Sweet as Pie Crimes (10 page)

Chapter 6

Xavier was either going to kiss me or turn me away again.  I looked at him expectantly, hoping that he would kiss me, but he pulled away in his typical abrupt manner, rising from the bed and pacing the room.  Frustrated, I sulked at him for a moment before placing the computer on my lap and searching for other articles about the Louvre jewel heist.

“Maybe we should put this on hold until tomorrow,” Xavier said tensely.  “I know I’m the one who called you into my room, but I couldn’t wait until morning to show you that article.  You needed to see it.”

“Yes, I did, and I’m glad you showed it to me.  But if…” I interrupted myself as my finger slid on the mouse and I clicked on a file folder of documents labeled “Private.”  I desperately wanted to open the folder and read what was inside, but I controlled myself and clicked back onto the internet.  What was Xavier hiding on his computer that was so top secret?  The wondering was driving me bonkers.

“Huh?  What were you going to say?” Xavier asked impatiently.

“Nothing.  I’m going to bed now.  Good night.  Again.”  I shimmied off his bed and left the room, softly clicking the door behind me and sighing with disappointment. 

Sheer exhaustion allowed me to sleep that night even though my slumber was troubled with confusing dreams and visions.  Rubbing my still tired eyes when I awoke after sunrise, the reality of what I had uncovered hit me like a brick.  But I couldn’t linger in bed and wile the day away.  I had serious business to attend to, starting with marching that emerald down to
the police station with Xavier and implicating Patric in the crime.  Thoughts of Patric made me shiver with fear as I wondered if he would seek vengeance against me for giving his name to the police.  Pastel colors on his business card glowed at me from my nightstand.  I picked up the card and noted his full name, Patric Anguisson.  Usually, I would run a full Google search on a new man I met before dating him, but the past few whirlwind days hadn’t allowed me that nosy luxury.

Turning on my laptop, I punched Patric’s name into the search engine as dozens of results surfaced in a millisecond.  Sure enough, there were no websites listing him as an artist, no portfolios of his work, nothing to suggest that his claim of being a painter was anything but a complete lie.  But there
were
websites indicating that he had a criminal record, albeit a minor one of misdemeanors.  Stealing petty cash from a bar.  Lifting half a dozen pairs of pants from a clothing store.  Running off with a bottle of cologne from a
parfumerie
.  Fairly ridiculous crimes…just like the pastry robbery.  I started to second guess myself, wondering if a man who seemed to be such a small time criminal could possibly be the mastermind behind a robbery at one of the most closely guarded museums on earth.

Checking a people database, I didn’t find any evidence that he had ever lived in Toulouse.  On the contrary, he only had two addresses in France, one of them in Paris and the other in Marseille.  So he had tried to throw me off course with his whereabouts as well!  If he wasn’t from Toulouse, then where did his sister go “home” to?  Was she back in Marseille or somewhere else entirely, maybe even out of the country?  I typed in the name Ch
érie Anguisson and came up empty-handed.  No public records existed on anyone with that name, not in France or abroad.  Perhaps she was married, but her maiden name would still appear in some older records on the internet.  I became more mystified with each new piecemeal clue the internet revealed. 

Another shock awaited me on a website that reveals ages and birth dates.  “He’s 42?!” I blurted out, stunned to learn that the man was a full decade older than I had perceived him to be.  Was there anything at all authentic about Patric Anguisson?  I shuddered, wondering what he had in store for me at his apartment.  Why did he want me to come up to his apartment if not to paint my portrait?  The possibilities were frightening.

Taking my laptop into the kitchen, I grinned to find Xavier at the dining table staring intently at his own computer.  “Good morning, fellow computer geek,” I teased as he looked up and matched my grin.

“Good morning.  Sit down.  I made breakfast.” He walked over to the stove, flipping two crepes from a pan onto a plate garnished with fresh cantaloupe and honeydew.

“That was so sweet of you!  How long have you been up cooking this feast?”

“About an hour.  My crepes are to die for.  Taste.” He handed me a fork as I smiled at his immodesty.

Taking one bite of the buttery, chocolate-filled pancake, I couldn’t argue.  “These are unbelievable!  Why haven’t you made breakfast for me before?  You know I could get used to this!”

“I’ll make breakfast again,” Xavier promised.  “But let’s eat quickly.  I don’t want that emerald to be in our apartment any longer.  I want the police to be in the loop so we’ll be off the hook.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I mumbled between a huge bite of the melt-in-your-mouth crepes.  “You’re right.  That thing is like a hot potato.  We can’t hold onto it anymore.”

