Private Paris (Private 10)

“Morgan?” Hoskins said, waking me. “We’re here.”

I looked around in some confusion at the entrance to the private jetport at de Gaulle because the image of the black dress lingered with me. And I didn’t know why. Then I flashed on a drawing of the dress, and Millie shaking that swatch of black fabric the one and only time we met.

Something about it all clicked, and I said, “I don’t think AB-16 was responsible for Millie Fleurs’s death.”

Hoskins and Fromme twisted around in their seats. “What?”

“There’s another suspect you should consider,” I insisted. “Her assistant, Laurent Alexandre.”

Fromme scowled, but Hoskins said, “Why?”

“The morning before she was killed, I saw a drawing of the dress that Alexandre later said he designed in memory of Millie. It was on his desk.”

“Okay…” Fromme said skeptically.

“Millie had this piece of black fabric that she said she was using to make Princess Mayameen’s little black cocktail dress that night,” I said. “But when we found her, there was no such dress on the mannequins. One of them was bare.”

“So maybe she just decided not to make the dress, and Alexandre used the fabric in her honor from his own design,” Fromme said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Millie was adamant that the dress had to be ready first thing in the morning. And the princess told Louis and me that she’d gone to Millie’s workshop after the club specifically to see that dress.”

“Seems thin to me,” the magistrate said.

“What do you think happened?” Hoskins asked.

I thought a moment. I spotted Louis limping down the airport sidewalk toward us, pulling my roll-on.

“Alexandre designs the dress,” I began. “And maybe Millie just doesn’t have a good idea for a spectacular cocktail dress that evening, but then she sees her assistant’s design, and she steals it for her own.

“Alexandre kills her in revenge, and pins it on AB-16. He even uses fabric instead of spray paint to form the tag. He comes up with the idea of a fashion show in Millie’s memory. The dress is his again to make a statement in front of the best designers in Paris about the woman he murdered.”

Hoskins looked at Fromme, who shifted uncomfortably before saying, “We would be remiss if we did not look into your theory, Monsieur Morgan.”

“It’s been nice getting to know you, but I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I said, and opened the back door to climb out.

“Morgan,” Hoskins said.

I stopped, looked at her.

“Thanks,” she said. “For everything.”

“Moi aussi,” Fromme said with his hunched back to me.

“My pleasure,” I said, and got out and shut the door.

“You look like shit,” Louis said.

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” I said, yawning. “The jet here?”

“Already refueled,” he said. “They have a shower inside you can use before you go. Your clothes and shaving kit are here, and your passport.”

I showered, shaved, and dressed in cleaner clothes. Louis had nodded off in the waiting lounge.

“Time for me to leave Paris,” I said after waking him.

Louis stood and threw his arms around me. “You are a hard man to contain, Jack Morgan.”

“Thanks. I think.”