Page 14

FOURTEEN

Crime Scene

Vivianne

While René and Paul discuss the Starling’s presumed murder of the guard, I drift over to Larson to see what he’s up to.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?”

Larson glances up for a moment and then turns his focus back to the floor. He paces to the center of the room and returns to the painting of Dr. Gachet .

Meanwhile, Paul and René begin an argument over ductwork supports.

Larson glances at the exits, his brows pinching together. “It’s important to see the scene with your own eyes.”

“But you’ve already been here, and I don’t know where to begin. I’m not an investigator.”

He gestures for me to come forward. When I approach, he puts his hands on my upper arms and guides me into position over two strips of yellow tape affixed to the floor. He scratches his chin and points to the way we came.

“The main flow of traffic comes from there, moves through here, and continues on that way.” His finger stabs toward the hall beyond. “But that’s not the path of the guards. Their patrols are precise. The moment he turned that corner, he would’ve seen the Starling.”

“And you’re certain it was the Starling?” I glance left and then right.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t aware anyone knew what the famous art thief looked like.”

“The guard should’ve called in before engaging.” He steps in front of the painting again, placing his back to me as he stares at the wall. “If I were the Starling and I was exchanging the pictures, my back would’ve been to the room. But he’s smart. He wouldn’t have made himself vulnerable like that.”

Larson turns sideways. “Like this, I can see the visitor entrance but not the guard’s path.” He twists to face where the guard would have entered. “I would have mapped out all their movements. I wouldn’t have been caught.”

“What are you saying?” I shift, my shoes pinch my toes.

“I’m not certain the guard wasn’t in on it.”

“But the Starling works alone. Maybe he wanted the guard to find him?”

“Why would he want that?” Larson dismisses my comment and points again, this time up. “The police think he strangled the guard and went up the ducts.”

The corner of my mouth quirks up. “So I hear.”

Paul and René are now embroiled in an escalating debate about the strength of the steel bands securing the ducts to the ceiling. As their voices rise, they switch from English to French.

“Did they look?” I ask.

“Look?”

“Inside the ducts? If he used them, he would’ve disturbed the dust. No way to hide that.”

“That’s the thing. It looks as though he did.”

“I’m sorry. I’m confused.”

“It’s too neat. Obvious even. And leaves the question of the guard.” Larson scratches his chin again, a five o’clock shadow growing more prominent. “It makes me think we’re missing something.”

“Aren’t the police using forensics?”

He nods. “I still don’t understand why the guard entered the room.” He glances at the floor again, his focus on the yellow tape. “There aren’t even scuff marks. If someone were choking me, I’d fight. Kick. Claw. There should be evidence of a struggle.”

“Looks clean.” The entire exhibit is immaculate, but René said they haven’t allowed the janitorial staff in yet. I take a deep breath. “Well, whatever happened, the original is gone.”

Gone, but they know where it’s to be sold.

“Larson?”

“Yes?”

“If you know where the painting is being sold, then why not raid the place?”

“It’s a matter of jurisdiction.”

“Not for Interpol.”

“No, it’s not. And, while they have jurisdiction, it’s a large, ponderous organization. Too slow for what we need, but there’s much more at stake.”

“But part of their charter is international art crimes.”

“True, but it’s not a priority for them, and the auction is to be held within days.”

Other than leaning on Paul’s arm, looking pretty, and flashing my credentials, I’m still not sure why I’m there.

Isn’t there an introductory course on how to not get oneself killed among a ring of thieves?

I wonder at the wisdom of accepting my attaché status.

“I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“You’re here to spot forgeries. At the auction, you’ll perform in that role with Paul, who will be posing as a buyer.”

“You certainly know how to drop someone into the deep end. I don’t know that I’m up for this.”

“You’re perfect for the role, and I have something in mind to help ease you into things.”

“You do?”

“A smaller venue. Paul will escort you to a secret auction here in Paris. It will stir up interest.”

It?

I like the way he says that. What he means is it’ll stir the rumor mill regarding the relationship between me and Paul.

I’m not against the idea and see its value. However, that doesn’t help me now. I turn my attention back to the case.

“This whole scene is wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Larson spins in a circle, taking in the room.

“Everything I know about the Starling shows he’s a pacifist. He stole from the wealthy, and years later, the artwork always resurfaces in the hands of those who should’ve always had it by right. How did they know to check the painting?”

“He left it on the floor.”

“Ah, and that’s how they found the murmuration?”

“Yes. When the guard’s body was discovered, they thought he stopped the theft, but protocols were followed to verify it as the original. X-ray analysis revealed starlings beneath the paint.”

“So, he wanted us to find it? Although, it’s odd he left a calling card. The Starling isn’t that obvious about his thefts.”

“Yes, which has me worried. The Starling prides himself in his copies never being discovered. He meant us to find this. That’s not like the Starling.” Larson rocks back on his heels and pulls at his chin.