Quickly, we finished up breakfast, took turns showering, and then walked to the police station.  Located just three blocks from our apartment, the station was empty on that Saturday morning. Officers sat us down in an interrogation room as soon as we told them we had a potential lead about the Louvre jewel heist. 

“We’ve been on the trail of this Patric Anguisson character for years.  I just can’t believe he made the fatal mistake of giving you his real name,” Detective Marceau said with a chuckle and a thoughtful sweep of his tawny moustache.

“I know!  Why would he do that?  He lied about everything else,” I marveled.

“Every criminal eventually makes a fatal mistake.  They get cocky.  And then they get sloppy.  Anguisson has used so many aliases over the years, he probably didn’t even realize he was giving you his real name.” Detective Marceau shook his head in unhidden amusement. 

“So you really think it was him who stole the emeralds?” I asked even though the answer was etched blatantly across the investigator’s slightly smug face.

“Of course.  Him and his female accomplice.  We’ve never been able to positively identify her.  But we have reason to believe that there may be another party involved too.  Anguisson is the kingpin of a whole network of criminals across Europe.  He’s only ever been caught for little things like stealing clothing and cologne.  Because the value of what he stole never exceeded 1,000 Euros, he’s never been charged with a felony and hasn’t spent much time in jail,” Detective Marceau conveyed as Xavier and I listened with rapt attention.

“I also have some information about that female accomplice you mentioned.  Her name is Ch
érie, and she’s his sister.  But there’s no record of her anywhere online.  I have no idea what her real name is, but I can give you a detailed description of what she looks like,” I offered as Detective Marceau promptly called in the resident police sketch artist.

An hour later, the artist had created a composite of “Ch
érie” and Detective Marceau had devised a plan that made both Xavier and me very wary.  “You can’t send her into his apartment like helpless prey!” Xavier argued.

“She won’t be helpless prey,” Detective Marceau insisted.  “She’ll be wired with a recording device and an entire team of officers will be within shouting distance should anything go wrong.  Will you cooperate with us, Mademoiselle Nouvelle?”

“I want to, but I don’t like the idea of going into his apartment,” I replied frankly.

“I understand, but you could really be a hero in all this.  You just need to use your feminine gifts to extract a confession from him.  If you feel he’s getting suspicious or agitated, just change the subject.  And like I said, we’ll be right behind you.”

The concept of being a “hero” was enticing to me, but I didn’t want to risk my life just to propel my career and reputation.  There had to be an easier way to establish my name in the legal profession, right?  Couldn’t I just do some pro bono work for victims who couldn’t afford to hire an attorney?  But no, this was the opportunity that had presented itself in my life, and I felt it was my destiny to solve the crime.  If I could make it out of Patric’s apartment in one piece, I would be revered in Paris not as the flake who solved the silly pastry robbery but the sleuth who cracked the high profile Louvre jewel heist.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said confidently as Xavier’s face tensed with uncertainty.

“Isabelle, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said in a low voice.

“Don’t worry. I’ve come a long way from Barbados to Paris.  I can take care of myself,” I assured, invigorated with self-confidence at the mere thought of what I had accomplished by flying away from my secure nest in the Caribbean into the wolf’s lair of city life.

“Let’s get you set up,” Detective Morceau said eagerly, escorting me into another room and prepping me for the perilous mission I was about to embark on.

***

Uncontrollably shaking as I reached the entrance to Patric’s apartment building, I inhaled a cleansing breath and walked purposefully up the stairs.  Two adjacent apartments were located above the clothing store of Patric’s
building, and I had no idea which one was his.  Damn, why hadn’t Detective Morceau told me which door to knock on?  The whole plan had been hatched in such a mad dash that he probably forgot that crucial detail.  Trial and error was the only method I could employ to find out.  Knocking arbitrarily on the door to my right, I tried to stop my body from shaking at the prospect of coming face to face with Patric again on his turf.

Footsteps sounded inside the apartment as I bit my lower lip and steeled myself against whatever was waiting for me on the other side of the door.  Not only would I have to remain calm, but I would also need to be flirtatious and persuade Patric to open up to me.  The door parted just an inch or two as a young woman peered at me suspiciously.

“Yes?  May I help you?” She asked in an accent that sounded Eastern European.

“I’m looking for Patric Anguisson.  Does he live here?” I asked.

Keeping the door nearly shut, the girl replied, “He lives across the hall.  But I don’t know if he’s there anymore.  Last night very late, he was moving a lot of things out of there.”

“So you think he moved out last night?” I pressed as the girl nodded.

“I think so.  Bye.” Without further warning, the timid girl closed the door in my face as I turned and walked the few steps to Patric’s alleged apartment.

