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.