J'adore Paris Read online

  “Hellooooo, so nice to meet you.” Rikash darts forward to shake Chris’s hand. “You can’t imagine how thrilled we are to be going out on a raid.”

  It’s amazing how the presence of an attractive male will rev up Rikash’s enthusiasm. I shake my head.

  “Fantastic. I heard you guys worked in New York for Edwards & White,” Chris adds cheerfully. “I did some work for them a few years ago. Great firm, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, we absolutely loved it!” Rikash is now shamelessly lying to this handsome stranger. I discreetly pinch his left arm to signal that he should stop.

  I move forward to shake the investigator’s hand. “Catherine Lambert, and this is my overzealous assistant, Rikash. But you can call him HRH. It’s short for His Rikash Highness.”

  Rikash is silent for a moment before bursting into laughter. To my surprise, everyone in the office follows suit, including Frédéric. Pleased that I’ve managed to break the ice, it occurs to me that we might be in for a highly entertaining day after all.

  “How did you get into this business?” I ask Chris once we’ve settled into the undercover police truck. The back-seat windows are blacked out, so there’s nowhere to look but at each other.

  “I started working in L.A., my hometown, as a general investigator but got a break when a big sporting goods manufacturer asked me to go after some counterfeiters. Now I have hundreds of clients in the retail industry.”

  “How fascinating.” Rikash gives him sweet eyes.

  “It is, actually. I have forty agents working for me in cities all over the world, but I still like to get my hands dirty, especially for my most important clients.”

  “That’s impressive,” I say enthusiastically. “We’re thrilled to be learning the ropes with someone as knowledgeable as you.”

  “It’s great to see you interested in playing such an active role. Your predecessor, Mr. Le Furet, didn’t go on raids much. He preferred to remain behind the scenes.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Larivière says, “but we need to tell the driver where we’re going.”

  “Yes, of course. Porte de Saint-Ouen,” Chris says. “A large shipment of fake goods was due to arrive there early this morning.”

  “Where do you get your tips?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Some come from the clients, others from law enforcement officers who’ve seen something shady. But most tips actually come anonymously from other counterfeiters competing for territory. It’s like the drug trade: mercenary.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to relax before we get to our destination. I know we’re heading to an unsafe part of town and need to calm my nerves. I see Rikash checking out his hair in the driver’s rear-view mirror. My phone vibrates and, startled, I jump from my seat. I peer down and see a text message from Antoine wishing me good luck. This soothes and energizes me: I’m ready for action.

  Chris is now leaning forward, looking keenly ahead through the windshield. “Okay, I see them,” he announces. “Let us out a few blocks from here.”

  I crane my neck to look out the driver’s window as we pass the vendors, a half-dozen men and women in puffy black coats standing behind a large table loaded with bags, scarves, perfumes, and belts. The driver casually eases the truck to a stop a few moments later.

  “Okay, are you ready?” Larivière asks. “Here’s the plan. Catherine, you and Rikash will get out on the right side of the truck, cross the street so that it looks like you’re coming from the metro, and then head back to the table to verify the merchandise. I trust that you’re well versed in Dior’s product lines. We’ll wait for you to report back. Whatever you do, don’t be nervous; the vendors will sense it straight away and know something’s up.”

  “Okay, no problem.” My heart is pounding in my chest as if I’m about to apprehend a serial killer.

  We hop out of the truck and follow Larivière’s instructions. Rikash pretends to chat on his phone (with Chris, of course, as if arranging a date for tonight). It’s hilarious and helps me relax. As we approach the vendors, I’m feeling a little more at ease. Surprisingly, a major adrenaline rush washes over me, and I approach the table with confidence.

  “Bonjour.” I look the first vendor straight in the eye. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a black windbreaker, and a black and white bandana covered in double CCs on his head, an obviously fake Chanel scarf. Instead of greeting us, he takes a puff from his cigarette and blows the smoke right into our faces. Horrified, Rikash takes a step back and waves the smoke away.