I felt a draft hit me as soon as I was at his apartment door.  Touching the doorknob, I realized that the apartment had been left unsecured.  Cautiously, I walked inside, noting an open window as the source of the draft. 
The next thing I saw was nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The entire apartment was skeletally bare except for the easel that Patric had painted with each day on the street corner.  I walked further into the apartment, half expecting him to jump out and grab me.  But not a soul was inside the apartment except for my heavily breathing and trembling self. 

Examining the easel with my eyes only, I wondered if the object contained DNA evidence from Patric’s hands.  No doubt the police would confiscate the object and send it to the crime lab for analysis.  The apartment was one large room, like a studio or loft, and not a trace of anything else remained.  Sliding out the door, I rushed down the stairs, eager to tell the team what I had learned.

Detective Morceau was camped out in an alley less than a block away and looked surprised to see me so soon.  “He’s on the run,” I informed.  “His apartment was totally empty.  All he left there was an easel.”

Cursing under his breath, Detective Morceau pulled on his moustache in blatant frustration.  “That snake isn’t going to slither out of our grasp this time.  We’ll find out the route he’s taken.  I need to talk to the owner of the apartment building and see if Anguisson left a valid phone number when he rented the apartment.  If he did, then we can easily track him with GPS technology.  If not, then we’ll have some more digging to do.”

Xavier emerged from the small group, handing me a cold bottle of water.  “Thank you,” I whispered gratefully, dousing my tight throat with refreshment.

“Put your gloves on and remove the easel,” Detective Morceau directed to a police officer.  “Isabelle, we’ll call you later today if we find anything out.”

“Do you really have to?” Xavier interjected. “She’s already done her part by trying to trap Anguisson.  Let her be safe now.”

The older man chuckled and commented, “Very protective boyfriend you have here.”

Not bothering to correct the detective, I thought for the first time how “boyfriend” might just be the perfect title for Xavier.  In the future.  For now, I had a crime to solve. 

The group was starting to disperse until a revelation hit me.  “Wait!” I exclaimed.  “I think I know where Patric might have gone!”

Chapter 7

Looking as though he might have a coronary if I didn’t divulge Patric’s possible whereabouts, Detective Morceau stared at me wide-eyed, prompting impatiently, “Well, where do you think he is Mademoiselle?”

“Marseille,” I said quickly before the poor man burst into flames.  Something told me that Detective Morceau had been trying to frame Patric Anguisson for the better part of his law enforcement career.  “This morning I went online and did my own research about Patric.  The databases I searched gave two addresses for him.  One was the apartment in Paris and another was located in Marseille.”

“Yes, he is originally from Marseille and still has relatives there,” Detective Morceau said, his color returning to normal.  “We’ll see what we can find in terms of cell phone records and get back to you later today.  I do hope you’ll come with us to Marseille if that’s where the investigation leads.”

“Definitely,” I agreed without hesitation, ignoring the protesting groan that escaped Xavier.  “I’ll be across the street at home waiting to hear from you.”

Xavier and I walked back home as adrenaline made me feel like flying there.  Law school was so incredibly dull compared to the cross country action that a case like this could provide.  I wasn’t sure how I was going to concentrate on my Sahara dry textbooks after playing novice detective in this exhilarating chase.

Making sure my cell phone ringer was turned on the highest setting for the officers to reach me, I busied myself by soaping the breakfast dishes.  “I hope they call me soon!” I called over my shoulder to Xavier who was pouring himself a second cup of morning coffee.

“I’m taking the day off from work.  The bookstore can live without me for one day.  And if we do go to Marseille, it will probably turn into an overnight trip, so they can live without me tomorrow too,” Xavier said, reaching for his cell phone.

“How far is it from Paris to Marseille?” I asked, sponging up a stained coffee cup with fragrant suds.

“It’s almost 500 miles, but by high speed train it would only take us 3 hours to get there,” Xavier explained before concocting a story about feeling sick and conveying it to the coworker who answered the phone at the bookstore.  A moment later, he hung up.  “Done.  Now I can go with you to Marseille or wherever they need us to be.”

Towel drying the dishes, I smiled at Xavier.  “I’m so glad you’re in this with me now.”

“So am I,” he replied simply as my cell phone jingled.  Clamoring for it like a hyperactive child, I said urgently, “
Allo?  Oui
?”

Detective Morceau’s voice sounded as excited as I felt.  “He’s in Marseille.  We have a very reliable source that has narrowed down his whereabouts to a 3 mile radius.  Can you get to the train station by noon?”

