“Have you time for a quick coffee?” he asked, glancing at a nearby café, where a handful of diners were seated at the outside tables, sipping coffee and perusing their morning papers.

Bill started to make an excuse, but Lucy seized on the invitation. “We’re on vacation, so we’ve got plenty of time,” she said. “We’re flaneurs today.”

“That’s the best way to experience Paris,” said Richard. “Forget about Fodor’s list of must-sees and just relax and experience it.”

The three seated themselves at one of the tiny round tables, and they were soon provided with tiny cups of espresso coffee. Richard downed his in one gulp, but Lucy and Bill sipped at theirs. Richard was a charming conversationalist, and they passed a pleasant quarter hour, during which Lucy found it increasingly difficult to believe Serge’s accusation. How could this wonderful, generous man be involved in crime? She had to know.

“I’ve heard strange rumors about you, Richard,” she said, getting a sharp kick in the ankle from Bill. “That you have a second career.”

Richard seemed taken aback and blinked a few times before pasting a smile on his face. “Paris is full of rumors,” he said. “I do pick up a little extra here and there. I have to. Paris is expensive, and a journalist’s salary, well, it doesn’t begin to cover the rent.”

“But you don’t do anything illegal, do you?” asked Bill, offering him a way out.

Richard tilted his head this way and that, grinning slyly. “I guess it depends what you think is illegal,” said Richard. “Sometimes I do skate on thin ice, if you know what I mean, but I’d never hurt anyone. That’s my red line, and I don’t cross it. A bit here, a bit there, sure, but only from those who won’t miss it. Big companies who rip off their customers and have lots of insurance, they factor a certain amount of loss into their budgets, right?”

“I suppose they do,” said Lucy. “But sometimes people do get hurt, like Chef Larry.”

Richard’s genial manner was gone, replaced with a stone face. “Chef Larry got himself killed, and that’s the truth.”

Something in his tone struck Lucy, prompting a memory. “You were at the hospital the day he died,” she said, but Richard was already on his feet, making a show of checking his watch.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to dash. I’m running late.”

“Didn’t Richard invite us for coffee?” asked Bill, signaling the waiter for the check.

“Yeah,” said Lucy. “What of it?”

“Well, he should have paid for the coffees, right?”

“Oh, I have a feeling he’s going to pay a hefty price,” said Lucy, watching as Richard gave a nod to the doorman and entered the Cavendish Hotel.