The moment I’d scanned the outside of the building, I
turned to Bruno and said, “First impressions, it looks
straightforward.” Looking back, I can’t help but wonder
what I was thinking. I mean, put that line at the opening
of a crime novel and it’s practically a guarantee that
everything is about to get complicated.
Charlie Howard—globe-trotting mystery writer, professional
thief, and poor decision maker—is in Paris. Flush with the
success of his latest book reading, not to mention a few
too many glasses of wine, Charlie agrees to show a
complete novice how to break into an apartment in the
Marais. Fast-forward twenty-four hours and Charlie’s hired
to steal an ordinary-looking oil painting—from the exact
same address.
Mere coincidence? Charlie figures there’s no harm in
finding out—until a dead body turns up in his living room
and he finds himself evading the law while becoming caught
up in a quite outrageous heist. And that’s before
Charlie’s literary agent, Victoria (who’s naive enough to
assume that he looks like his author photo), finally
decides they should meet face-to-face.
Nobody ever said a life of suspense was easy, but Charlie,
the most disarmingly charming burglar since Cary Grant,
soon finds things are getting way out of control.
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