Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

How could he not remember? He’d been stunned to read that directive from Washington: “Abort investigation.” Claude had received similar orders from his superior at French Intelligence. And so the search for Delphi and the NATO security breach had come to an abrupt halt. There’d been no explanation, no reasons given, but Richard had formed his own suspicions. It was clear that Washington had been clued in to the truth and feared the repercussions of its airing.

A month later, when U.S. Ambassador Stephen Sutherland leaped off a Paris bridge, Richard thought his suspicions confirmed. Sutherland had been a political appointee; his unveiling as an enemy spy would have embarrassed the president himself.

The matter of the mole was never officially resolved.

Instead, Bernard Tavistock had been posthumously implicated as Delphi. Conveniently tried and found guilty, thought Richard. Why not pin the blame on Tavistock? A dead man can’t deny the charges.

And now, twenty years later, the ghost of Delphi is back to haunt me.

With new determination, Richard rose from the chair. “This time, Claude,” he said, “I’m tracking him down. And no order from Washington is going to stop me.”

“Twenty years is a long time. Evidence has vanished. Politics have changed.”

“One thing hasn’t changed-the guilty party. What if we were wrong? What if Sutherland wasn’t the mole? Then Delphi may still be alive. And operational.”

To which Daumier added, “And very, very worried.”

Beryl was awakened the next morning by Richard knocking on her door. She blinked in astonishment as he handed her a paper sack, fragrant with the aroma of freshly baked croissants.

“Breakfast,” he announced. “You can eat it in the car. Jordan ’s already waiting for us downstairs.”

“Waiting? For what?”

“For you to get dressed. You’d better hurry. Our appointment’s for eight o’clock.”

Bewildered, she shoved back a handful of tangled hair. “I don’t recall making any appointments for this morning.”

“I made it for us. We’re lucky to get one, considering the man doesn’t see many people these days. His wife won’t allow it.”

“Whose wife?” she said in exasperation.

“Chief Inspector Broussard. The detective in charge of your parents’ murder investigation.” Richard paused. “You do want to speak to him, don’t you?”

He knows I do, she thought, clutching together the edges of her silk robe. He’s got me at a disadvantage. I’m scarcely awake and he’s standing there like Mr. Sunshine himself. And since when had Jordan turned into an early riser? Her brother almost never rolled out of bed before eight.

“You don’t have to come,” he said, turning to leave. “Jordan and I can-”

“Give me ten minutes!” she snapped and closed the door on him.

She made it downstairs in nine minutes flat.

Richard drove with the self-assurance of a man long familiar with the streets of Paris. They crossed the Seine and headed south along crowded boulevards. The traffic was as insane as London ’s, thought Beryl, gazing out at the crush of buses and taxis. Thank heavens he’s behind the wheel.

She finished her croissant and brushed the crumbs off the file folder lying in her lap. Contained in that folder was the twenty-year-old police report, signed by Inspector Broussard. She wondered how much the man would remember about the case. After all this time, surely the details had blended together with all the other homicide investigations of his career. But there was always the chance that some small unreported detail had stayed with him.

“Have you met Broussard?” she asked Richard.

“We met during the course of the investigation. When I was interviewed by the police.”

“They questioned you? Why?”

“He spoke to all your parents’ acquaintances.”

“I never saw your name in the police file.”

“A number of names didn’t make it to that file.”

“Such as?”

“Philippe St. Pierre. Ambassador Sutherland.”

“Nina’s husband?”

Richard nodded. “Those were politically sensitive names. St. Pierre was in the Finance Ministry, and he was a close friend of the prime minister’s. Sutherland was the American ambassador. Neither were suspects, so their names were kept out of the official report.”

“Meaning the good inspector protected the high and mighty?”

“Meaning he was discreet.”

“Why did your name escape the report?”

“I was just a bit player asked to comment on your parents’ marriage. Whether they ever argued, seemed unhappy, that’s all. I was only on the periphery.”

She touched the file on her lap. “So tell me,” she said, “why are you getting involved now?”

“Because you and Jordan are. Because Claude Daumier asked me to look after you.” He glanced at her and added quietly, “And because I owe it to your father. He was…a good man.” She thought he would say more, but then he turned and gazed straight ahead at the road.

“Wolf,” asked Jordan, who was sitting in the back seat, “are you aware that we’re being followed?”

“What?” Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. “Which car?”

“The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.”

“I see it,” said Richard. “It’s been tailing us all the way from the hotel.”

“You knew the car was there all the time?” said Beryl. “And you didn’t think of mentioning it?”

“I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan. Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.”

Jordan laughed. “Why, it’s my little vampiress in black. Colette.”

Richard nodded. “One of the friendlies.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Beryl.

“Because she’s Daumier’s agent. Which makes her protection, not a threat.” Richard turned off Boulevard Raspail. A moment later, he spotted a parking space and pulled up at the curb. “In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while we’re inside.”

Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words Maison de Convalescence. “What is this place?”

“A nursing home.”

“This is where Inspector Broussard lives?”

“He’s been here for years,” said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. “Ever since his stroke.”

Judging by the photograph tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lion’s mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station.

It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed.

Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husband’s pillow, combed his hair, wiped the drool from his chin. “He remembers everything,” she insisted. “Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words. Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days.” She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. “You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.”

“We understand,” said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. “I know you can’t speak,” he said, “but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.”