And her partner at the FBI, despite being uncouth, had more respect for her abilities than the man she had left sitting alone in the restaurant.