  I look down at the merchandise on offer: Miss Dior Chérie perfume in plastic bottles, shoddy-looking versions of Dior saddle bags, and a few acrylic scarves with “Dior” poorly printed in large bold characters. I’ve just picked up one of the bottles when a young woman in tight jeans and a black leather jacket scurries toward us from across the street while letting out a bird-like whistle. The man in front of us reaches under the table, then proceeds to slide most of the merchandise off the table and into extra-large garbage bags. Some items fall to the ground. He lunges forward and wrestles the perfume bottle out of my hands. Rikash manages to grab a few discarded items from the street. We’ve identified the goods but we’ve lost the vendors: they’ve all run away. Without saying a word, we dash toward the truck.

  “We have some of the goods,” Rikash announces to the team, out of breath. “But the vendors disappeared. How did they know? Did we do something wrong?”

  “No, they have spotters on street corners with two-way radios. They probably recognized the truck. You did a great job, guys,” Chris declares, staring at his phone. “I’ve just received another tip about more vendors nearby, from the same group. Now that we know they have our stuff, it’ll go faster next time.”

  Although I’m disappointed that we didn’t really complete our first raid, I’m relieved that it’s over. I give Rikash a high-five.

  We arrive at our next location, a few blocks away, and I’m ready for action. Without waiting for instructions this time, I jump out of the truck, with Rikash close behind. We cross the street and nonchalantly walk to the corner, where some vendors are scattered, littering the street with their fake goods.

  A young man in a leather jacket addresses us. “Bags, you want bags? Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior?”

  Rikash winks at me; we’re in business. He confirms that they’re in possession of counterfeit Dior goods by rifling through the stacks of bags, picking up a copy of a Lady Dior bag, and holding it in mid-air for everyone to see.

  I sneak a hand behind my back and make the okay signal with my fingers. Within seconds, Chris and the three gendarmes have run to our side. I pull out the seizure warrant, and some of the men standing nearby flee the scene.

  The man in the leather jacket is now fuming. After swearing at us for five minutes, he hands over a black garbage bag overflowing with scarves, purses, and belts. A young woman in a sweatshirt is standing beside him, biting her nails nervously.

  “It looks like the tip was good,” Rikash confirms.

  “Where did you get this?” Chris demands, holding up the fake merchandise.

  The young man remains silent.

  “Do you understand my question? Where did this come from?” Chris points to the bag.

  “I don’t know,” the vendor finally says, staring at the sidewalk. The woman says nothing.

  Chris shakes his head.

  “I’m not buying it, but it doesn’t look like we’ll get any more information out of these two,” Larivière says gruffly.

  “The next time we catch you with this stuff, you’re going into the truck, got it?” Chris points to our vehicle.

  The vendor responds by spitting on the ground.

  As we prepare to leave the scene with three large bags, the vendor impatiently gestures to the woman next to him. She fumbles through her purse and pulls out an expensive-looking camera, which she points at Rikash and me. We try to look away, but she’s shooting like the paparazzi.

  Chris taps me
on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s pretty routine. They like to share pictures of anti-counterfeiting agents among their group so they won’t be caught off guard next time. Essentially, this means you did a great job. Congratulations.”

  There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I imagine my picture being broadcast over the Internet and getting into the hands of every counterfeiter in this city. Why not take out a full-page ad in Paris Match to get a head start?

  Rikash puts his arm in mine as we walk back to the truck. “I know I possess model-like cheekbones, but I prefer to get my picture taken by a professional.”

  “No kidding. I didn’t like that one bit. Who knows where those pictures will end up?”

  “It’s okay, dah-ling, we’ll be fine. We simply can’t drive through this part of town anymore without starting a riot.” He pats me on the back before letting out a startled cry. “Oh no! I just stepped in dog poo!”

  I can’t help but laugh as he pulls his sneaker up to look. “I’m afraid that in Paris, it’s as iconic as the Eiffel Tower.”

