John typed the four digits. “Nope.” Two attempts to go before locking the SIM card.

“Mmm. Maybe it’s 9440 then, I’m not sure,” she said, her voice sleepy and hoarse.

She’s drunk, John thought. He tried again. Still blocked. “Last chance,” he said. “Think hard and go easy with the vodka. I need your help to find who killed your sister.”

“Oh no, it’s 9049,” she said.

“Last chance, Amandine. Are you sure?”

“Sure,” she said, nodding.

John looked at her for a moment, trying to decide whether she knew what she was talking about or not. He typed the new code anyway and crossed his fingers.

Bienvenue.

John sighed. “Thank you, Amandine,” he said. “And put that damn bottle down. It’s not going to help, for Christ’s sake!”

John checked the logs. The last call was from Amandine. She had called for dinner. Before her, there was a call from her mother. Not interesting. John scrolled down and checked the next name: Dan. More than seven hours ago. It matched. Could be their guy. John called back.

“Hello?” A man said, excited. As if he had been waiting for that call for a long time.

“Who’s talking?” John said with a low and powerful voice. The Detective lieutenant type of voice.

“Excuse me? Why are you using Lily’s phone? Who are you?” The man said, confused.

Lily… they were close enough to have cute nicknames, John thought.

“Police. Detective Johnathan Montclair. Who am I talking to?” John said with authority.

The man paused. “Daniel Dupont. What’s wrong?”

The surprise in his voice sounded genuine. But it could also be deceptive, John thought. “What’s your relationship with Liliane Genet?”

“We… we just work together,” Daniel said. John picked up on the hesitation in his voice.

“Groupe Finaris?” John asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Which position?”

“Sir, I don’t like being –”

“You’re the prime suspect in the murder of Mrs. Genet,” John said with a threatening tone. That should shake him up, he thought. “Answer my question.”

“I’m the head of human resource. I didn’t do anything, I was –”

“Can I have your personal address, please?”

Daniel seemed reluctant but gave him what he wanted.

“No meeting tomorrow?” John asked.

“I’ll be available the whole day. Why do you –”

“Excellent. We’ll pay you a visit tomorrow morning. 9:00 a.m. don’t be late,” John said before hanging up.

4

The previous night, John had asked Sovann to do a bit of surveillance work in case Daniel decided to run away. He didn’t. He was too smart to disappear when the police had an eye on him. Or maybe, he was just innocent. There was only one way to know.

John and Sovann showed up at the reception of Groupe Finaris’s headquarters at 8:50 a.m. They were wearing suits, ties and trench coats. They asked for Daniel Dupont without mentioning they were Detectives. Better to keep a low profile at this stage of the investigation.

The receptionist dialed a number, nodded and gave them visitors’ badges. She invited them to sit in the waiting area and asked them if they wanted anything to drink. Black coffee for both of them.

“How did it go with the neighbors yesterday?” John asked.

“They understood,” Sovann said, nodding. “Using a bit of legal mumbo jumbo always works.”

John nodded and smiled. Sovann was tricky but he knew how to get the job done. Whatever six-or-seven-syllables words he’d used would prevent people from gossiping and spreading the word about Liliane Genet’s death.

At 9:08 a.m., John checked his watch and started to drum his fingers on his thigh. He was impatient. At 9:14 a.m., a soft and pleasant female voice spoke to them from behind. “Gentlemen, how can I help you?” she said.

John and Sovann turned around at the same time. John’s pupils dilated and it felt like time was slowing down. The woman standing in front of them was stunning. Brunette. Intense black eyes. Olive skin. No ring on her left hand. Hour glass body shape. Slim jacket. Tight knee-high skirt. High heels. Dressed for success.

She’s gorgeous, he thought.

“We’re here to meet Daniel Dupont,” Sovann said while John was recovering from his short reverie.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dupont is attending a workshop today,” she said.

“We had an appointment,” Sovann insisted.

“I’m really sorry. It must be a mistake. He won’t be in the office today,” she said.

Son of a bitch, John thought, regaining self-control. Either he lied to me or he modified his plans to avoid us.

“If there’s anything I can do, please contact me and I’ll let Mr. Dupont know,” she said, producing two business cards from her jacket pocket.

John glanced at his quickly. Cécile Lucibello, Human Resources followed by her email address and phone number.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Dupont and Liliane Genet,” John said.

Her lips pinched and her eyes flickered to the side. “Excuse me. Who are you?” she said. Her attitude changed instantly.

“Do you have a minute?” John asked.

“I’m sorry, but I’m expected for a meeting,” she said.

“Can we talk later then? Maybe tonight, after work?” John said.

“I’m sorry. Who are you again?” she insisted.

“Detectives Johnathan Montclair and Sovann Yim,” John said, flashing his police badge. “We’re working on a case involving Mr. Dupont and Mrs. Genet. We can’t tell you more at the moment but we need your cooperation and discretion. It’s really important.”

“Am I… risking anything by talking to you?” she said.

“Nothing at all,” John said. “You have nothing to worry about.”

She hesitated and finally agreed. They exchanged numbers and she told them she would call back in the evening. At 6:30 p.m., Sovann decided to go to Daniel’s house to wait for him. Meanwhile, John came back to Groupe Finaris. Cécile wasn’t done working yet, so he waited for her in a café. He ordered an espresso and thought about her.

She was probably in her early thirties, hardworking and focused on her career. A typical working girl in the city. She had a slight accent. She wasn’t originally from Paris. Most likely, she was from the South of France. Depending on the region, people who lived near the Mediterranean Sea had a way of talking that sounded like music. They were generally out-going and friendly, unlike most people in the capital. John had heard a lot of tourists say that Paris was a beautiful city. The only problem was its inhabitants. He couldn’t really disagree.

Cécile seemed like a very sweet woman, willing to help. John decided that she hadn’t been living in Paris for more than two years. Three maximum. She was still in that infamous incubating period that would transform her into a typical Parisian: cold, always in a hurry, cynical, unsatisfied with life, always complaining and thinking the rest of the country still lived in the Middle Ages.

At 7:00 p.m., Sovann called him. “John?” he said. “Are you with Cécile?”

“Not yet,” John said, pushing his cup of coffee aside. “Still waiting for her call. What about Dupont?”

“Yeah, I just talked to him,” Sovann sighed.

“Doesn’t sound like it went your way.”

“He refuses to answer my questions. He doesn’t bite into the usual legal BS. The guy is educated. He knows we don’t have anything solid.”

“Okay… Why do you think he’s not cooperating?”

“He could be a very private person. He could be worried about saying something stupid without the presence of his lawyer.”

“Or he could be scared and have something to hide.”

“Yeah. Hard to tell for now.”

“Alright. I’ll see what I can get with Cécile. It should give us a better idea of the guy.”

John hung up and waited for another half hour before Cécile called him.

“Mr. Montclair? I’m about to leave the office now,” she said. “Where do you want to meet?”