In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts by Tess Gerritsen Page A

lap. “So tell me,” she said,
    “why are you getting involved now?”
    “Because you and Jordan are. Because Claude Daumier asked me to look after you.” He glanced at her and added quietly, “And because I owe it to your father. He was…a good man.” She thought he would say more, but then he turned and gazed straight ahead at the road.
    “Wolf,” asked Jordan, who was sitting in the back seat,
    “are you aware that we’re being followed?”
    “What?” Beryl turned and scanned the traffic behind them. “Which car?”
    “The blue Peugeot. Two cars back.”
    “I see it,” said Richard. “It’s been tailing us all the way from the hotel.”

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    “You knew the car was there all the time?” said Beryl.
    “And you didn’t think of mentioning it?”
    “I expected it. Take a good look at the driver, Jordan.
    Blond hair, sunglasses. Definitely a woman.” Jordan laughed. “Why, it’s my little vampiress in black. Colette.”
    Richard nodded. “One of the friendlies.”
    “How can you be sure?” asked Beryl.
    “Because she’s Daumier’s agent. Which makes her protection, not a threat.” Richard turned off Boulevard Raspail. A moment later, he spotted a parking space and pulled up at the curb. “In fact, she can keep an eye on the car while we’re inside.”
    Beryl glanced at the large brick building across the street. Over the entrance archway were displayed the words Maison de Convalescence. “What is this place?”
    “A nursing home.”
    “This is where Inspector Broussard lives?”
    “He’s been here for years,” said Richard, as he gazed up at the building with a look of pity. “Ever since his stroke.”
    Judging by the photograph tacked to the wall of his room, ex-Chief Inspector Broussard had once been an impressive man. The picture showed a beefy Frenchman with a handlebar mustache and a lion’s mane of hair, posing regally on the steps of a Paris police station.
    It bore little resemblance to the shrunken creature now propped up, his body half-paralyzed, in bed.
    Mme Broussard bustled about the room, all the time speaking with the precise grammar of a former teacher of English. She fluffed her husband’s pillow, combed his 88
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    hair, wiped the drool from his chin. “He remembers everything,” she insisted. “Every case, every name. But he cannot speak, cannot hold a pen. And that is what frustrates him! It is why I do not let him have visitors. He wishes so much to talk, but he cannot form the words.
    Only a few, here and there. And how it upsets him! Sometimes, after a visit with friends, he will moan for days.” She moved to the head of the bed and stood there like a guardian angel. “You ask him only a few questions, do you understand? And if he becomes upset, you must leave immediately.”
    “We understand,” said Richard. He pulled up a chair next to the bedside. As Beryl and Jordan watched, he opened the police file and slowly laid the crime-scene photos on the coverlet for Broussard to see. “I know you can’t speak,” he said, “but I want you to look at these. Nod if you remember the case.”
    Mme Broussard translated for her husband. He stared down at the first photo—the gruesome death poses of Madeline and Bernard. They lay like lovers, entwined in a pool of blood. Clumsily Broussard touched the photo, his fingers lingering on Madeline’s face. His lips formed a whispered word.
    “What did he say?” asked Richard.
    “ La belle. Beautiful woman,” said Mme Broussard.
    “You see? He does remember.”
    The old man was gazing at the other photos now, his left hand beginning to quiver in agitation. His lips moved helplessly; the effort to speak came out in grunts. Mme Broussard leaned forward, trying to make out what he was saying. She shook her head in bewilderment.
    “We’ve read his report,” said Beryl. “The one he filed In Their Footsteps
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    twenty years ago. He concluded that it was a murder and suicide. Did