Jacques waved a hand in the air. “Come into the library. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Tara found herself ushered into a small office and seated before a French detective. He introduced himself as Inspector Javet, in charge of the murder case, and asked her to sit. He started speaking in French, but aware of her accent, slipped easily into English.
He was a big man, not in the sense of armchair-big or youthful muscle gone to fat. He was simply big. Not exceptionally tall, but well muscled and trim, with a surprisingly lean, aesthetically attractive face, dark hair, and very deep, dark eyes.
“I understand that you have some information to give me about the murder at the crypt, Miss Adair,” he said, folding his hands on his desk and staring at her.
“Information?” she repeated. “No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I’ve come here because I’m worried about what happened at the crypt.”
If he was disappointed that his direct question gave him no aid, he kept the emotion from registering in his eyes.
“Mademoiselle, everyone is worried about what happened in the crypt. I’m afraid that if you’ve come here for assurance, you are wasting time for us both.” As she stared back at him, he sighed softly. “I am working on this case full time. We have brought in a man from Paris. Every possible piece of forensic evidence is being collected and analyzed. We are living in modern times where science is most helpful. Have you been to the ruins?”
“Ah, yes.” The question took her by surprise, and she found herself remembering, vividly and annoyingly, that Brent Malone had repeatedly warned her to keep her name out of the situation. Her grandfather had warned her as well.
“How long have you been in the country?”
“Just a few days. I have family here.”
He shuffled through papers on his desk, then stared at her again. “You are staying at the Château DeVant.”
“Jacques DeVant is my grandfather.”
That brought another long stare.
“Old Jacques,” Javet murmured. “Tell me, did he send you to the crypt?”
“No!” she lied quickly, and hoped that her protest was not so strong it betrayed her immediately. “No, I have always been interested in the history of the area. I’m American, as you’re well aware. We like to go back and find our roots, that kind of thing, you know. We seldom just say we’re Americans, you see. Because we all have a background somewhere else. Except, of course, our Native Americans. But most of us say that we are something. You know, Hispanic-American, Afro-American, Irish American, French American ... you know.”
She was babbling. Great. And her cheeks were growing red.
“Yes, of course,” Javet said. She wondered if he had grown suspicious. She wondered what he would say if she were to break down and tell him that her grandfather was convinced that evil had been dug up, that vampires were streaking around the village, probably intent upon the great feast offered not just here, but just a shade farther west, in the great populous city of Paris. And that, in her short time here, she had met the strangest people, also convinced of evil, one of whom had been in the crypt at the time of the murder.
Where she had been as well.
“Look,” she said impatiently, “I’m sorry for wasting your time. But I’m here for an extended stay. My cousin is a young woman who travels in and out of the city daily. Naturally, I am very worried. The papers have done little except describe the murder. Yes, I was hoping to come in here and find out that the police were hard on the case, and that you did have suspects, and perhaps, that an arrest was imminent.”
Javet smiled at last. “Passionate, impetuous, and determined that justice must be done! Yes, you are very American—and somewhat French. I wish I could tell you that an arrest was imminent. I can tell you that we do have suspects. And that we do not intend to rest until the perpetrator of this horrible crime is brought to justice. Now, are you happy?”
“I’d be happier to hear that you have the murderer in custody.”
“Of course,” Javet said, “and I’d be happier, of course, if I didn’t feel that there is more that you’re not telling me.”
She shrugged. “I wish that there was more that I could tell you. My cousin and I went out last night and when we were leaving, I thought that—that we were being followed. That we were, perhaps, intended victims of ... some kind of an attack.”
“Leaving where?”
“La Guerre.”
“And what made you feel that you were under attack?”
She realized just how ridiculous she was going to sound before she spoke. “Shadows,” she said despite herself.
“Ah, shadows. A dark street, fear in your hearts,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “Was there any more than just ... shadows?”
She hesitated again. “We thought we hit something—or someone.”
