Was the blood from her? Her breath caught in her chest at the thought. But she didn't seem to be hurt.

  She picked it up, staring in total confusion at that bloodied blade.

  Now that she was looking at it, there seemed to be a trail of droplets leading from that knife to the shower stall.

  As she realized that, her stomach twisted in a clench of pure terror. She dropped the knife. What the hell had she even been thinking about picking it up? Something very, very bad was happening here.

  She got up, staggering, nearly slipping in the blood, her head spinning more violently than ever. Clumsily, she navigated around the splashes and stumbled to the shower stall's door.

  There was something inside; she could see that through the frosted glass. But what it was, she had no idea.

  She needed to find out, though.

  Her battered brain offered up a weird, vague memory of a monster at the shower door with zigzag teeth. Where had that come from? It must have been a drunken dream. There wasn't a monster here, surely? But there was... something.

  She grasped the shower door and hesitated, a wave of nausea overwhelming her, retching even though she'd thrown up everything there was to throw up earlier.

  Heather had hoped that standing there, thinking about it, would make her feel less afraid, but her terror was building, becoming overwhelming.

  Suddenly, there was no time to do anything. Not to think about it some more, not to hesitate, not to track down her phone and talk to her friends about it.

  She grasped the door with cold, shaking hands. She got her fingers in the ridge, the feel of it familiar to her, but everything else was out of kilter and scary and so very wrong.

  Pulling the door open, she stared down.

  Pooled in blood, eyes staring wide, face drained and white, Samantha stared back.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paulette Bouchard. Until a fortnight ago, FBI agent Juliette Hart hadn't known the name, or the woman, existed. Now, she was having dreams about the woman she'd never met - or more like nightmares, given the scenario.

  Juliette had been about to give up on the impossible task of finding out who her father's murderer had been. Her diplomat father had been killed in a Munich hotel room more than ten years ago, stabbed to death by a person, or people, unknown.

  Juliette had been staying elsewhere in the hotel. Even today, she felt cold with fear, as if she was that scared twenty-one-year-old all over again when she remembered the shock of that crime. She vividly recalled the surge of worry when her dad hadn’t been down at breakfast or answering her knock on his door, even though she could hear his phone ringing inside when she called him. And then, the rush of sheer, icy terror when she got hold of an access card and opened the door. The sight of the blood, those deep cuts to his chest and neck, that rusty handprint on the wall that spoke of a brief, violent struggle.

  “Oh, Dad,” Juliette whispered, squeezing her eyes shut to try to blot that image from her memory, feeling that shock all over again, together with agonizing regret.

  If she had decided differently, she could have been sharing a suite with her dad, and then would they have killed her, too? Or an equally difficult thought – might they have spared him if they’d seen her there?

  The case had gone cold - a tragic crime, never solved. It was only now that she felt she had the strength to confront those demons again.

  The investigation had gotten her nowhere until a search through her father's possessions in storage unearthed a love letter to her father, written shortly before his death, by a woman, Paulette Bouchard.

  It was clear from the letter that Paulette was married.

  And that gave Juliette a whole new direction to explore. She wasn't giving up on this after all. Not yet.

  Sitting at her desk in her Paris apartment, where she was now based as part of the FBI task force tackling international crimes, she had accessed the systems and tracked down Paulette's phone number. She’d found that Paulette was still alive, still living in Paris. And now, Juliette was making the call she'd dreaded and anticipated. This might open doors, and she knew she needed to be ready to see what lay beyond them.

  Taking a deep breath, tugging at a stray piece of her honey-blond hair, she listened to the call connect.

  It rang and rang. With every ring, her stomach tightened. She stared around the small, tidy apartment, her gaze resting on the window, warmed by the late summer sun.

  And then, a woman answered. Her voice was low; her words clipped as if she was in a hurry.

  "Bonjour," she said. "Paulette ici."

  Juliette's heart skipped a beat. This was her. She was speaking to her, at last.

  "Paulette? It's Juliette Hart here, FBI. I wonder if I could come and speak to you urgently regarding a cold case. Do you have time to meet?" She asked the question in French, which she spoke fluently and rapidly, almost as well as a local.

  "Time to meet?" Paulette sounded first surprised and then wary. "What case is this?" Her tone was guarded.

  Juliette bit her lip. She needed to choose her words carefully.

  "I would prefer to explain to you in person," she insisted.

  There was a pause.

  "I am busy today. I have meetings in Lyon. I am taking the train in an hour and will only be back tomorrow." She paused. "If you are close by, I suppose you could come past now if the meeting will be quick?"

  She read out her address to Juliette, who immediately plotted it on the map, glad that her Paris apartment, though in an attractively suburban part of the city, was central to a couple of the Metro stations and also not far from the highways and airport.

  "I can be with you in thirty minutes," she said. If she dashed to the Metro station and was lucky with a train.

  "I will wait," the woman said decisively.

  Juliette jumped up, rushed through to the bedroom, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her hair was neat, the honey-blond locks tamed and shiny. Her black pants, and royal blue top, were smart. Her low-heeled black boots – striking a balance between fashionable and utilitarian – were shiny. She hoped she would look the part and make a good impression that would put Paulette at ease and encourage her to talk.

