It All Began in Monte Carlo by Elizabeth Adler

good diversion,” she said, embracing Sharon, while the two men shook Maha’s hand. They did not kiss her, treating her with respect, as their employer.
    â€œWhere did you park?” Maha asked.
    â€œAt the Casino,” the tall man said.
    Maha watched Sharon, who, giving in to her cigarette addiction, fished a pack and a lighter out of her bag and made for the door.
    â€œI’m joining the hooker brigade,” she called over her shoulder, making Maha laugh and the others stare, astonished.
    Then, like the other groups of businessmen in the bar, they leaned their heads together to talk, ironically, considering what was going on just down the street, about the jewelry business, though Maha’s jewels were never sold in classic stores like La Fontaine.
    Outside, where Sharon was smoking her cigarette, strolling nervously back and forth across the square, the sound of police sirens and ambulances still wailed into the night. After a while, she lit a second cigarette from the stub of the first, told herself she was gonna die of friggin’ tobacco-induced lung cancer, added that she didn’t give a shit, then shut her eyes and covered her ears to stop the screaming of the sirens in the night.

chapter 18
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    There was a police cordon round Nice airport when Mac arrived. Soldiers toting weapons inspected every passenger. Sirens wailed in the distance and helicopters hovered overhead. There was no doubt something was seriously up.
    A bank robbery? Mac wondered. But this was one of the safest regions of the world. Surely nobody would attempt such a thing. He thought about it while waiting in line at immigration. It was Christmas, and everybody would have been off guard, celebrating, with the spirit of goodwill in their hearts. Except the bad guys. And bad guys always knew how to take advantage of a slack situation.
    â€œIt’s a jewel robbery,” someone in front of him said. The rumor spread quickly down the line. “Monte Carlo. One of those expensive shops, like Cartier or Fontaine.”
    Interesting, Mac thought, a jewel robbery at Christmas. Somebody was going to get a nice gift. But he was not going to get involved in any robbery, be it bank or jewelry store. He was only here to be with Sunny.
    When he walked through the green light at customs, carrying the small bag he had packed hastily before the quick trip to the airport—it was Christmas Day and there was no traffic—he wasstopped along with everyone else, and had to wait a frustrating ten minutes to be searched before being waved on.
    He was hurrying through the main arrivals hall, heading for the taxi rank when he spotted the Police Inspector, whom he knew from last year, when they had worked together on the series of art thefts taking place along the Riviera. The Inspector looked harassed and tense and whatever had happened Mac knew it must be big and probably dangerous.
    He called out to him and the Inspector swung round, throwing his hands in the air, saying, “I might have known I would see you here. Back like a bad penny to haunt me again.”
    â€œNo more hauntings.” Mac grinned, referring to Chez La Violette, the villa he’d rented the previous summer. “This looks like more trouble than that.”
    â€œIt is,
mon vieux,
trust me, it is.” The Inspector gave Mac a sharp glance, but did not ask why he was here without Sunny. He was a Frenchman and too discreet for that. Instead he said, “All the roads are blocked, you’ll get nowhere.”
    Mac told him where he was going. “Then you had better come with me. I’m driving back there now. They’ve worked over another La Fontaine. That place must have nothing left by now, they already did the Paris store on Christmas Eve. Come on, Mac, ride with me. I’ll drop you off at your hotel.”
    Speeding past the outlying cop wagons, waved through red lights, the Inspector brought Mac up to date on the robberies.