Private Paris (Private 10)

“Jack?” Justine said.

“I’m here,” I said. “Once he’s in the air, and before you call the sheriff, go through the place, very low impact. Try to figure out what’s missing without screwing up the scene. I figure you’ve got an hour before you absolutely have to put in the call. Use it well, and look for anything to do with France.”

“We can do that.”

“Keep me posted,” I said, and hung up, hating the fact that I was eight thousand miles from Los Angeles and unable to help, and wondering if the break-in and assault were connected to Kim. Had to be.

Louis tapped me on the back and, with a weary smile, said, “We’re in.”

“You grovel well,” I said.

“One of my many talents,” Louis agreed. “But it was your name that did the trick. She wants your take on the murder scene.”

Before I could ask why that could possibly be, the officer at the barrier pulled a sawhorse aside for us. We walked to a rear door, where crime scene techs were working and a woman in her early forties was waiting.

Fit and attractive, Hoskins had spiked, frosted hair and wore jeans, a pink blouse, and a brown leather jacket. Her Paris Prefecture badge hung on a chain around her neck. She shot Louis a look that could melt ice, and then smiled at me.

She shook my hand firmly, saying, “Sharen Hoskins. Nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan. I’ve read and heard a lot about you and your company.”

To my surprise, Hoskins’s accent was not French. In fact, I swore it sounded like the Bronx. But before I could ask about that unlikelihood, she turned to Louis.

“You don’t touch a thing inside. Are we clear on that, Louis?”

“It will be as if I have leprosy. No fingers to speak of.”

“Nice image,” Hoskins said sourly. She handed us booties and latex gloves, saying, “Nothing of what you are about to see gets out. Understood?”

“I guarantee it,” I replied. “But I’m a little confused as to why we’re being allowed in here in the first place.”

“You are said to be a smart, observant guy, Mr. Morgan,” she replied before leading us inside. “And I don’t believe in turf wars. Long as I put the handcuffs on whoever did this, I’ll be a happy girl.”

We followed her down a long series of hallways before exiting a door into a stunning foyer, with a dramatic vaulted ceiling, huge mirrors, and gold paint that shimmered in the light of what looked like gas lamps. A grand marble staircase rose to a landing before splitting and climbing again.

Hoskins started up the first flight, and I followed, saying, “Why does this seem so familiar to me?”

“Phantom of the Opera?” Hoskins said.

“That’s it,” I said, looking around in some awe. My late mother had taken my brother and me to see the play when we were boys.

“Where was the body found?” Louis asked. “Richard’s office?”

“Not so lucky,” the investigateur said, and crossed the landing between statues that supported a marble slab inscribed “Amphitheater.”

We went through double doors and emerged in a horseshoe-shaped and lofty space decorated in gold and deep reds. A giant chandelier glowed overhead, revealing the incredible design and sheer opulence of the theater.

“Where’s the body?” I asked.

“I wanted you to see him just as he was discovered,” she said, and barked a command into a radio.

The curtains began to open. The area behind it was shadowed until a spotlight went on above and behind us, throwing a beam aimed into the air ten feet above the center of the stage.

“You don’t see that every day,” I said softly.

“Exactly,” Hoskins replied.

Chapter 17

HENRI RICHARD’S CORPSE hung upside down from a rope tied about his ankles. His white dress shirt had come free of his suit pants and hung bunched up around his lower rib cage. A length of rope dangled from his neck.