  She grabbed a soft, gray leather jacket and her laptop bag and rushed out of the apartment, grateful to have been given a chance she never expected. Meeting face-to-face with Paulette this morning? That was a huge bonus.

  But, as Juliette raced out of the apartment, she saw that the one next door to hers, which had been vacated a week ago, had a new owner moving in.

  A tower of boxes was being slowly unloaded from the elevator. Three removal men, perspiring in the hot morning sun, were shifting the boxes, while a slim man with a short, dark beard, who looked about forty, was lifting them onto a wheeled cart with surprising vigor and determination, Juliette thought.

  But none of this helped the fact that the elevator was well and truly occupied at a time when she urgently needed to get downstairs. Her apartment was only on the second floor, but the stairway was all the way at the end of the long corridor.

  She saw the bearded man's face change as she hustled up to the open doors, staring inside. She was sure her expression changed, too, when she saw those ranks of boxes because his brown eyes widened.

  "Oh, madame, I am so sorry. We are occupying the elevator. Can you wait five minutes?"

  His voice was cultured, and although he spoke in French, Juliette's ear picked up a British accent. So this was her new neighbor. Perhaps he was an academic teacher at the university nearby. That was her first guess, but she didn't have time for more. And she definitely did not have time to wait.

  "I'll take the stairs. Good luck with the move. We're neighbors, I see," she said, giving him a quick, polite smile. It wasn't his fault that she was rushed off her feet, thanks to this surprise opportunity.

  Then, forgetting about the small delay, Juliette raced to the end of the corridor, down the two flights of stairs, and out onto the street, breaking all land speed records as she sprinted for the train station.

  ***

  Exactly half an hour after leaving her apartment, she arrived at Paulette's address. It was one of the older, roomier, and more upmarket apartment buildings in Paris, built overlooking the river. Juliette knew that an apartment here would cost a serious amount of money. It told her that Paulette was a wealthy woman.

  She tapped on the ornate front door, feeling nerves now churn inside her, wondering if she would have her husband with her or not. There were so many unknowns. Did she know who Juliette was, or had she guessed? Would she be willing to talk?

  The door opened, and there she stood. Her father's lover.

  A petite woman, who was probably fifty years old, with luxurious, dark hair curling to her shoulders and bright green eyes. She wore cream-colored linen pants and a camel-colored blouse with a blue scarf at her neck. Quality, tasteful clothing. Staring at Juliette, her eyes widened. Recognition, most definitely, was in her gaze.

  "If I hadn't already realized who you were, I would know now," she said softly.

  "Mr. Hart was my father," Juliette acknowledged in a sad voice. She felt a sense of shock that she was here at all. This entire experience felt surreal.

  "Come in," Paulette said. "Please, come in."

  Feeling a massive sense of relief that she'd gotten this far and that Paulette seemed willing to cooperate, Juliette walked inside. She wondered if the dynamic between herself and her father's ex-lover would change when she started asking the hard questions.

  This was going to be a potentially explosive meeting, and Juliette knew she'd have to tread carefully. She was not here on an official investigation. She had no police status. She was merely doing her own research on a cold case that mattered to her more than she wanted to think about.

  The place was sumptuously decorated, with a panoramic view of the Seine River through the massive plate glass window in the living room. Paulette invited her to sit down on a leather-covered chaise lounge while she took an armchair.

  "Coffee?" she asked, every inch the attentive hostess in this surprisingly weird situation.

  "No, thank you," Juliette replied but waited before getting to the gist of the matter, sensing that Paulette needed some time to get to grips with her presence in this living room. Perhaps Paulette would prefer to take the lead in this conversation. Mixed emotions surged inside her as she looked at the woman who had slept with her married father, who had been with him just days before his murder, and who surely must have known something about it.

  Either she knew something that she was aware of and had been hiding, or else she might have learned something that she didn’t realize was connected to this crime. She might have information that she could reveal if Juliette asked the right questions. Pillow talk might have provided intimate and important facts.

  Scenarios whirled through Juliette’s mind as she forced herself to stay quiet, to keep a calm and polite demeanor, and to wait for the timing to be right.

  "So," Paulette said, seeming ready at last after a long pause. "Tell me why you are here?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Paulette was ready to talk. Now, there might be answers.

  Juliette spoke calmly, trying not to give away how close to tears she suddenly felt inside. "Paulette, I am here because I want to know what happened to my father. I'm sure you know about his murder. You were seeing him at the time. I found a letter you sent him."

  She swallowed. This was surprisingly difficult. And she sensed that now, Paulette's demeanor was less sympathetic than it had been when she'd arrived. Now, she guessed, Paulette was suspicious. Perhaps she was realizing the implications of saying anything at all. At any rate, the atmosphere in the room seemed to have cooled.

  Paulette's eyes flickered. Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. "I see," she said after a moment, her voice low. "And you think I might have information that the police couldn't find?"

