I stared at him as if I hadn’t understood.

Columbo said, “Give the man some space,” and added a phony smile. I knew he was playing me. For the umpteenth time, I said Smith and I had been in the park taking a walk. I didn’t say anything about the Louvre, figured that was none of their business.

The Reptile said, “In la neige—the snow?”

I told him, “Yeah, I wanted to make a snowman,” and he grabbed me by the shoulders and held me firm. The air in the room went thin and charged.

Columbo told him to take it easy, sat down opposite me, lighted a cigarette, offered me one. I shook my head. “We were taking a walk,” I repeated. “Is that illegal in France, like ketchup? Why the hell aren’t you looking for the guy who attacked us instead of wasting your time and mine?”

“Relax,” Columbo said.

“I was just attacked by a knife-wielding, club-swinging thug, and you’re telling me to relax? That the best you can do?”

“Where were you going?” the Reptile asked again.

“How about home?” I said. “Unless you’re arresting me.”

The Reptile put his face in mine, so close I could smell the garlic on his breath, and grabbed me by the shoulders again. One of us might have thrown a punch—I know I was ready—if just then, the door hadn’t opened.

The inspector, fortysomething, cropped hennaed hair, gray suit tight across the bust, a badge pinned to her lapel: Danielle Cabenal, General Assembly, Lyon, France. She dismissed the cops with a cool nod, sat down, and placed her hands on the table. Her nails were short, perfectly filed, free of polish.

“You came all the way from Lyon?” I asked.

“It is a very quick flight,” she said, her English clipped.

“What time is it?” I’d lost track, had no idea what I’d done with my cell phone.

“Morning,” she said, nearly 10:00 a.m. “I am sorry.”

I told her I was okay, just a little bruised.

“I was referring to Analyst Smith.”

“What about him?”

“His condition is critical. I am afraid he is not expected to live.”

A rush of heat skittered through my body, followed by a chill. I stood up fast, blood rushing to my head, grabbed hold of the chair to steady myself. “That can’t be… He had some cuts and bruises but—”

“I am afraid it was much worse than that,” Cabenal said, her face sphinxlike. “Internal bleeding, blood loss—”

“But I was with him. He smiled, for Christ’s sake. He’s got to be okay.”

“According to the doctors, no. I am sorry,” she said again, but she didn’t sound or look sorry.

“Where is he, which hospital? I want to see him.”

“That is impossible. He is in critical care. In the unlikely event that he survives, there will be no communication between the two of you ever again.”

“I can’t even find out if he’s okay?”

Cabenal pressed her lips together as if words were piling up behind them that she did not want to let out. Then she did. “If Analyst Smith survives, he will be fired—he is already fired, his actions indefensible—and you will have no further contact with him. Do you understand?” She stared at me, waiting for an answer.