  He looks shocked. “No, really? You mean a nation of such sophistication doesn’t pick up? That’s gross!”

  “At least you stepped into it with your left foot. In France, that means good luck.”

  He stares at me incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. But I guess any way you look at it, mon ami, we’re now in the merde.”

  Chapter 8

  Being copied is the ransom of success. Thus declared Coco Chanel, a one-time rival of Christian Dior.

  I think back to our raid while having a cup of coffee in my office. I’m pleased with the result of yesterday’s operation. We managed to seize a decent amount of fake merchandise and perhaps discouraged those sellers from hawking Dior goods in the future. According to Chris, busting the smaller vendors is important: seizing their products can get us one step closer to the ringleaders. But the replicas were of such shoddy quality, I’m convinced Mr. Dior must be turning in his grave.

  I look out our office window. I’m having a hard time shaking the look of anger on the vendors’ faces. I wonder again where those photographs of me will end up. Despite Chris’s words to the contrary, my intuition tells me I should be worried.

  Sandrine stops by and snaps me out of my reverie. “Bravo, Catherine. I hear things went smoothly for you and Rikash yesterday,” she says, beaming with pride.

  “Yes, they did. I was a bit nervous at first, but I think I eventually got the hang of it.”

  She puts a small bouquet of coral roses on my desk. They’re daintily tied together with a raw silk ribbon in the superb way only French florists can manage. “A little gift to reward you for your efforts.”

  I inhale the delicious perfume. “They’re divine, but it really wasn’t necessary. I simply followed Frédéric’s directive.” I’m surprised by her thoughtful gesture. I’ve received more gifts during my first week at Dior than in my entire seven years at Edwards & White.

  “Yes, I understand that Frédéric asked you to accompany Chris and Sergeant Larivière.” She fingers a rose petal. “I hope it wasn’t too intense for your first week. He likes to initiate colleagues with a baptism by fire.” She smiles reassuringly.

  “Best way to learn. Besides, I’ve been subjected to it before. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Absolutely.” Sandrine sits down on the ledge of our office window. “Before I forget, there’s a counterfeiting museum in Paris. It’s a real gem, and not far from here. It also happens to be on my way home. Would you like to stop in there after work with me?”

  “I’d love to.” What a nice offer. My colleagues in New York weren’t always so generous with their time.

  “And how’s Rikash doing?” She changes the subject. “He seems to be fitting in nicely. All the ladies in the atelier love him. He’s such a charmer.”

  “Yes, he is. I’m sure he can out-charm the savviest counterfeiter. His skills will come in handy.” I say this in jest, but it might just be true.

  “You’re right, he was a great hire.” She twirls a gold cocktail ring on her middle finger.

  Rikash walks into the office wearing a sharp navy blue suit and a cobalt blue shirt. He’s carrying the morning paper under his arm.

  Sandrine looks up. “You look very chic today.”

  “Well, it’s great to be back to cashmere. I don’t think I can handle wearing fleece for more than a day.”

  “You did a fine job handling those counterfeiters yesterday,” Sandrine says.

  He responds with a grin and throws the European edition of The Wall Street Journal on my desk. “Have you heard the news? The U.S. Department of Homeland Security just shut down eighty international websites selling fake merchandise.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I exclaim.

  “Apparently, the seized domains were registered in the United States, but the operations were based in China. This is a major win for our industry.” Rikash smiles and removes his jacket.

  Sandrine’s bracelets clink together as she grabs the paper from my desk. After speed-reading the article with the focus of a hawk, she rushes out of the office, pausing just briefly to utter, “Thank you, Rikash.”

  “She looked surprised,” I say, looking at the door.

  “Perhaps she was caught off guard by the news. I don’t know why; it’s all over the Internet.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t worry about Sandrine.” Rikash adjusts his vintage cufflinks. “I would rather you focus on more important matters, like helping me get that gorgeous private investigator into my lair. Any suggestions, sweetie pie?”

