One whole day, Remi fumed as she sat in a cramped economy seat on a 747 flying across the Atlantic.
They had wasted an entire day getting approval through the grinding bureaucracy of the FBI and Interpol. By this time, the killer could be anywhere. He might have even killed again.
How can these bureaucratic fools hold up a murder investigation for a full day while they fill out forms? No wonder so many international criminals got away with their crimes.
And the wasted day had allowed the media to catch up. The story of a murder of an art dealer by a man in full armor went viral, with numerous photos of him circulating on the Internet. The French media was abuzz with speculation, and the international media had picked it up too.
Dyson’s business enterprises had been obliged to announce his death, citing “as yet unknown causes.” The press release cited his age and his previous battle with cancer as a way to deflect any suspicion of foul play. Of course, sooner or later that would come out too.
Remi and Daniel didn’t need the media involved. It would only complicate things. If the FBI had granted their travel request immediately, they might have already solved the case and the media attention wouldn’t matter.
At least the extra day had given Cyril plenty of time to sulk. She had texted him saying that the case would take longer than she had expected. He didn’t reply. Then, when the flight to Paris cleared, she texted him again to tell him they were going to France. She explained how necessary it was. She even apologized for having to leave the country.
She did not, however, apologize for the things she had said. She would, but only after he had apologized first.
Again, he didn’t reply.
A distinguished historian and scholar, sulking like a schoolboy who didn’t get what he wanted for Christmas!
She decided she wouldn’t send any more texts. It was his turn to reach out.
Remi stared out the window at the bright blank canvas of the North Atlantic. While the weather was clear, they were too high up to see any boats. She could see nothing but blue sky and green, glittering water.
“Excited about seeing home?” Daniel asked.
“Pardon?” Remi asked, coming out of her reverie.
“I asked if you were excited about seeing home.”
“Certainly. I haven’t been back for more than three months. I’m not sure I’ll have much time to see family, though.”
Daniel turned away and looked gloomily at the back of the seat in front of him. “On this job you don’t have much time to see family even if you’re living with them.”
Remi remembered his quip about being divorced and realized he had been telling the truth.
Not quite sure what to say, she decided to stay on safe ground. “Actually, my mother lives on the family farm. Quite some distance from Paris. A cousin and his wife live there too.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad. I don’t think we’ll have time for a road trip.”
“You’d like it. The farm is beautiful. Fine local produce too.”
“I bet. We’ll have to get some good dining in on the FBI’s tab,” Daniel said, patting his stomach. “Revenge for putting us in coach.”
“I wasn’t expecting them to fly us first class.”
“You’re learning.”
They both laughed. This man had a talent for making her feel better, even when he didn’t know she was down.
“So have you visited Paris before?” Remi asked. He had mentioned a few trips to Europe when he was younger.
Daniel’s face darkened.
“Yeah, I’ve been there,” he grumbled, not looking at her.
Remi stared at him for a moment before looking away.
What’s this moodiness? I’ve seen it before, and it’s always related to Europe or fine art. I don’t understand why those things would bother him.
She decided to change the subject.
“I can look through the Paris archives. Much of that material isn’t online. I might find some more information about the paintings.”
“Good,” he said with a curt nod.
The past day of investigation hadn’t turned up much. Remi had discovered no important information about the four paintings or their painters, and no new material evidence in the crimes had come up. Now that there had been another murder, the seedy art dealer was off the hook, although the FBI was still rifling through his records for evidence of trafficking in stolen art and antiquities.
“I wonder if he’s an American going to France or a Frenchman going home?” Remi said.
“Good question. The gallery assistant never heard the man speak. He simply clanked into the gallery, the assistant made some joke, and then got conked over the head.”
“Bizarre.”
“Makes you wonder what he’ll do for famine and pestilence.”
Remi made a face. “Let’s catch him before he gets the chance to show us.”
Daniel looked at her again. “Thanks for taking the time out to do this. Your expertise is a real help, and your French will be an even bigger help.”
“That’s all right. I enjoy it.”
“Yeah, I noticed. So everything cleared away with your department?”
“Your supervisor called the dean and explained the situation. It’s all taken care of. Georgetown has good Criminal Studies and Criminal Law departments. They want to maintain positive relations with law enforcement. I believe Assistant Director Ochiai promised to send some guest speakers.”
Daniel groaned. “Oh God, I hope she didn’t volunteer me. I got enough to do.”
“That’s right, you mentioned you don’t like academia.”
“No.”
His tone warned her off pursuing that track. Before she could think of something to say, he asked,
“So how’s your fiancée? I hope he’s not upset about you flying to the City of Love without him.”
“Oh, no! He’s very supportive of everything I do.”
Why did I just say that?
Because you barely know this man and you’re too embarrassed to tell the truth, that’s why.
“That’s great,” Daniel said.
“Yes, he’s the best. An academic like me.”
“Yeah, he’s your department head.”
Remi didn’t recall telling him that, but of course he would have done a background check on her.
That felt a bit invasive. While she didn’t have anything to hide, she didn’t like this man knowing more, perhaps far more, about her than she did about him.
If you want to work for the FBI, you have to expect them to check up on you.
That’s something to consider. Do you really want this?
She didn’t have an answer to that. Not yet.
“Sorry,” Daniel said. Remi realized she had left a pause in the conversation. “I need to read up on the people we hire.”
“It’s understandable,” she replied, still not feeling terribly comfortable.
“Don’t worry, we didn’t dig up any dirt. You don’t really have any dirt. You need to change that boring life of yours.” Daniel laughed.
I was just thinking the same thing.
“I’ve always been a bit bookish,” Remi admitted.
Daniel nudged her. “When you weren’t blasting away at targets with your dad.”
“True.”
“Well, if you need a letter of recommendation for your fiancée, I’d be happy to write one. I’ll tell him you’ve been a good scholar and a good shot. You guys set a date yet?”
“Um, no,” Remi said, shifting in her uncomfortable seat. “Busy careers. We’ll probably wait until later in the year.”
“Oh, that’s perfect. If you marry an American, you can get a green card. That would make it much easier to hire you as a consultant. You could even get a gun license. Not sure if the FBI would let you carry on a case, though. Looks like you have everything all set up.”
“Oh yes, it’s all working out.”
Remi put on a brave smile. Inside, though, her emotions were in turmoil. Pretending everything was all right with Cyril made her feel terrible, made every clash with him feel twice as bad as it had been.
Daniel did have a point, though. If she married Cyril, she wouldn’t have to worry about her expiring work visa. She wouldn’t have to worry about having an unclear status with the FBI either.
She’d only have to worry about being married to Cyril.
Assuming that even happened. After their mutual blowup, Cyril might be having second thoughts.
No time to sort that out now. She had a case to work on.
While they had not found sufficient records for the paintings in the United States, the archives in Europe might hold the answer. The killer had obviously accessed them, because he seemed to know far more about the paintings and their locations than they did.
Just like with the Cryptex Killer, they were playing a deadly game of Catch Me If You Can.
She needed to delve into the history of these paintings, and the obscure painters who made them, as well as the rich and who commissioned them. She needed to pore over the same records the killer had and pick out the same details he did.
Only then could she understood how this bizarre man thought, and what he would do next.