“Yes!” I replied instantaneously.  “See you at noon!”  Hanging up, I realized that I hadn’t asked the detective which train station to go to.  “Oh no!  I don’t know which train station to go to.  There are dozens here in Paris…”

Chuckling, Xavier enlightened me.  “There’s only one station that goes high speed to Marseille, and that’s the
Gare de Lyon
.  Let’s pack our overnight bags and make our way there.”

“Okay, let’s do this,” I responded, making a beeline to my bedroom and yanking a duffel bag out of the closet. 

Frantically, I tossed in the prettiest, most colorful sundresses in my wardrobe.  Then, remembering the confidential nature of our quest, I smacked my forehead and exchanged the alluring dresses for dark colored pants and tops.  Camouflaging myself might be necessary, and stylish clothes clearly weren’t the way to do that.  On Barbados,
haute couture
consisted of happy hues and airy fabrics, but France was fashionable in a more understated way.  Already, my height made me stand out like a Halloween costume in April; I couldn’t look like an outsider with my apparel too.

Xavier was waiting for me in the hallway, downing yet another cup of coffee as I gave him a slightly judgmental look.  “What?  It’s just coffee.  At least I haven’t been smoking lately.”

“No, you haven’t.” I suddenly realized that I hadn’t caught him with a cigarette since that night on the balcony.

“I’m really trying to quit.  Thanks to you,” he said warmly before pouring the coffee down his throat. 

“Thanks to my needling and nagging?” I tossed out the self-deprecating joke.

“Exactly,” he replied with amusement, picking up the coffee pot and pouring a few more drops into his cup.  “Better to get my fix from caffeine than nicotine, right?”

“That’s right,” I said softly, proud of him for trying so hard to conquer his addiction.

“Okay, off we go,” he said, placing the empty coffee cup on the counter and opening the door.

“I’ve never been on a TGV train,” I shared, referring to the mind boggling high speed transportation that translates as
Train à Grande Vitesse
in French.

“Well get ready for a wild ride.  It’s like science fiction how fast these trains go,” Xavier said, locking the door behind us.  “We’ll be zipping down south at more than 160 miles per hour.”

“Wow!” I breathed, unable to contain another excited shiver that pulsed through me.

Hailing a taxi to take us to the
Gare de Lyon
, we packed ourselves and our luggage tightly into the back seat as Xavier issued polite instructions to the driver.   Only having traveled by metro since arriving in Paris, I was fascinated by all the sights whizzing by from the vantage point of the taxi.  “Look, there’s the
Moulin Rouge
!” I exclaimed as Xavier favored me with a charmed smile.

“I’ll have to take you there sometime.  The cabaret shows aren’t really my thing, but every visitor to Paris needs to go to the Moulin Rouge at least once,” Xavier said as I looked at him with mild surprise.  Maybe he just
wanted to be my tour guide…but no, I knew better.  Xavier had just unofficially asked me out on a date.

“I’d love to see a show there,” I enthused, gazing out the window again and admiring all the historical wine and cheese shops that had likely stood since the middle of the twentieth century---or even earlier. 

Arriving at the train station, we quickly spotted the investigative team, led by a grave looking Detective Marceau.  Handing us our prepaid tickets, he voiced his concern.  “Three hours better be fast enough.  I’m worried that Anguisson will get tipped off and move his location again, so we’re going to have to start searching the moment the train pulls into the station in Marseille.”

As soon as the train pulled into the station, we hustled to get on and find seats.  Morceau and his group of police officers were definitely in undercover detective mode, as I noticed they had changed from uniforms to plain clothes since I had initially spilled my story at the precinct.  As the train sped out of the station, my stomach lurched, unaccustomed to the extreme speed.  I felt like I was on a roller coaster as the train quickly accelerated to maximum speed and the world rolled by in dizzying technicolor vision. 

“Have some bread,” Xavier suggested, pulling a crusty
baguette
out of a small picnic basket he had packed.

“Oh thank you,” I murmured, grateful that he had the foresight to bring some stomach-taming snacks. 

In disbelief, I observed other passengers reading paperback novels and playing with their smart phones.  How could anyone concentrate on such a rumbling, whiplash-inducing ride?  I closed my eyes, hoping that the three hours would pass quickly and that I wouldn’t become sick on the train.  I needed to be in top shape when we arrived in Marseille so I could execute whatever plot Detective Morceau had in store for me.  But the thought of seducing a confession out of Patric made me sicker than the speeding train.

Finally, the train jerked to a stop in Marseille as I sipped from a bottle of water and swallowed a few more pieces of bread.  Feeling stronger as soon as the train became motionless, I stayed in my seat awaiting instructions from Detective Morceau.  He rose from his seat and stood over me, handing me a folded sheet of paper with written instructions.  I avidly read the paper, realizing that our mission was too delicate and secretive for him to issue verbal directives.

