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

he truly believe that?” Again, Mme Broussard translated.
    Broussard looked up at Beryl, his gaze focusing for the first time on her black hair. A look of wonder came over his face, almost a look of recognition.
    His wife repeated the question. Did he believe it was a murder and suicide?
    Slowly Broussard shook his head.
    Jordan asked, “Does he understand the question?”
    “Of course he does!” snapped Mme Broussard. “I told you, he understands everything.”
    The man was tapping at one of the photos now, as though trying to point something out. His wife asked a question in French. He only slapped harder at the photo.
    “Is he trying to point at something?” asked Beryl.
    “Just a corner of the picture,” said Richard. “A view of empty floor.”
    Broussard’s whole body seemed to be quivering with the effort to speak. His wife leaned forward again, straining to make out his words. She shook her head. “It makes no sense.”
    “What did he say?” asked Beryl.
    “ Serviette. It is a napkin or a towel. I do not understand.” She snatched up a hand towel from the sink and held it up to her husband. “Serviette de toilette?” He shook his head and angrily batted away the towel.
    “I do not know what he means,” Mme Broussard said with a sigh.
    “Maybe I do,” said Richard. He bent close to Broussard.
    “Porte documents?” he asked.

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    Broussard gave a sigh of relief and collapsed against his pillows. Wearily he nodded.
    “That’s what he was trying to say,” said Richard. “ Serviette porte documents. A briefcase.”
    “Briefcase?” echoed Beryl. “Do you think he means the one with the classified file?”
    Richard frowned at Broussard. The man was exhausted, his face a sickly gray against the white linen.
    Mme Broussard took one look at her husband and moved in to shield him from Richard. “No further questions, Mr. Wolf! Look at him! He is drained—he cannot tell you more. Please, you must leave.” She hurried them out of the room and into the hallway.
    A nun glided past, carrying a tray of medicines. At the end of the hall, a woman in a wheelchair was singing lullabies to herself in French.
    “Mme Broussard,” said Beryl, “we have more questions, but your husband can’t answer them. There was another detective’s name on that report—an Etienne Giguere. How can we get in touch with him?”
    “Etienne?” Mme Broussard looked at her in surprise.
    “You mean you do not know?”
    “Know what?”
    “He was killed nineteen years ago. Hit by a car while crossing the street.” Sadly she shook her head. “They did not find the driver.”
    Beryl caught Jordan’s startled look; she saw in his eyes the same dismay she felt.
    “One last question,” said Jordan. “When did your husband have his stroke?”
    “1974.”
    “Also nineteen years ago?”

    In Their Footsteps
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    Mme Broussard nodded. “Such a tragedy for the department! First, my husband’s stroke. Then three months later, they lose Etienne.” Sighing, she turned back to her husband’s room. “But that is life, I suppose. And there is nothing we can do to change it….”
    Back outside again, the three of them stood for a moment in the sunshine, trying to shake off the gloom of that depressing building.
    “A hit and run?” said Jordan. “The driver never caught?
    I have a bad feeling about this.”
    Beryl glanced up at the archway. “Maison de Convalescence,” she murmured sarcastically. “Hardly a place to recover. More like a place to die.” Shivering, she turned to the car. “Please, let’s just get out of here.” They drove north, to the Seine. Once again, the blue Peugeot followed them, but none of them paid it much attention; the French agent had become a fact of life—almost a reassuring one.
    Suddenly Jordan said, “Hold on, Wolf. Let me off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. In fact, right about here would be fine.”
    Richard pulled over to the curb. “Why here?”
    “We just passed a