Paul comes over. He presses a hand to my lower back. “What do you think?”

It takes a moment before I realize he’s speaking to me. “I don’t know what to think.”

Although why Interpol cares about stolen art is anyone’s guess—unless they aren’t interested in the painting at all but in the flow of cash.

Or something else?

The sale of stolen art isn’t a multibillion-dollar industry without reason. It’s the perfect front for organized crime to move money or smuggle drugs.

“What is Interpol’s interest in this case?” I ask.

Larson gives a hushing gesture as René approaches. “We will discuss that in a more secure environment.”

That confirms my suspicions. This case isn’t about the theft of Dr. Gachet . They’re tracking the money…But why?

René joins us. He has a phone pressed against his ear. “They’ve cleared the scene.”

I turn to Paul.

“Power and politics, ma chère ,” Paul says. “I mentioned these are wealthy clients. Interpol must act, but many factors often influence the speed at which they do.”

A polite way to say someone accepted a bribe. No surprise there.

Paul’s hand slides up to my shoulder. I should pull away, but I don’t. If his touch turns aggressive—like Prescott’s—I would without hesitation. But right now, there’s nothing forceful about it, just a quiet, steady warmth, like the way Dr. Phillips would comfort me.

It’s—sweet.

And if I’m being honest, the feel of his hands on my skin, firm yet gentle, anchors me in a way I didn’t expect… and the intoxicating richness of his scent, like cedar and something darker, draws me in.

I lean slightly toward him, my body betraying me before my mind can catch up. His fingers brush the curve of my neck, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver down my spine.

I shouldn’t want this. Not with him. But the heat between us pulses, alive and electric.

His hand lingers, and I find myself craving more. More of his touch. More of that unspoken promise hanging between us, thickening the air. I can’t stop my breath from quickening or the flutter in my stomach.

When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flash of something in them—curiosity, maybe hunger.

Whatever it is, it matches the pounding in my chest, the thrum of excitement coursing through me. If he leans in and presses just a little closer, I might not stop him.

“Are we done here?” Paul’s voice cuts through the tension. “It’s getting late, and I want to show Miss Faulks around the museum before it closes.”

Oh. My pulse skips at the thought. I’d like that—very much. But as soon as the words form in my mind, I suck in a breath.

Dinner will follow. The entire night stretches out before us, full of possibility and danger.

Alone with him.

The idea sends a rush of heat through me, and I bite down on my lip, trying to steady my thoughts.

There’s a part of me that’s intrigued by him, by how his presence fills the space between us, magnetic and undeniable. But the other part—the cautious part—whispers warnings, reminding me of how easily trust can be misplaced.

I’ve been burned before.

His gaze lingers on me, as if he’s waiting for a reaction, and I wonder if he can sense the conflict simmering beneath my calm exterior. I’m drawn to him in a way that makes my heart race, but I can’t afford to lose my head.

Still, the curiosity is there, pulling me forward and making it hard to resist. The idea of being alone with him stirs something deeper—something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Would it be so bad to let myself see where this night could go? To give in to the tension and see what lies beneath the surface?

But I can’t ignore the caution prickling at the back of my mind.

Trust is a dangerous game.

And Paul?

He’s dangerous in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

Larson runs a hand over the wall where Dr. Gachet hangs.

“I’m surprised you’re leaving this on exhibit.”

René chews at his lower lip. “It was not a decision I approved.”

He says nothing further, and Larson’s nod says he understands.

I make a note to ask about it later and tell him privately about the starlings I saw in Starry Night , but I’m distracted by the gentle tug on my arm and the warmth of Paul’s breath grazing my neck like a soft caress.

My skin prickles, every nerve suddenly on high alert. He leans in closer, his voice a low murmur that curls around me, intimate and deliberate.

“Let me show you some of my favorite paintings.”

The words are innocent enough, but the way he says them? It feels like a promise.

My pulse flutters wildly, and I can’t help but tilt my head, giving him just a fraction more access.

His proximity does things to me—things I can’t ignore. My thoughts grow hazy, swallowed by the heat rolling off his body, by the scent of him, that mix of cedar and something darker, something that makes me want to close the distance between us entirely.

I try to focus on his words, but my mind is trapped in the space between us, in the thrum of energy tightening with every second. His hand, still on my arm, slides down, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist, sending a shock of electricity up my spine.

I inhale sharply, trying to regain control, but it’s slipping. His fingers linger, just barely grazing my skin, yet it feels like a blaze. The air between us thickens, charged with a tension that pulses, begging to break. I glance at him, meeting his gaze, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—hunger, unmistakable and raw.

This pull between us is dangerous, but I can’t bring myself to step back. Instead, I lean in, just a fraction, drawn to him like a magnet.

His lips part slightly, and I glimpse something darker, something I shouldn’t want but crave all the same. If he presses just a little closer, if his hand moves just a little higher, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop him.

Or if I even want to.