my ass.”
Her mouth set, Sarah deleted the voice mails and threw back the covers. She’d have to hustle to be ready for the car Dev had said would be waiting at eight-thirty. A quick shower eliminated most of the cobwebs from her restless night. An equally quick cup of strong brew from the little coffeemaker in her room helped with the remainder.
Before she dressed, she stuck her nose through the balcony doors to assess the weather. No fog or drizzle, but still chilly enough to make her opt for her gray wool slacks and cherry-red sweater coat. She topped them with a scarf doubled around her throat European-style and a black beret tilted to a decidedly French angle.
She rushed down to the lobby with two minutes to spare and saw Dev had also prepared for the chill. But in jeans, a black turtleneck and a tan cashmere coat this morning instead of his usual business suit. He greeted her with a smile and a quick kiss.
“Bonjour, ma chérie. Sleep well?”
She managed not to wince at his accent. “Fairly well.”
“Did you have time for breakfast?”
“No.”
“I was running a little late, too, so I had the driver pick up some chocolate croissants and coffees. Shall we go?”
He offered his arm in a gesture she was beginning to realize was as instinctive as it was courteous. When she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, she could feel his warmth through the soft wool. Feel, too, the ripple of hard muscle as he leaned past her to push open the hotel door.
Traffic was its usual snarling beast, but the coffee and chocolate croissants mitigated the frustration. They were right on time when they pulled up at the block-long building overlooking the Seine that housed the headquarters of the Brigade criminelle. A lengthy sequence of security checkpoints, body scans and ID verification made them late for their appointment, however.
Detective Inspector Marie-Renée Delacroix waved aside their apologies as unnecessary and signed them in. Short and barrel-shaped, she wore a white blouse, black slacks and rubber-soled granny shoes. The semiautomatic nested in her shoulder holster belied her otherwise unprepossessing exterior.
“Thank you for coming in,” she said in fluent English. “I’ll try to make this as swift and painless as possible. Please, come with me.”
She led them up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor interspersed with heavy oak doors. When Delacroix pushed through the door to her bureau, Sarah looked about with interest. The inspector’s habitat didn’t resemble the bull pens depicted on American TV police dramas. American bull pens probably didn’t, either, she acknowledged wryly.
There were no dented metal file cabinets or half-empty cartons of doughnuts. No foam cups littering back-to-back desks or squawking phones. The area was spacious and well lit and smoke free. Soundproofing dividers offered at least the illusion of privacy, while monitors mounted high on the front wall flashed what looked like real-time updates on hot spots around Paris.
“Would you like coffee?” Delacroix asked as she waved them to seats in front of her desk.
Sarah looked to Dev before answering for them both. “No, thank you.”
The inspector dropped into the chair behind the desk. Shoulders hunched, brows straight-lined, she dragged a wireless keyboard into reach and attacked it with two stubby forefingers. The assault was merciless, but for reasons known only to French computer gods, the typed versions of the statements Sarah and Dev had given to the responding officers wouldn’t spit out of the printer.
“Merde!”
Muttering under her breath, she jabbed at the keyboard yet again. She looked as though she’d like to whip out her weapon and deliver a lethal shot when she finally admitted defeat and slammed away from her desk.
“Please wait. I need to find someone who can kick a report out of this piece of sh— Er, crap.”
She returned a few moments later with a colleague in a blue-striped shirt and red suspenders. Without a word, he pressed a single key. When the printer began coughing up papers, he rolled his eyes and departed.
“I hate these things,” Delacroix muttered as she dropped into her chair again.
Sarah and Dev exchanged a quick look but refrained from comment. Just as well, since the inspector became all brisk efficiency once the printer had disgorged the documents she wanted. She pushed two ink pens and the printed statements in their direction.
“Review these, please, and make any changes you feel necessary.”
The reports were lengthy and correct. Delacroix was relieved that neither Sarah nor Dev had any changes, but consciously did her duty.
“Are you sure, mademoiselle? With that nasty bruise, we could add assault to the kidnapping charge.”
Sarah fingered her cheek. Much as she’d like to double the case against Lefèvre, he hadn’t directly caused the injury.
“I’m sure.”
“Very well. Sign here, please, and here.”
She did as instructed and laid down her pen. “You said you were going to talk to the prosecuting attorney about whether we need to remain in Paris for the arraignment,” she reminded Delacroix.
“Ah, yes. He feels your statements, the evidence we’ve collected and the confessions from Lefèvre and his associate are more than sufficient for the case against them. As long as we know how to contact you and Monsieur Hunter if necessary, you may depart Paris whenever you wish.”
* * *
Oddly, the knowledge that she could fly home at any time produced a contradictory desire in Sarah to remain in Paris for the initiation of phase two. That, and the way Dev once again tucked her arm in his as they descended the broad staircase leading to the main exit. There was still so much of the city—her city—she wanted to share with him.
The moment they stepped out into the weak sunshine, a blinding barrage of flashes sent Sarah stumbling back. Dismayed, she eyed the wolf pack crowding the front steps, their news vans parked at the curb behind them. While sound handlers thrust their boom mikes over the reporters’ heads, the questions flew at Sarah like bullets. She heard her name and Dev’s and Lefèvre’s and Elise Girault’s all seemingly in the same sentences.
She ducked her chin into her scarf and started to scramble back into police headquarters to search out a side exit. Dev stood his ground, though, and with her arm tucked tight against his side, Sarah had no choice but to do the same.
“Might as well give them what they want now,” he told her. “Maybe it’ll satisfy their appetites and send them chasing after their next victim.”
Since most of the questions zinged at them were in French, Sarah found herself doing the translating and leaving the responding to Dev. He’d obviously fielded these kinds of rapid-fire questions before. He deftly avoided any that might impact the case against the kidnappers and confirmed only that he and Sarah were satisfied with the way the police were handling the matter.
The questions soon veered from the official to the personal. To Sarah’s surprise, Dev shelved his instinctive dislike of the media and didn’t cut them off at the knees.
