She plugged in Wilson, Elizabeth S. There was an immediate hit. She opened the file, and started to read. An hour later, she emerged from the computer, rinsed her coffee cup, used the bathroom, and perched on the edge of her desk to think.

Sutton Montclair wasn’t who she said she was.

And Holly wasn’t surprised at all.

Haze on the Seine

HAZE ON THE SEINE

Sutton talked for two hours. She explained everything that had led up to her fleeing from Tennessee in the first hour, and in the second, everything that had happened since she’d arrived in Paris. Badeau and the unseen others listened without interruption until she brought up Constantine.

“Constantine Raffalo. Did you ever see an identification for him? A passport, a license of some sort?”

“No. But you say you have me on video at Sacré-Coeur? I was supposed to meet him there. That’s why I went, to see the sunrise, work, and meet him for lunch. He encouraged me to go. Perhaps he will be on the video. And if there are cameras at my café on the corner, he was certainly there a few times. He is involved in this. I don’t know how, but he is. He must be. If I were a paranoid woman, I would say he is Colin Wilde, and he’s set me up. But that would be quite a leap.”

“He was in your apartment alone? He had access? Did you give him a key?”

“No, I didn’t give him a key, but that means nothing. He could have made a copy. He could have picked the lock. He could have watched to see when I left the flat for a walk or for food. He could very easily have gotten in when I was gone, any number of times. I’ve spent more time walking the streets than I have at home.” Sutton shrugged. “It’s Paris. Why stay inside if you don’t need to?”

“It is very convenient, this phantom man who you barely know.”

“But it’s the truth, Inspector. I’m not proud of my behavior, but it’s all true.”

Badeau stared at her a moment, then stood. “I will be back. Can I bring you coffee?”

“Do you have any tea?”

Badeau nodded and slipped out the door.

She believes me, Sutton thought, practically collapsing against the chair. Thank God, she believes me.

Twenty minutes later, Badeau returned. She had a mug of tea in one hand and a slip of paper in the other. She set both down on the table in front of Sutton.

The tea was milky, sweet, and hot. Sutton felt tears rise when she took a sip. Just like Ethan made for her, though this wasn’t as strong. Still, it was warm and sugary and comforting as a hug. She took another sip, then looked at the paper.

It was a grainy still photograph of Constantine.