In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts by Tess Gerritsen Read Free Book Online Page B

again, and a second man entered the restaurant. Together they approached the booth where Beryl and Jordan were seated. Beryl stiffened as she found herself staring not at Daumier but at his companion.
    “Hello, Richard,” she said quietly. “I had no idea you were coming to Paris.”
    “Neither did I,” he said. “Until this morning.” Introductions were made, hands shaken all around.
    Then the two men slid into the booth. Beryl faced Richard straight across the table. As his gaze met hers, she felt the earlier sparks kindle between them, the memory of their kiss flaring to mind. Beryl, you idiot, she thought in irri-58
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    tation, you’re letting him distract you. Confuse you. No man has a right to affect you this way—certainly not a man you’ve only kissed once in your life. Not to mention one you met only twenty-four hours ago.
    Still, she couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those moments in the garden at Chetwynd. Nor could she forget the taste of his lips. She watched him pour himself a glass of wine, watched him raise the glass to sip. Again, their eyes met, this time over the gleam of ruby liquid. She licked her own lips and savored the aftertaste of Burgundy.
    “So what brings you to Paris?” she asked, raising her glass.
    “Claude, as a matter of fact.” He tilted his head at Daumier.
    At Beryl’s questioning look, Daumier said, “When I heard my old friend Richard was in London, I thought why not consult him? Since he is an authority on the subject.”
    “The St. Pierre bombing,” Richard explained. “Some group no one’s ever heard of is claiming responsibility.
    Claude thought perhaps I’d be able to shed some light on their identity. For years I’ve been tracking every reported terrorist organization there is.”
    “And did you shed some light?” asked Jordan.
    “Afraid not,” he admitted. “Cosmic Solidarity doesn’t show up on my computer.” He took another sip of wine, and his gaze locked with hers. “But the trip isn’t entirely wasted,” he added, “since I discover you’re in Paris, as well.”
    “Strictly business,” said Beryl. “With no time for pleasure.”
    “None at all?”

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    “None,” she said flatly. She pointedly turned her attention to Daumier. “My uncle did call you, didn’t he? About why we’re here?”
    The Frenchman nodded. “I understand you have both read the file.”
    “Cover to cover,” said Jordan.
    “Then you know the evidence. I myself confirmed the witness statements, the coroner’s findings—”
    “The coroner could have misinterpreted the facts,” Jordan asserted.
    “I myself saw their bodies in the garret. It was not something I am likely to forget.” Daumier paused as though shaken by the memory. “Your mother died of three bullet wounds to the chest. Lying beside her was Bernard, a single bullet in his head. The gun had his fingerprints.
    There were no witnesses, no other suspects.” Daumier shook his head. “The evidence speaks for itself.”
    “But where’s the motive?” said Beryl. “Why would he kill someone he loved?”
    “Perhaps that is the motive,” said Daumier. “Love. Or loss of love. She may have found someone else—”
    “That’s impossible,” Beryl objected vehemently. “She loved him.”
    Daumier looked down at his wineglass. He said quietly,
    “You have not yet read the police interview with the landlord, M. Rideau?”
    Beryl and Jordan looked at him in puzzlement. “Rideau?
    I don’t recall seeing that interview in the file,” said Jordan.
    “Only because I chose to exclude it when I sent the file to Hugh. It was a…matter of discretion.” Discretion, thought Beryl. Meaning he was trying to hide some embarrassing fact.

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    “The attic flat where their bodies were found,” said Daumier, “was rented out to a Mlle Scarlatti. According to the landlord, Rideau, this Scarlatti woman used the flat once or twice a week. And only for the