In the States, she’d heard that stolen goods were often sold at flea markets, but the sums involved were so small that the police generally ignored them. She had certainly never heard of any police raids at the weekend flea market out on Route 1. Of course, she thought, there was that VAT, or value-added tax, in France, and maybe that made black market dealing more profitable. And in France, there was more interest in luxury foods. Truffles, for example, could cost thousands of euros for a kilo, which she thought was less than a pound, but she wasn’t actually sure.

She wondered if Lapointe had actually accused Bob of bringing “suitcases stuffed with cash” into France, or whether Bob had come up with the phrase. That was an awful lot of money, the sort of money that came only from dealing in drugs. Was Chef Larry involved in illegal drugs? It hardly seemed likely, but then, you never really knew people. You always thought other people were like you: you projected your own values and ideas onto others. If you were a good person, you tended to expect other people to be good, too. There was a term for it, “mirroring.” It was mirroring that made people give their money to con artists or dismiss the funny smell coming from their neighbor’s backyard. “He seemed so nice,” they would tell reporters after the serial killer had been arrested, “but he always kept to himself.”

“C’mon, Lucy,” said Rachel, breaking into her thoughts. “It’s our stop.”

The long, anxious day had taken a toll on Lucy, and she was tired as she climbed the stairs from the Métro station and followed Bob and Rachel along the narrow sidewalk to the apartment. The curb was quite high and the pavement uneven, so she had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. She was hoping there would be a chilled glass of white wine waiting for her, and maybe Sue had cooked up some cheesy things or stuffed mushrooms. Her mouth was watering when they reached the double doors that led to the courtyard, and she could hardly wait for Bob to punch the code into the keypad. The buzzer finally sounded, and she pushed the door open, only to be met by Madame Defarge on the other side.

“Finally, you are back!” she cried, wringing her hands. “It has happened. Je suis désolée. I am sorry, but there was nothing I could do. The police came, and you were all out. I could not stop them.”

“The police came here?” asked Bob.

Madame Defarge nodded.

“They searched the apartment?” asked Bob, sounding as if he were cross-examining a witness.

“Oui. They insisted. They had official papers. I had to let them in.”

“What time was this?” asked Lucy.

“In the morning. They came just as I was on my way out to do my shopping.”