  Juliette nodded. "Yes. I do think so because you were close to my father, and you were with him shortly before he was killed."

  "I know nothing about the murder," Paulette said, her voice now sharp.

  "There might be something you do know," Juliette said. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. She might already have come across too strongly, despite her best efforts at diplomacy, learned from the finest teacher of all - her father himself. But in this situation, she didn't know if it was working or if she was even approaching this in the right way. She sensed she was treading her way through a minefield.

  Paulette leaned forward, her expression serious. "I understand your desire for closure, Juliette. But I'm not sure how much help I can be. Your father and I had a very brief relationship. We saw each other a few times at the most. It was not, and was never going to be, lasting."

  "You were married?" Juliette put the pivotal fact on the table. That was what she'd gathered from the love letter. It was why her suspicions flared every time she thought about the murder.

  "Separated," Paulette said. "My husband and I were discussing the possibility of divorce, and we ended up amicably divorcing a few months later. It was a very sad time. Traumatic in so many ways. But I was not the killer, and nor was he. He knew that I was seeing others. He was, too."

  Juliette nodded, though she wasn't sure she believed everything Paulette was saying. There was something in her body language that made her suspicious. Paulette was looking down, looking at her hands while she spoke.

  But she decided to take a different approach. "Can you tell me who else my father interacted with? Maybe there were problems going on in his life that he shared with you. Can you think of anything that might be relevant or anyone who could have wanted to harm him?"

  She thought again, with a guilty twist of her stomach, about the pocketbook she'd found.

  Its carefully written notes had revealed that her father had almost certainly been taking bribes or payments from people outside of his diplomatic salary.

  She felt sick to think that her father had been not only a cheater but also a corrupt man. She couldn't find any link between the notes and a possible killer, but perhaps he had shared his worries with Paulette. After all, they had been as close as could be.

  Paulette paused for a long time, and Juliette could see she was thinking hard. But then she shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, Juliette, I really don't know anything. Your father was a very charming man. He had many acquaintances as a diplomat. There were embassy functions nearly every night, and he dealt with multitudes of people during his working day. But someone who would have wanted to kill him? I can't think of anyone, and I wasn't privy to his personal life outside of our brief relationship."

  Juliette sighed, feeling a sense of disappointment wash over her. She had hoped that this meeting would bring her closer to the truth, but it seemed she was no closer than before. There was a question she had to ask, though, even though she worried that it would anger Paulette.

  "Where were you on the night he was murdered?" she asked. "And your husband? Where was he?"

  Paulette was frowning now. "My husband and I were at a dinner hosted by one of my husband's business associates. We might have been estranged, but to the world, we were still a couple at that point. And for my husband's business reputation, I was ready to play the role." She glanced around the luxurious and well-equipped apartment. "We got back very late. We took a taxicab from the hotel back home and went to bed. In separate rooms. I always remember that night. When I look back, I remember how strange it was that while we were sipping champagne and talking about the company’s investments in Germany and Switzerland, something so terrible was happening. I have never forgotten it."

  "Where is your husband now?" Juliette asked. Now, Paulette was meeting her eyes again. Perhaps the earlier evasion hadn't meant as much as she had thought.

  "He is in South America. He now lives in Brazil," she said.

  Juliette wasn't satisfied with her answers entirely, and she wanted to question her further. But at that point, Paulette frowned.

  "You know, talking about this, it is making something come back to me," she said.

  Juliette leaned forward, feeling eager. Maybe this was it, the breakthrough she had been hoping for. "What is it?" she asked.

  "It's just a vague memory of something he said and something he referred to," Paulette said. "It only surfaced in my mind now. And if I speak of it, I will speak wrongly. I need to do some research so that I can tell you the truth."

  "How long will that take?"

  Paulette frowned, tapping the table, deep in thought. "Can you come back? Not tomorrow, because I will be returning from my trip to Lyon. When I return, I will do my research and contact the person I need to ask. So, how about the day after? I will see if I can find out the details."

  The details on what? Who was she going to ask? Juliette felt exquisitely impatient to know more but sensed that until she had the facts straight, Paulette would not be forthcoming. So there was nothing she could do now but thank her. At least she was cooperating, and she was going to find out more. Juliette guessed she should be thankful for that.

  "Shall I'll call you in two days, then?" Juliette asked.

  "I will call you the day after tomorrow," Paulette said, reinforcing to Juliette that she preferred to keep control of the situation herself.

  "Thank you again for seeing me, Juliette said, realizing that her time was now up and that Paulette needed to get on with her day. “I appreciate it."

  "And it was nice to meet you, too, if a little shocking," Paulette said. Once again, her sharp gaze pierced Juliette, and she wondered - was Paulette holding something back? Or was it just that every affair required secrecy and lies, and some of this was still hanging over their dynamic?

  But she'd promised to find out more, so Juliette had to put her misgivings aside.

  In two days, she'd know more, and until then, she would just have to wait. She'd been patient for years already, she told herself. A few more days could hardly make a difference, and it was important to go slowly so that Paulette had time to do her research and didn't feel pressured.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18