The Countess Michaud’s voice screeched like nails on a chalkboard, making Jean-Marc wince. Merde. As if he hadn’t asked himself that very question a hundred times already. Last night he’d been so certain he’d foiled le Revenant and nothing had been stolen. “What are you going to do to get it back?” the countess demanded. “That Picasso is irreplaceable!” “It was insured, non?” “Well, yes, of course, but—” “Voilà. There you are, then.” He didn’t want to be unfeeling, but he had a job to do. Before she could screech any more, he glanced at a uniformed officer and jerked his head at her. Peace thankfully descended on the room as she was led away, the echoes of her unhappiness bouncing off the walls. Jean-Marc squinted at the neatly framed Picasso—alors, neatly forged Picasso—hanging on the wall. It was a decent likeness, actually. The artist was talented and captured the essence of the original without trying for a precise duplicate. It was more like an interpretation than a copy, really.