  “What if he’s straight, Rikash? Or, heaven forbid, not interested?”

  He sighs audibly. “First of all, you should know that my gaydar is pretty accurate. And even if I’m wrong, I get a kick out of seducing straight men; it’s a personal hobby of mine, and frankly, I’m very good at it. And, honey, ‘not interested’ is not part of my vocabulary. Never has been, never will be.”

  “All right, I get the point. But just remember that you don’t want to cause any drama with someone who works for Dior.”

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black. Need I remind you that you once seduced a firm client and have now moved in with a firm colleague?”

  Ouch. Touché.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather forget that former client. And just so we’re clear, I moved in with a former colleague. That’s different.”

  “Whatever. What’s important is that I employ the right seduction tactics with Chris.”

  “If you want my opinion, it’s all about using a subtle touch; scaring a bird is no way to catch it.”

  “Well said, mon ange. I like the way you think.”

  “Why don’t you call him? You could ask him what we need to do with the inventory of seized goods. You’ll know pretty quickly if he’s interested.”

  “Good thinking.” He picks up his phone and dials Chris’s cell number, as excited as a child about to speak to Santa on Christmas Eve.

  His youthful enthusiasm makes me smile. I wish I were so carefree. I guess all those years working in a law firm have stripped the innocence away. Can I get it back?

  Rikash’s face lights up when Chris answers, and he begins to pace, cellphone in one hand and the other in his trouser pocket.

  My own cell rings and I see that it’s Antoine. Given that he rarely calls this early in the day, I pick up right away. To give Rikash some privacy, I tiptoe out of the room and take the call in the hallway, greeting Antoine with, “Bonjour, mon chéri.”

  “Guess what? The acquisition I’ve been working on for the last month just closed. That means we can go away this weekend to celebrate your first raid.” He’s excited.

  “Sounds wonderful. Where are we going?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s top secret.” I can barely hear him. There’s traffic and loud sirens in the background.

  “
Where are you?”

  “Place de la Madeleine, walking by a giant billboard for a Dior perfume called Poison. That got me thinking of you.”

  “So you think about me when you see a scantily clad bombshell selling Poison? Should I be happy or worried?”

  “You should be very happy. Imagining you in the same outfit gets my pulse racing.”

  “So what do you plan to do about it?”

  “You’ll find out this weekend, ma chérie. Going back to the office now. Bisous.”

  Elated, I walk down the hall and spot Frédéric rushing into Sandrine’s office. He nods and gives me a not-so-cold smile. Could it be that my raiding skills have earned just a tiny bit of his respect?

  To give Rikash a bit more time to talk to Chris, I head down to the lobby. I take a seat in the reception area to peruse some fashion magazines while Laetitia, Xavier, and what must be the entire PR team run back and forth in front of me. I hear the words “show,” “Shanghai,” and “Champagne” repeatedly. I can’t help but feel envious, imagining the team dressed to the nines in this season’s Dior collection, jetting off to exotic locales for fashion shows and celebrating at the hottest nightclubs while I load cheap copies of their accessories into the back of smelly police vans.

  Laetitia catches me watching them and walks over. “I don’t believe we’ve formally met. You’re the new lawyer from New York, right?”

  “Yes, Catherine Lambert. Lovely to meet you.” I extend my hand.

  She responds with a steely shake. “You’re French, not American?”

  “Yes. I only worked in New York for a short time. Before that, I was with a law firm here. I’m really happy to be back.” I try to show a bit of égalité and fraternité.

  “I’m sure they’ll keep you busy up there. Frédéric is a slave driver, and so is Sandrine. Bonne chance!”

  Clearly, she doesn’t have much time for small talk. I bet the seamstresses in the atelier and the designers are running around like mad too, perfecting the last-minute fittings. I wish I could catch of glimpse of the spectacle, but it’s not really my business.