Private Paris (Private 10)

Though Haja had denied it, I was still entertaining the possibility that her motives were opposite the ones she cited. In that scenario, the sculptor was prepared to suffer, and she was prepared to make innocent men suffer with her.

Juge Fromme broke me from my thoughts. “As helpful and insightful as you’ve been, Mr. Morgan, Investigateur Hoskins must now take you to a holding cell until the minister of justice sees fit to deport or release you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Louis fumed.

Fromme growled, “Carrying a handgun without a license. Carrying a handgun in the commission of a crime. These are crimes we take seriously in France, Louis. Or have you forgotten?”

Louis looked ready to argue, but I said, “You’ll take off the cuffs if I’m in a cell? Get me some pain meds?”

“Yes.”

“Can we go by the hospital first so I can check in on Michele Herbert?”

“That’s not happening,” Hoskins said. “But I’ll get you an update.”

We returned to the police car we’d taken to the prison, and I was climbing in the backseat when Louis’s cell rang. He answered, listened, and said, “Here. I’ll let him explain.”

Louis hit speaker, and I said, “It’s Jack.”

“Where are you?” Justine asked. “And where have you been the last day and a half?”

“I’m on my way to jail,” I said. “And the last thirty-six hours are too complicated to go into at the moment.”

There was a pause. “What are you charged with?”

“Multiple felony counts. How’s Kim and Sherman?”

“They had a truth and reconciliation meeting before she went to Betty Ford. Kim fessed up, told her grandfather everything.”

“How’d Sherman take it?”

“He’s grateful she’s alive. He also sent over a check this morning for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and a note asking if it was enough.”

“That’ll do,” I said. “Transfer half to the Private Paris bonus account.”

“That’s enough,” Fromme grumbled from the front seat. “You’re in custody, not business. End that call. Now.”

“You heard the judge,” I said. “Gotta go.”

Louis ended the conversation. As he put the device away, I thought about how cut off I was without a phone, and what a valuable tool it was for someone in my line of work. A phone keeps you mobile, not tied down to a desk, and yet able to access information when you need it. A very good thing.

And if we were lucky enough to get hold of a bad guy’s phone, well, that was like hitting the mother lode, finding the keys to the kingdom. Thinking back to that busted cell phone I’d seen in the Dumpster below Haja Hamid’s bedroom window, I felt reasonably sure that it had been hers or Amé’s.

How had that worked? Had the burn phone been broken and tossed in the alley, or from Haja’s bedroom window?

I shut my eyes, tried to imagine the pieces sailing out the window, falling through the scaffolding, tried to envision the trajectories the pieces might have taken…falling to the…

“Turn around,” I said.

“Why?” said Hoskins.

“No,” Fromme said firmly. “He goes to—”

“Haja’s apartment. Turn around.”

“That is an active crime scene of a killing in which you are a suspect,” the judge shot back. “You’ll never be allowed in, and neither will we.”

“Then call someone there,” I said. “I think there’s something we missed.”