He couldn’t imagine that the famed—and very obsessive—sculptor had seen anything of use, not after seeing the frantic sketches of Remy’s facial features he’d been up all night drawing, but maybe he’d get lucky. Sometimes it was only luck solving a case.

“Sure, I don’ mind waiting for Bijou Breaux,” Angelina agreed. “I have every record she ever made. I know every song by heart. I never talk to her because I don’t want to seem like one of her pushy, crazed fans, but every time I see her, I secretly scream.”

He swung around, amused by Angelina, the consummate professional’s confession. His eyebrow shot up and he found himself smiling. “Really? You? Scream? I don’ believe you.”

“In my head, Remy.” She held up her hand when he looked smug, tossing her head like a schoolgirl. “But at her concerts I screamed with the best of them. Once I couldn’t talk for two days afterward.”

Remy burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, Angelina. When she comes in, talk to her. She’s actually quite shy. You’d never know it when she sings, but she really is. I’ll just be a few minutes, I promise.”

Remy caught up his jacket, shrugging into it as he hurried out. There was something driving him now, and that usually meant he was close to breaking a case. He should have considered talking to Lefevre right away. The artist was good with details and few people had his observation skills. He might have even noticed something earlier, when they were in the gallery itself.

He walked the short distance to the gallery where Lefevre had his showing. He wasn’t surprised to see it had already closed, but the lights were on and he could see the artist inside, hunched over a large sketchbook. Several drafts of whatever he was working on were scattered at his feet. He looked as if he hadn’t slept since the showing. In fact, Remy thought he might have been wearing the same suit.

He wasn’t surprised to find the door unlocked. He knew the gallery owner would come by later to double-check that Lefevre had remembered to lock it. In the meantime, he had offered his place to the artist to work, knowing it would only make his gallery more prestigious with clients.

Remy stepped inside. Arnaud didn’t even glance up. He worked furiously, concentration creating deep furrows between his eyebrows.

“Mr. Lefevre?” Remy said, hoping not to startle him.

The frowned deepened and impatience flickered across the Frenchman’s face. He waved his hand toward the door without looking up. “Go away. I’m busy.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping you could help me with an ongoing investigation. I just need a few minutes of your time.”