“I’ll be waiting at the reception desk.”

Cécile was wearing a red coat, and a brown handbag was swinging in her hand. John recognized the Louis Vuitton pattern and the golden logo. He extended his hand and nodded. “Thank you for your time, Madame Lucibello,” he said.

“Mademoiselle,” she said. “And don’t be so formal please. I’m already pretty nervous about talking with a police officer. Call me Cécile.”

Her tone was still friendly but her voice was shaking a bit. She crossed her arms and seemed to shrug. She couldn’t be cold; they were still in the building. Defensive reaction and stress, John thought. “Relax,” he said. He needed to make her feel comfortable if he wanted her to talk. “You have nothing to worry about.”

She nodded.

“Want to eat something?” John suggested. “We don’t need to do this here.”

She hesitated.

“My treat,” he added to convince her. “Wherever you want.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded. “There’s a good bistro near the metro station.”

They walked side by side, and John decided it was a good time for small talk. He was right about her, except for her age. She was twenty-nine and had moved to Paris eighteen months ago from Montpellier, where she’d lived her entire life until then. She loved her job and was dedicated. Had broken up with her boyfriend because of the distance and lived alone in the suburbs, but still very close to Paris. Cheaper.

A waiter motioned them to sit next to the window to enjoy the view. There was nothing to see outside, and John told him they wanted to be inside. Warmer.

John didn’t really have the money to invite someone for dinner. Even though his ex-wife was making more than him, he was still expected to provide for his daughter. Plus, the rent in Paris was outrageous; and since the divorce, there wasn’t anyone to split the bill with anymore.

John ordered a ham and cheese sandwich. Cécile looked at him through her long eyelashes and bit her lower lip. She took a salad. John had unconsciously set the level of expectation. Cécile had good manners. She wasn’t going to order anything fancy when he was just eating a sandwich. As soon as he realized it, John regretted his lack of courtesy.

Damn it, it’s not a date, he thought, even though he wasn’t really sure about it. He was the one who had insisted on meeting her instead of interrogating Daniel Dupont.

“I’m on a diet,” she said, as if she could guess his financial situation. She really didn’t need any diet, and John knew she was trying to make him feel better.

“Me too,” he said with a smile.

He really liked her.

5

John took a bite of his sandwich and decided it was time to get down to business.

“Why did you seem reluctant when we asked you about Dupont and Genet this morning?” he said, looking at her straight in the eyes. He wanted to catch any sign of hesitation.

“I didn’t expect that question, that’s all,” she said.

“There is something between them, right?” he asked.

“You probably already know the answer, don’t you? You wouldn’t ask me otherwise,” she said.

“Do you know anything about it?”

She paused. “Just rumors…”

He nodded but kept silent, encouraging her to continue. His eyes were locked on hers.

“Please, don’t look at me like that. I just heard rumors. I’m just telling you what I know,” she said, blushing.

“You didn’t tell me much so far,” he said. “What kind of rumors?”

“Well, rumors, you know how it works,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Not really,” he said. “But maybe you can help me.”

“Office rumors, you know. People working together, getting closer and crossing the line.”

“Extramarital affairs?”

She nodded, raising her eyebrows and pouting in an expression of disapproval and disgust. “That’s not what I expected when I came to work here, but seems like it’s pretty common.”

John knew that Liliane Genet was divorced. But Daniel Dupont was married. That’s why he doesn’t want to talk to us, John thought.

“So Daniel Dupont and Liliane Genet are lovers,” he said, using the present tense on purpose. To the general public, Liliane Genet was still alive.

“At least, they used to be. I heard that she broke up with him a couple of weeks ago,” she said.

We’re making progress, John thought. It could be a crime of passion.

“What can you tell me about Mr. Dupont?” he asked.

“Competent, smart. He has lots of social and practical intelligence. But at the same time, he’s very bossy, demanding. He’s a control freak, very detail oriented. He hates when people mess with his files at work. He can be very scary…”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not very stable, emotionally. He’s got a high IQ but he doesn’t know how to manage his emotions. It’s just awful. He gets upset easily and shouts and slams his hands on his desk. Sometimes, we wonder if he’s going to throw his keyboard at us, you know…”

John nodded. Violent behavior. Probably possessive and jealous as well, he thought. But also socially intelligent? Kind of a bipolar guy then. A crime of passion seemed even more plausible.

Cécile glanced at her watch and cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but it’s getting late and I have to catch my RER.”

John remembered she lived outside Paris. She had to take the RER, the suburban train, in addition to the metro.

Shit. We were just getting started…

“Sure, I understand,” he said reluctantly. “Before you go, is there anything you want to tell me about Mr. Dupont or his relationship with Mrs. Genet? Anything special or unusual?”

She shook her head but didn’t look at him, like she was holding back. “No, nothing.”

She’s lying, John thought. “Alright, thanks for your cooperation Cécile. I really appreciate it,” he said.

He asked for the bill, paid and walked to the metro station with her. Both of them were silent.

“You’re sure there’s nothing more you want to tell me?” he asked one last time when they arrived at the turnstiles.

She shook her head.

John looked around him, scanning his environment. An automatic thing to do at night. But also a habit after ten years in the police. He was used to detecting possible threats and suspicious behaviors.

“Alright. You’re going to be okay? Isn’t it dangerous for you to carry such an expensive bag at night?” he said, pointing at her Louis Vuitton purse.

She smiled. “It’s a fake one.”

“Real or fake, I can’t tell the difference. And I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t make any difference either for this group of guys on the left,” he said. She instinctively started to turn her head, but John gently touched her chin and stopped her. “Don’t look at them. Look at me. Trust me, they’re here,” he warned her.

She stared at him and John felt his guts twisting. His index finger was still on her face. She was beautiful.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Montclair,” she said, with a confident voice. She didn’t push his hand away.

John lowered his arm.

“Don’t be so formal,” he said smiling. “Call me John.”

She smiled. “Good night, John. Good luck with your investigation,” she said.

He nodded and watched her go. Then he turned around and pretended to walk out of the station. As he expected, the three men who had been idling suddenly got into motion, pushing themselves off the wall.

Bastards, he thought.

He saw them running. He rushed back inside and jumped over a turnstile, pushing a man who was about to get in as he did. “Sorry. Emergency,” he said.

“Hey! You!” a voice shouted behind him. A controller.

John ignored him. He’d lost the three men. There were five different directions, each one leading to a different metro line. He had no idea which one to take. Cécile hadn’t told him where she lived exactly, so he couldn’t guess which line she was supposed to take.