The Final Cut

“The Fox.”

The name perked him up. “The art thief? Mon dieu. No wonder you are here. The Fox is a legend. But you say he is a she?”

“Yes. Tell us what you know about her.”

He was driving with his right hand, the left hand hovering by the edge of the window, two fingers together as if he normally smoked and flicked the ashes out of the crack. “There are many warrants, of course, across several countries. She steals very valuable paintings both from private collections and museums, does not matter which. But she is also known for stealing very valuable jewels, some priceless, like the Koh-i-Noor. We have never managed to track her down, of course, because she is very good.”

Mike said, “You admire her. Why does everyone admire her so much? She’s a common thief.”

Menard shook his head. “Non, she is an uncommon voleuse de bijoux. To be a jewel thief of this magnitude, never identified, hunted for so long, but never caught? The Fox is magnifique. And to think, she is a woman.” He grunted a very French sounding, “Huh.”

“I plan to put the handcuffs on her myself,” Mike said.

Menard mumbled something she thought was “Good luck,” and she shot Nicholas a look. He shrugged and rolled his eyes.

Menard said, “You will see the Koh-i-Noor theft is dominating all the news cha

“Yes,” Mike said. Menard didn’t sound all that upset about it.

“I have even read blogs about the theft, although the idiots writing the blogs are writing fiction, since they could not possibly know exactly what happened. Your British news stations are foaming at the mouth. Ah, it is a terrible thing, is it not?”

Nicholas only nodded. “Has the Fox ever been accused of killing people for money, or does she only steal?”

Menard again flicked his fingers out of habit. “I remember a rumor of an assassination—maybe ten, fifteen years ago—some Italian gun manufacturer near Milan, but there was nothing proven. It remains an unsolved case, and I have not heard of anything since. And now she has stolen the Koh-i-Noor.”

He sounded so intrigued, Mike wanted to punch him.

Menard continued. “The media is also playing up many nefarious plots regarding your British Inspector York’s role in the theft.”

Nicholas’s voice was cold. “The Fox might be involved in her murder.”

“I must say this surprises me. Ah, we arrive.”

Mike could see Lake Geneva ahead, and the huge water plume called the Jet d’Eau. The promenade was lined with people, ignoring the chill, enjoying the show. She got out of the car, checked her weapon on her hip. This wasn’t exactly how she’d always dreamed of visiting Europe.

Despite the shining sun, a cold breeze whistled through the city. Nicholas turned up the collar of his coat and looked at Mike, shivering in her leather jacket.

Menard said, “The wind is brutal today. You should see when the waves form on the lake and the water splashes over onto the streets. We are lucky, this is a warm winter.”

Mike shivered. “You’re saying it could be worse?”

Nicholas laughed. “What, and you a New Yorker? I thought your blood was thicker than this.” But he moved to shelter her from the worst of the wind. “It’s momentary; we’re going to have to cross the street to get into the bank. Yell when you’re ready.”

Menard had already started across. “Nicholas, you speak French, right?” Mike asked.

“Well enough. Geneva is trilingual—French, German, and Italian are all the official language—but everyone speaks English. You won’t have any trouble getting around, I promise.”

“Good. Because I doubt my high school French will do more than get us to the bathroom successfully. I’m ready now. Let’s go.”

They dashed across the Quai des Bergues, the wind cutting at their heels. Once inside the Deutsche Bank, Mike took a second to warm her face with her hands.

They were greeted by the bank manager, a short, rotund man with merry eyes and lovely white teeth.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle, monsieurs. You are the FBI the Contonal Police told me to expect?” His pleasant ma

“I’m Detective Inspector Drummond, and this is Special Agent Caine.”

“And I am Agent Pierre Menard, with FedPol. We require your assistance.”

“I am Tivoli, and I will do all within my power to help. How may I assist you?”

Nicholas handed Tivoli a picture. “Have you seen this woman? She came to the bank earlier today.”

He glanced at the photograph and shook his head. “No, monsieur, I have not.”

“Are you sure? Look again. She may have asked to access the security boxes. Her hair would be short and black, not long and brown.”

Tivoli’s eyes lingered on the photograph, but he shook his head. “I am most sure, monsieur. It has been a busy day. One of my men is out sick, thus it is I who have been handling the vault today. I would remember her. We sent our videotape to the police when they called, but I also checked the tapes from the time frame, and saw no one who matched her description. I am sorry.”

Nicholas said, “Thank you, Monsieur Tivoli. We appreciate your help.”

They stopped in the lobby next to the scrolled front doors.

Mike said, “Now what?”

Nicholas ran his hand over his chin. “The Fox isn’t stupid. She would have taken precautions, made sure if she had a tail, she could lose them. Driving up to the Deutsche Bank in broad daylight, plain as you please, was a bold move. It was also a brilliant stroke of camouflage. She came in here”—he pointed toward the other end of the lobby—“and she probably walked right on through. We have the police looking at the wrong tapes.”

Menard agreed. “I will ask for more surveillance video to be examined. To come to a bank first—it seems an odd thing to do.”

Mike said, “We were thinking she might be here to accept payment for the theft, but you’re right, it could all be a smoke screen. We can’t even be positive she’s still in Geneva.”

“I was told the pilot of her plane said she sent him skiing, and would meet him in twenty-four hours. Do you believe she meant to keep this appointment?”

“Yes, why not?”

Menard said, “Then she must still be in the city. We will find her. Come. Let us get a hot drink and I will call for a deeper search.”

58

Menard knew exactly who to call, and better yet, where to go. Within ten minutes they were inside a small café drinking steaming espressos, waiting on news about additional footage from the cameras around the Deutsche Bank. Mike was grateful for the warmth; the wind off the lake had her chilled through. Nicholas, Mr. Aren’t I Great, seemed unaffected.

He asked Menard, “Are you an expert on art crimes?”

“I am.”

“We are narrowing down a list of people who could afford to bankroll a theft of this magnitude. Let me ask you, in your experience, why would anyone steal the Koh-i-Noor? It’s one of the most famous pieces in the world, so they couldn’t resell it. It couldn’t be displayed without ru

Menard tossed back his espresso in one gulp, and Mike stared. The coffee was steaming hot; his throat must be made of asbestos. He set the tiny cup on the counter so he could use his hands to help him speak. A very expressive man, Menard, and smart, she thought, very smart, and very committed. They’d lucked out. She was wondering when he was going to make it clear he really liked her, the American, best.