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 everyone and everything,
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 everyone and everything,
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