Remi’s heart pounded as they approached the imposing stone apartment building in the 6th arrondissement, one of the most expensive neighborhoods on the Left Bank of the River Seine. The 12th century spire of the Abbey of Saint Germain, the city’s oldest church, stood just around the corner. The streets were lined with exclusive cafés, restaurants, and boulangeries.
Jean-Baptiste Gagneux had chosen not only an expensive neighborhood, but an appropriate one. The area was filled with art galleries, antique stores, and antiquarian bookshops, all catering to the wealthier end of the collector’s market. Remi had come here many times to gaze at the treasures on display. A good student of art explored the galleries as much as they did the museums. Since so many important works ended up in private hands, seeing them in a gallery before they were sold might be the only opportunity to see them at all.
Gagneux’s building was a grand edifice of gray stone in the Imperial style, with tall windows and ironwork balconies on each of its five floors. An elderly doorman in burgundy livery and a top hat stood out front.
Torsson showed him his identification and the man’s eyes went so wide that for a moment Remi worried he might have a heart attack.
“We are looking for Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Gagneux,” the Interpol agent said. “Is he still residing in apartment 311, and is he in?”
“Y-yes, sir. He’s in, and he’s still in the same apartment.”
“Is he alone?”
“As far as I know, sir. He came in an hour ago, alone, and he has not had any visitors since.”
“Thank you. Stay at your post and speak nothing of this.”
The doorman was so flustered he didn’t even ask to see Remi’s or Daniel’s papers. That was fine by Remi. She didn’t want to have to explain, once again, that she was a civilian consultant. They seemed to be second-class citizens in the world of law enforcement.
They walked through a marble front hall past a floor-to-ceiling mirror and beneath a brass chandelier.
Daniel turned to them, “Torsson, take the elevator. We’ll take the stairs. I don’t think that doorman is going to warn him, but we need to cover both exit routes just in case. Remi, hang back. Art thieves aren’t generally dangerous but … ” He gave a significant shrug.
Remi bit her lip. Her partner didn’t have to finish his sentence. The last art thief they had run into had turned out to be a serial killer. This one might very well be the same. He had already killed twice.
At least she had her pepper spray. France may have been strict on carrying firearms, but at least they gave women the chance to defend themselves.
She put her hand in her pocket to reassure herself it was still there.
“He’s in room 311,” she told him as they ascended stairs covered in red carpet.
“I know. I heard,” Daniel said.
“You speak French?” He hadn’t mentioned it.
“A little,” he said, looking irritated.
“Who taught you?”
“Let’s just focus on the case,” Daniel snapped.
Remi fell silent. She had found another sensitive spot. This man had several, and it was impossible to predict what they were since they were all so unusual.
They got to the landing of the third floor just as the elevator pinged down the hall. Torsson came out, an old lady dressed all in black and hunched over a cane coming out after him. He nodded and smiled to her, and she said something before hobbling off down the hall.
The Interpol agent joined them, and they stood pretending to talk until the woman unlocked the door to her apartment and disappeared inside.
Once she did, they walked to apartment 311 and listened at the door. Remi could hear the faint strains of Brahms’s Symphony No. 1 in C Minor for a moment before cutting off to an announcer. She felt a tug of nostalgia as she recognized the voice. Gagneux was listening to Radio Classique, her favorite classical station. She missed home and running around on this case had made her forget for the moment just how much she missed it.
This man may be a killer, she reminded herself. Good taste in music doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.
She put her hand around the little bottle of pepper spray in her pocket.
Daniel gestured for her to step away from the door. She got out of the firing line. Just because guns were illegal didn’t mean an international thief wouldn’t have one. Daniel stepped out of the way too. Torsson knocked on the door.
After a moment, a man’s voice called from inside. “Who is it?”
“Delivery for Monsieur Gagneux,” Torsson said. “From Shakespeare and Company.”
Remi suppressed a smile. The city’s most famous bookshop attracted all resident foreigners. It would be an unlikely destination for one such as Gagneux, however. The Interpol agent should have consulted her.
The sound of movement within. A bolt slid back, and the door opened a little, held by a chain. A frowning face appeared in the narrow space. Remi caught a glimpse of blue eyes and swept back, thinning blonde hair, and muscular shoulders.
“I didn’t order … oh!”
Gagneux had spotted there were three people outside his door and not just one.
“Interpol, unlock the—”
Gagneux slammed the door shut. The bolt slid home with a loud click.
Torsson cursed, backed up, and smashed into the door. It shook in its frame and a thin crack appeared in the wood, but it did not break.
Daniel joined him and they rammed into it together. This time the door frame splintered, and Daniel was able to wrench the door open, the chain and bolt falling free from the weakened frame.
The two men rushed inside.
“Freeze! You’re under arrest,” Torsson shouted. “Hey! Get down from there.”
Remi hesitated. She was supposed to stay in the hallway, but curiosity and excitement got the better of her.
She peeked around the shattered door frame.
Past a short entry hallway, with a marble side table and 19th century bronze statue of Artemis, was a sumptuous living room with modern furniture and many fine paintings on the wall. Of more immediate interest, even to an art historian, was the blonde Frenchman clambering over the ironwork railing of the balcony.
They were on the third floor. Gagneux didn’t mean to kill himself, did he?
