The next shot showed Butterfield spreading a leather-type case open on the hood of his car. Both men peered down at it. Carson used a zoom lens to focus on the set of surgical tools.

Remy’s pulse leapt. His leopard snarled. They had planned a murder, but whose? Bijou’s? Had they planned to kill her and make it look as if the bone harvester had done it? He’d been worried about that for a while. Had Carson caught them in the act and then been caught himself?

“Get a warrant, Gage. Let’s search both vehicles. We should have enough with these photographs for that.”

Remy continued to examine the pictures Carson had taken that night. After he left the parking lot, he’d gone to the small studio Lefevre rented to work in. The room was surrounded on three sides by mostly glass for the light. Again there was a series of photographs, all capturing the Frenchmen engrossed in his work, busy sketching. At times the artist almost looked frantic, driven by his relentless need to create. There were dozens of sketches of Remy’s eyes. Of his face. Some just of his mouth.

Remy could see how Carson could twist the photographs into something altogether different than an artist’s captivated interest in facial structure and features. He could definitely piece together photographs and make them look like a love triangle with Arnaud interested in Remy. Carson’s plan was to accuse Bijou of a threesome. The headline he’d chosen was “Bijou’s two lovers in love.”

Arnaud clearly was totally absorbed in his work. Remy doubted, if Carson had actually been in the room with him, that the artist would have even noticed him taking photographs. Carson had zoomed in on the sketches just as he had the surgical instruments earlier in the parking lot. Remy’s eyes had been drawn over and over, but Arnaud had discarded the sketches in frustration, compelled to capture the exact look he had seen in Remy’s eyes and clearly failing.

The next set of photographs was of two men in the shadows who seemed to be watching Arnaud through his studio windows. They were back in the alley and Carson must have caught them by accident. The second photo showed the two men appearing to argue.

Remy realized Arnaud looked as wealthy as he was. He sat alone in a well-lit room where anyone hard up for money and willing to rob him would see. He probably appeared to be the perfect victim, a man who was so focused on his work he wouldn’t notice intruders until it was too late.

“He didn’t get their faces,” Remy complained. “But they look as if they could be Jean and Juste Rousseau. What do you think?” He handed the camera back to his brother and turned to look at the body one more time.