Thoughts of logic and good sense pinball in my head, but I ignore all of them. We exit the motorway past an open park with ruins. A sign we pass says BASTILLE, and I rack my memory for the plot of Les Misérables. Only a tiny Peugeot separates us from the police cars. They make a sharp left, then abruptly stop beside a residential building with two-foot-wide wrought iron balconies along each apartment window. They cut the siren. My driver parks three blocks down. Taller buildings here cast long shadows as though imitating my sneaking mind-set.

“Should I wait for you?” He turns to face me from the front seat, causing the Polynesian bird tattooed on his neck to flap its wings. No hint of flirtation, greed, or even excitement colors his face; concern presses in lines around his mouth. I thank him, tell him no, and tip more than I should. I shut the car door, then walk toward the flashing red and blue lights. Loneliness cuts into my giddy adrenaline, my newfound independence and renewed sense of purpose. Being more alone than ever in a foreign city is the consequence of finally embodying Angela’s instructions.

The scene pulses with uniforms. Compact cars parked along each side of the street offer little in the way of protection, but I stoop and hide as best I can. Voices ring out as another pair of cars arrives, the buddy system all the rage among police. I scan the group for anything resembling the build of my fake cop and even close my eyes and inhale. The only offensive odor I can identify is dog feces on the spit of grass beside me. A lanky woman with skin so dark it could be blue strides from the driver’s side of the first car we followed, all legs and little torso. The pink-faced man from the passenger side of the vehicle jogs to join her on the sidewalk. His crown of curly brown hair and balding center catches the light as he passes into the building vestibule. Valentin.

Conversation swells the closer I dare to slink. Passing between cars unseen is difficult in my white shorts and blue tank top, one of the dumber camouflage choices of my life. I succeed in wedging between a Renault and a Peugeot about fifteen feet from the entrance.

“Well? Is he dead?” A woman’s husky voice in French jumps above the noise of the crowd. Her counterpart mumbles something in response, and she sighs loudly. “What? Speak up.”

“He’s been dead for around a week, but he was moved from somewhere else. Shot to the head. Still all dressed up for a night at the opera.”

“Same ligature marks as the others? Tattoo?”

“You got it.”

“Might be the serial, then.”

“Captain thinks so. Hey, don’t!”

“What?” the woman growls. “It’s only a fly. There. See? It’s gone.”