course.”
Lieutenant Rousselot stepped forward again, insinuating himself into the small space between them. He smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then you won’t mind if we come in and talk for a few minutes?”
“Well, actually, I—”
Too late. Rousselot was already walking past her. Jean-Marc also stepped through the narrow doorway, silently crowding her into the tiny living room with his towering bulk. His eyes were hot, volatile, as he shut the door firmly behind them and leaned his back against it. Trapping her.
She smoothed her hand down her thin blue skirt, suddenly wishing she were wearing something a lot more substantial than the flimsy camisole she’d put on hoping to beat the summer heat.
“Why are you here?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady.
He didn’t answer, but flicked his gaze to his partner.
“We need to ask you about last night,” Rousselot said, his smile widening. It seemed incongruously genuine. “We want to know exactly what you did at the club.” He looked at her expectantly.
This couldn’t be happening . “I, um...”
“Yes, I know you were—” he made one of those expressive Gallic gestures with shoulders, hands and face “—busy...with Commissaire Lacroix, but we hoped you might remember something. Anything. You two were dancing close to the princess before the bracelet went missing. Any little detail you could recall would help tremendously.”
Help?
She regarded him for a moment, letting the sweet rush of relief sink in. He was treating her as a witness.
Not a suspect .
Her gaze stuttered to Jean-Marc for a brief second. His face was expressionless, except for his turbulent eyes... He stood like an angry statue guarding the door. Clearly, he had a different agenda than his partner.
“Naturally I’ll try, Lieutenant ,” she said, gathering her wits.
“Please. Call me Pierre.”
She gestured to the miniscule main room of the apartment, which suddenly seemed even more dwarfed, filled to bursting by these two giant men. “Won’t you sit down...both of you? Something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea? Beer?”
Ignoring her offer, Jean-Marc folded his arms across his chest and studied the apartment, such as it was. The Latin Quarter had been built in the Middle Ages, and the size of the apartments hadn’t grown since. Her entire space was maybe two-hundred square feet, on a really hot day.
“ Merci, non ,” Pierre said, but he sat down on the sofa.
Nervously, Ciara took a seat in the mismatched easy chair. Both pieces of furniture were old, probably Victorian, and not really her style. But they’d come with the apartment, along with the two bedroom pieces. Someday she’d buy furniture of her own, but this surprise visit reminded her vividly of why she hadn’t, yet.
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. “I wasn’t really paying attention to anything except—” She darted a glance at Jean-Marc, and felt her face go hot.
Thank goodness he was still ignoring her, now perusing the collection of books on her one shelf and the few paintings on her walls—mostly interpretive copies of well-known artists, done by Sofie.
Pierre gave her a grin. “I understand.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a manila envelope, from which he extracted several sheets of glossy paper with rows of photos printed on them. “Perhaps you can look through these, tell me if you recognize anyone.”
She leafed through them, recognizing several people from the club last night. Presumably the photos were taken from a video surveillance camera at the entrance.
“Tell me what you remember about them,” he urged. “One at a time.”
One thing Valois had taught her well, always stick to the truth as far as you can. Cops were real sticklers for detail. If you lied unnecessarily about something small, they’d be all over it like sharks on blood, circling in for the kill.
So she told the truth about
Lieutenant Rousselot stepped forward again, insinuating himself into the small space between them. He smiled pleasantly. “Good. Then you won’t mind if we come in and talk for a few minutes?”
“Well, actually, I—”
Too late. Rousselot was already walking past her. Jean-Marc also stepped through the narrow doorway, silently crowding her into the tiny living room with his towering bulk. His eyes were hot, volatile, as he shut the door firmly behind them and leaned his back against it. Trapping her.
She smoothed her hand down her thin blue skirt, suddenly wishing she were wearing something a lot more substantial than the flimsy camisole she’d put on hoping to beat the summer heat.
“Why are you here?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice steady.
He didn’t answer, but flicked his gaze to his partner.
“We need to ask you about last night,” Rousselot said, his smile widening. It seemed incongruously genuine. “We want to know exactly what you did at the club.” He looked at her expectantly.
This couldn’t be happening . “I, um...”
“Yes, I know you were—” he made one of those expressive Gallic gestures with shoulders, hands and face “—busy...with Commissaire Lacroix, but we hoped you might remember something. Anything. You two were dancing close to the princess before the bracelet went missing. Any little detail you could recall would help tremendously.”
Help?
She regarded him for a moment, letting the sweet rush of relief sink in. He was treating her as a witness.
Not a suspect .
Her gaze stuttered to Jean-Marc for a brief second. His face was expressionless, except for his turbulent eyes... He stood like an angry statue guarding the door. Clearly, he had a different agenda than his partner.
“Naturally I’ll try, Lieutenant ,” she said, gathering her wits.
“Please. Call me Pierre.”
She gestured to the miniscule main room of the apartment, which suddenly seemed even more dwarfed, filled to bursting by these two giant men. “Won’t you sit down...both of you? Something to drink? Coffee? Iced tea? Beer?”
Ignoring her offer, Jean-Marc folded his arms across his chest and studied the apartment, such as it was. The Latin Quarter had been built in the Middle Ages, and the size of the apartments hadn’t grown since. Her entire space was maybe two-hundred square feet, on a really hot day.
“ Merci, non ,” Pierre said, but he sat down on the sofa.
Nervously, Ciara took a seat in the mismatched easy chair. Both pieces of furniture were old, probably Victorian, and not really her style. But they’d come with the apartment, along with the two bedroom pieces. Someday she’d buy furniture of her own, but this surprise visit reminded her vividly of why she hadn’t, yet.
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as calmly as she could under the circumstances. “I wasn’t really paying attention to anything except—” She darted a glance at Jean-Marc, and felt her face go hot.
Thank goodness he was still ignoring her, now perusing the collection of books on her one shelf and the few paintings on her walls—mostly interpretive copies of well-known artists, done by Sofie.
Pierre gave her a grin. “I understand.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a manila envelope, from which he extracted several sheets of glossy paper with rows of photos printed on them. “Perhaps you can look through these, tell me if you recognize anyone.”
She leafed through them, recognizing several people from the club last night. Presumably the photos were taken from a video surveillance camera at the entrance.
“Tell me what you remember about them,” he urged. “One at a time.”
One thing Valois had taught her well, always stick to the truth as far as you can. Cops were real sticklers for detail. If you lied unnecessarily about something small, they’d be all over it like sharks on blood, circling in for the kill.
So she told the truth about
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