“That’s him. That’s Constantine.”

“You are certain?”

“I am. Where was this taken?”

“Sacré-Coeur. You were correct. He was there the morning after the murder, as well. I would be interested in speaking with him. Do you have any way to contact him?”

“I don’t. I broke it off this morning. Yesterday morning?”

“You have been here for nearly twenty-four hours.”

No wonder she felt so awful. No sleep, no food, only the tea. “Then yesterday. I told him I came to Paris to be alone, that I didn’t want to see him anymore.”

“Was he upset by this? Angered? Threatening?”

“No. More...disappointed, but not hurt, or rejected. He seemed cold but not angry. He left without fuss. Can you find him?”

“Not without considerable help.”

“Why is that?”

She slapped down another photo, this one much clearer. Shot from above. Constantine, but not Constantine. The man in this picture had surfer blond hair and a grim smile on his face. His tall body was clothed in khakis and a blue button-down. He was midstride, carrying a black leather duffel bag.

“The man who told you he was called Constantine Raffalo took a flight from de Gaulle last night. Paris to JFK. We have made calls to the FBI to warn them. Hopefully, they can arrest him quickly. When they do, they will arrange for us to have a discussion with him.”

“I don’t understand. He bleached his hair and caught a flight to JFK?”

“He changed his name, as well. Or lied to you. The passport he flew under names him as Trent Duggan. American citizen, thirty-five years old, birthplace, Orlando, Florida. The passport’s issuing office is also in Florida. The problem is, the name, address, social security number, and passport number do not match anyone from the state of Florida. I will need to see the passport itself to make the determination, but, like yours, I believe his papers are false. Your issuing office is the same as his.”

Sutton tried to wrap her head around it. “But he said he was a military brat. That he grew up all over the world.”

“More lies, it would seem.” Badeau sat down. She seemed tired. Sutton supposed she must be; she’d been here the whole time.

“If am I to believe you, madame, that you are here because you are in trouble, this is the narrative you expect me to put forth to my superiors. You arrived, you found a flat, you explored the city, started writing your book, then went to bed with a man who gave you a false name, a false background, and, apparently from the photographs, a false look, as well. You are utterly innocent of any wrongdoing. Everything that has happened since your arrival is some sort of coincidence, which, as a police officer, I am reluctant to believe in. Yes?”

Sutton nodded. “It’s the truth. I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear it.”