Excerpt 1 (300 Words)
“It really is odd that Gustave went for this painting, isn’t it?” Fleur said.

She closed her laptop and stretched her long frame out on the bed, allowing herself to relax into nostalgia despite herself.

“It did occur to me.” The sound of a lighter flicking and Renata taking a drag off a cigarette followed. “It seems like something he’d take if he specifically wanted us to chase him, you know? It’s easy enough to find out that I have a particular relationship with Artemisia’s work.”

“You’re saying it feels personal?”

“I guess I am, yes. But didn’t it always with him?”

Fleur and Renata had spent nearly a year chasing him all over Europe. Four thefts in that time, and each time the games grew more byzantine, more public. He had found in Fleur and Renata some sort of favorite adversaries and would often leave taunts aimed squarely at them.

“I suppose it did. Like the typewritten note he sent after the Cezanne in Amersfoort?”

“He complimented my jacket.” Renata sounded newly annoyed by it.

“The cashmere Prada? It was beautiful.”

“Of course it was, because I don’t wear shit. But it was very creepy, you know?”

“Don’t worry. When we do catch him, I’ll rough him up a bit for you.”

Renata chuckled again. “You would deny me the pleasure of doing it myself?”

Fleur was still feeling a little loose from the wine. “Oh, forgive me. I would never want to deny you pleasure.” It slipped out sounding suggestive, and she hadn’t intended it to, but a stubborn little voice in her said Don’t you dare apologize.

 

Excerpt 2 (800 Words)
When the phone rang at 6:00 a.m., Fleur was still propped in the same position. She startled awake, sending the folder’s contents sliding all over the duvet and onto the floor. Swearing, she picked her phone up off the bedside table.

It was Captain Wilt, the grumpy paternal figure of Europol’s Amsterdam Art Crimes Division.

“Sir? It’s 6:00 a.m.”

“I know. You’re wanted at the Questura in Florence.” His tone was sharp and urgent. It cut through her early morning bleariness. Her eyebrows shot up.

“When?”

“Now. Or four hours ago, actually.”

“Why?”

“Gustave is back.”

Fleur’s pulse stumbled. The tips of her fingers went cold. Her mind scrambled to catch up with itself, processing what Wilt was saying. She sat blinking into the soft early sunlight for a full three seconds. “Are…are you joking, sir?”

“I don’t have a sense of humor. Anyway, you know him better than anyone; you’ve been obsessing over his file for the last six years. So here we are.”

Her mind refused to push the piece into place. “Does this mean…I’m going back in the field?”

Wilt paused. “Yes.”

“Permanently?”

She could practically picture him scratching his graying beard as he considered her question. “We’ll see. Don’t be reckless; don’t fuck it up. That would go a long way toward reinstating you.” He cleared his throat. “They think the painting was stolen four hours ago. Get there as fast as you can, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

She took a few breaths to steady herself. This was a real opportunity to get back some of what she had lost. To cleanse her record of the failure that had broken her career, her marriage, and her life. She couldn’t do anything for a few seconds but sit and shiver underneath her thick comforter.

Fleur recovered her wits, hauled herself out of bed, and slid into a thick, fluffy bathrobe. Then. she hit a button on her phone and walked into the kitchen as it rang.

A sleepy male voice answered. “Fleur? It’s early.”

“Alain, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.” She put some water on the stove to heat while they spoke.

“No bother. What’s wrong?”

She held the phone between her chin and shoulder and pawed through her purse, looking to make sure she had her passport. “They’re sending me into the field.”

“That’s good, no? You’re dying to get back out there.”

Her fingers brushed across a large, enameled coin: her Gamblers Anonymous five-year chip. “Gustave’s returned.”

“Oh. Oh.” That second oh was the sound of him absorbing the significance of what she had just said. “The one that got away.”

“Exactly.” She assembled her French press and dumped in the coffee. The smell of the ground beans alone was making her more alert by the minute. The Italian wife may have left, but she couldn’t take away Italian coffee.

“Are you ready for that?”

“I’ve been ready.”

A muffled groan came from Alain’s end of the line. It sounded female. Fleur tsked. “Do you have that teenager in your bed?”

Alain was a forty-year-old Frenchman living in Amsterdam with a trust fund and a very open-minded girlfriend who gamely went along with whatever nonsense he was of a mind to experiment with. Fleur could not have imagined herself being friends with someone like him a few years ago. Hitting rock bottom will change the way you think about some things.

“Her name is Viki and she’s twenty-five. Don’t change the subject.”

Alain was making some rustling noises on the other end while he spoke. “So there’s a bit of pressure on this one, eh?”

“It’s not just the job. When Gustave got away from me, it was the beginning of everything getting away from me.”

He whispered, “Darling, can you untie this?”

Fleur shook her head, smirking. They’d fallen asleep while he had one or more limbs still tied to the bed. There was something comforting about the fact that her GA sponsor was not exactly a paragon of order and discipline. “Anyway, this may feel like a big gamble, but there is a difference between gambling and taking a chance on something. You ought to know that better than most.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Fleur said, rolling her eyes. Alain was fond of saying this, but it always felt like a platitude.

“You can do this. Chin up. Don’t be an emotional cripple—”

“I thought that was part of my charm.”

“—and call me if you need me.”

She resolved to not need him.