Daniel and Torsson were obviously worried that he might, since they tried to grab him before he went over.
Too late.
The man dropped.
Remi screamed and rushed over with the two law officers to look over the balcony. She didn’t know why she did that. She didn’t want to see the thief lying broken in the street, but she couldn’t resist. Events seemed to push her forward.
But instead of seeing Jean-Baptiste Gagneux lying dead on the pavement, they saw him on the next balcony down.
So did the resident of that apartment, who let out a tremendous squawk.
Gagneux gave a little bow, climbed over the railing, and swung himself down to the next balcony below. While well into his forties, the jewel thief was as fit as a man half his age.
Daniel cursed and rushed out of the apartment, followed closely by Torsson and Remi.
They flew past the old woman with the cane, who had just emerged from her apartment to find out what all the fuss was about and ran down the stairs.
By the time they burst out of the front door, Torsson was well in the lead with Remi a bit behind and Daniel huffing and puffing in the rear.
McDonald’s is taking its toll, Remi thought.
Once outside, they looked around. No sign of Gagneux.
The street ran for far enough in either direction for them to tell that Gagneux had gone down one of the four side streets. Torsson ran for one that had a sign indicating a Metro station was in that direction. He pointed to another street and shouted for Daniel to take it. That way, Remi knew, lay the Pont des Arts, a crowded pedestrian bridge across the Seine.
Both were obvious directions to run, but Remi knew the 6th arrondissement well enough to see that another street might be the one Gagneux had chosen. There were two other streets branching off this one. The nearest stopped at a dead end and all the buildings were private apartments. Not a good place to run. The fourth street, however, was a narrow lane running past a popular movie theater flanked by two cafés. There was always a crowd outside. The thief could lose himself in the congestion or even duck into the movie theater.
Remi ran in that direction.
It only took a few seconds to make it to the corner. She hurried around it and nearly slammed into a middle-aged couple walking arm in arm.
She gasped out an apology, ignored a rude comment from the woman, and ran around them.
And stopped in despair.
The movie theater was just letting out. A big crowd of people spread out on the sidewalk and street, people moving in both directions or standing in small groups, talking. The nearest café was full. She couldn’t even see the second café beyond the theater. The crowd was that thick.
I’ve lost him, she thought in despair.
No! If you lose him, more people will die.
Remi ran into the crowd, weaving between people who chattered away on phones or talked with their partners about the film they had just seen as if nothing strange was going on around them.
The mob of complacent, unaware people seemed endless. Remi grew frustrated as she tried to search through the thickening throng. Didn’t these people know danger lurked right in their midst? Was this teenager taking a selfie and blocking her path so asleep they couldn’t understand her urgency? Now she understood her father’s constant dinner table complaints about “civilians.” People went through their lives as sleepwalkers.
She had too, of course. Not too long ago, she had been one of these clueless, complacent people.
Now she saw the world as it really was, and it thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.
There! She could just see a blonde head and a pair of burly shoulders moving through the far side of the crowd.
Jean-Baptiste Gagneux walked quickly, but he did not run. He did not want to cause a visible stir in the crowd. He also didn’t look back, as the face is more recognizable than the back of the head.
I’m beginning to think like a criminal.
Remi wasn’t sure how she felt about that. At least she had tracked down Gagneux. She didn’t have time to pull out her phone. In fact, she didn’t even think to.
So now I’m about to confront a murderer. Alone. What did Daniel say about that?
She forged ahead, trying to catch up with the suspect.
They emerged from the crowd at almost the same time. As they did, both picked up their pace. Remi pulled the pepper spray from her pocket, ran to close the last distance between them, and cut him off, holding up the pepper spray and aiming it at his face.
Gagneux stopped. A moment’s confusion flickered on his face before he recognized Remi.
“Out of my way!”
Suddenly aware of her position, Remi took a step back. Somebody cried out. People moved away from them.
“Make a move and I’ll spray you in the eyes,” she warned Gagneux.
The art thief looked to either side, then back at Remi, balling his fists.
“Are you an officer of the law?” he demanded.
Remi smiled. “No, but he is.”
Just then, Daniel tackled Gagneux from behind. Both men went down. Gagneux struggled, but while he was more fit than Daniel, the FBI agent had caught him by surprise and was on top. By the time he recovered from his shock, the handcuffs were already around one wrist.
“Jean-Baptiste Gagneux, I presume you speak English. I’m arresting you for the murder of Montgomery Dyson and Pierre Lafontaine.”
Gagneux bucked like a bronco in those Westerns that Remi’s father always liked to watch, but Daniel straddled him like a cowboy and didn’t fall off. Next Gagneux elbowed him. Daniel let out a grunt, gave the suspect an angry kidney punch, and handcuffed the other wrist.
“I’ll add resisting arrest and assaulting an officer of the law to those charges,” Daniel told him.
“Get off me, American pig!”
“Oink, oink,” Daniel said, hauling him to his feet.
“Good job,” Remi said, putting her pepper spray back in her pocket. “I thought you went down the other street.”
Daniel waved his arm at the staring crowd. “Clear out! Make room!” Then he turned to Remi and smiled. “When I saw you run off in another direction, I figured you knew something we didn’t. Guess my hunch paid off, huh?”
Remi smiled back at him. “And so did mine.”