Unfolding the paper, I tapped Xavier on the shoulder, motioning for him to read the note with me.  In barely legible chicken scrawl, Detective Morceau had written:

Stay in the train station with your cell phone ready until you receive a cue from law enforcement.  There’s a café and a couple of restaurants where you can pass the hours before we contact you.  Be prepared to wait until the small hours of the morning if necessary.  Thank you for your help in this critical matter.

As we disembarked the train, the group of police officers and detectives separated from us and disappeared through the exit door.  Slowly, Xavier and I strolled through the station, stretching and yawning. 

“Looks like I’ll be drinking even more coffee than usual,” he drawled.  “And I might even need a cigarette.”

“No!” I protested vehemently, feeling like I had just taken a blow to the gut at the thought of Xavier smoking again.  “You’ve been doing so well.  Don’t cave now.”

“Okay, then I’m going to need a venti coffee.  Black,” he replied wryly as we headed over to a brightly lit café.

As Detective Morceau had predicted, we spent the entire day and beyond inside the train station.  Periodically, Xavier did some more secret work on his laptop as I itched to ask him what he was typing.  But I kept my mouth shut, too tired from sitting and waiting all day to try to investigate anything else. 

As sunset faded away and night fell, both Xavier and I were becoming restless.  “We haven’t heard a word from the cops.  What do you think that means?” I asked in exasperation.

“It probably means they’re still searching for Anguisson and have nothing to report.”

“But they must have his old address here in Marseille.  It’s in the online databases.”

“Yeah, but he may not be at that address.  He could be hiding out at a relative’s house or staying with a friend.  Who knows where that viper has slithered off to?” Xavier spoke with a touch of hoarseness in his voice as he polished off the last bite of the spinach and mushroom quiches we had ordered for dinner.

“This is getting ridiculous.  I mean, I want to solve this crime, but…”

“Before you get too impatient,” Xavier interrupted, turning his computer screen to my view.  “Take a look at this.”

I looked at the newspaper article glowing on his computer screen.  Initially, it appeared to be just another blurb about the stolen emeralds and an outreach to the public for assistance.  But at the bottom of the article, there was information about a sizeable reward.  “20,000 Euros for information leading to the arrest of the thieves!  Well, that reward is rightfully ours if they catch him and get a confession!  Why didn’t Detective Morceau mention this?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to get our hopes up…or have us assist the investigation for the wrong reasons,” Xavier suggested.

“Maybe,” I said thoughtfully.  “But how incredible would that be?  I could pay off my law school loans and quit my job at Collette’s stupid pastry shop!  With my half of the reward of course,” I added quickly, acknowledging that Xavier was entitled to a 50% share of any monetary compensation.

“I have a few bills I could pay off as well,” he admitted, yawning for the millionth time and sitting back in his hard wooden chair.  “I really wish this were a recliner right now.”

“I know.  I just want to get some sleep,” I complained.  As soon as the words parted my lips, the long awaited ring of my cell phone chimed as I rushed to answer it. 

Detective Morceau began speaking immediately, sounding breathless and urgent.  “A squad car is coming to the train station to pick you up now.  We’ve tracked down Anguisson at a cousin’s house on the outskirts of Marseille.  You’re going to pay him a surprise visit tonight, Isabelle.”

“Okay,” I replied uncertainly as my heart thudded crazily.  “And how am I going to explain just showing up on his doorstep at night, hundreds of miles from where I live?”

“You’re going to have a huge performance to put on,” came Detective Morceau’s simple answer.  “Flirt, bat those pretty eyelashes, seduce him…make him forget about
how
you got there and
why
you’re there.  Just make him focus on your beauty and he’ll be lost.”

Feeling anything but beautiful after being trapped all day in a stuffy train station, I grabbed for a tube of mascara and my favorite shade of ruby lipstick.  Ten minutes later, the unmarked squad car had arrived with one of the police officers from Paris in the driver’s seat.  Xavier and I hopped in as I felt massively unsure of this flirt-and-just-seduce-him plan.  Patric wasn’t an idiot, and I wasn’t a beauty queen.  He would definitely be suspicious of my presence in Marseille and the fact that I had somehow, miraculously, found him at his cousin’s house!  Questioning the expertise of Detective Morceau and his crew, I gave Xavier a nervous look as he soothingly placed his hand over mine.

“This is crazy,” I whispered in a trembling voice.

Gravely, he looked at me and nodded.  “I know.  You don’t have to do this.  Let the cops figure this out.  I don’t want you to be in any danger.  Forget about the money.”