They hurried up the stairs, all four flights, and arrived at Elizabeth’s apartment completely out of breath, finding the door open and Elizabeth seated on the futon, looking very small and pale, between a couple of plainclothes cops.

“Mom! Dad!” exclaimed Elizabeth, sounding greatly relieved. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

The cops moved to the other side of the room, allowing Lucy and Bill to embrace their daughter and reassure themselves that she was all right. Lucy’s first reaction was that the French police were wonderfully polite. Then she realized they were watching and noting everything they did.

“Madame, monsieur,” began one of the detectives, who had a sad, sympathetic face, with bags under his eyes, which, she figured, served him well in his chosen line of work. “This is a very sad event for your daughter, and we are most sympathetic. Let me assure you we do not consider Elizabeth a suspect, but we believe she may have important information that will be most helpful in this investigation.” He spoke English with a pronounced accent, saying “ahn-for-mah-see-on” for “information,” but Lucy wasn’t about to quibble. She was deeply grateful that he spoke English at all. “My name is Guillaume Girard, Commissaire Girard.”

“We understand,” said Bill. “Elizabeth will be happy to cooperate.”

“And so will we,” said Lucy. “This is terrible. I assume Sylvie’s death was not an accident?”

“Pas du tout,” he said, with a doleful shake of his head.

Just then a couple of crime-scene investigators, wearing white jumpsuits and toting cases of equipment, arrived and were directed to Sylvie’s bedroom. Lucy and Bill were asked to seat themselves at the round table, which took up most of the small room, and Girard continued his interrogation of Elizabeth.

Lucy and Bill listened as Elizabeth explained Sylvie’s disappearance at the café in the flea market, becoming uneasy as Girard pressed Elizabeth for details.

“You were not concerned about your friend’s absence?” he asked, furrowing his creased forehead.

“No,” replied Elizabeth. “She had done this sort of thing before, left me when we went out together if an attractive man came along. She came and went. She didn’t share the details of her life with me. There were a lot of men. She would bring them here. It made me uncomfortable.”

“Did she seem upset, tense, in the last few days?”

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head. “If anything, she was nicer than usual. I was surprised when she offered to bring my mother and her friends to the flea market. It wasn’t at all typical.”

“Do you think she had some reason for going to the market, other than being a good hostess?” asked Girard. “Could the trip have been a cover for something else?”

“Like what?” asked Elizabeth. “Drugs?”

Girard was right on it. “Did she use?”

“A little pot. She said it helped her relax. That’s all.”

“Where did she get it?”