“Oh? There have been no reports of bodies found in the street this morning.”
“No ... we drove back. There was nothing in the street.”
Javet kept staring at her. She felt her cheeks reddening again. She wondered if she should tell him that they had not left the bar alone, and that their companion had held back, telling them to run. But then he’d want to know who the companion had been, and she would tangle herself further and further into the events in the crypt. It had been foolish for her to come.
“Look,” she said. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have taken your time. I suppose that I did want some kind of assurance. I needed to know that the police were ... doing something.”
Javet shrugged. “You thought we were a poor provincial police, and that we hadn’t the knowledge or capabilities of dealing with such a horrible crime, because we are accustomed to ticketing people who do not come to a full stop at the signs in the street.”
“No, no, really—”
“As I have said, we have an excellent man in from Paris, a man who is accustomed to this kind of work. And we are not so poorly equipped as you might think. We are small, on the outskirts of a great city, but even here, there are things that happen. There is a great deal of countryside. We have dealt with the pathetic remains of murders before.”
Time to compliment the man, she thought. “From the moment I met you, sir, I could see that you were a serious law-enforcement officer.”
He nodded. Flattered or not, she couldn’t tell.
She decided to move in. “I understand that one of the diggers at the site is the man who reported the crime.”
“Yes.”
“I assume he is a suspect.”
For the first time, Javet looked a little uncomfortable. He quickly masked his unease. “He has been questioned, and is being ... watched.”
“But he is not under arrest.”
“Not yet.”
“But he may be? Soon?”
“We don’t believe that he could have committed the crime, Miss Adair, and as to exactly why, I am not at liberty to say. He has been told, of course, not to leave the area. And I know that he has not done so because we keep tabs on his whereabouts.”
She wondered just how good the inspector’s information could be on Brent Malone’s whereabouts, since he was at that moment, she assumed, still at her own family home.
But then, again, she was the one person who knew for certain. that Malone was not guilty.
“What about Professor Dubois?”
“Dubois,” Javet said, shaking his head. “Trust me, mademoiselle, we have spoken with Dubois. He calls daily. His concern is not for the man who died; he is anxious to get back into his dig. He has no intention of leaving the area. He hounds me on a daily basis.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“There were witnesses who saw the professor leave the crypt. And witnesses who saw him reach his home. We are following every lead, and cannot let out every scrap of information that we have—if we ever expect to find the killer, we can’t have him aware of what clues we have found. And naturally, Miss Adair, and this, of course, is no more than you can r
ead in the papers, we believe that someone entered the tomb for the purpose of robbery, and that they did not expect to find a worker still on the site. Therefore, he had to die. So I assure you, we are investigating the professor’s acquaintances, though it is true as well that a scholar who has committed his own funds to research may not be aware of the greed of others who allow him to lead them to a treasure trove, and then steal the treasure from beneath his nose. Rest assured, we are investigating.”
She nodded, feeling that she had been dismissed. She started to rise. “Again, I’m sorry for having taken your time.”
He rose as well, and smiled at last. “It was a pleasant break. Perhaps you will join me again for coffee, and I can keep you up to date on the events when I am not on duty.”
His words startled her. His manner had been not just professional, but almost impatient. She found herself nodding in agreement. “Yes, coffee. That would be nice.”
“I will see you out.”
He escorted her through the office, opening the door for her. His eyes were very dark and unfathomable as he asked her, “If your tremendous concern for Mr. Malone comes from the fact that you two have met, I would suggest that you be careful.”
“What?”
“I told you, Miss Adair, that he is a man we are watching. Did you meet in the tomb when he was working, or was your first encounter with the American man at the café down the street?”
“I saw him when he was working, of course. We didn’t really meet until I saw him at the café the following morning.” That was very close to the truth, and her voice was even, considering the fact that the inspector had taken her so completely off guard. She smiled. “And yes, of course, since I have met the man, and read in the paper about his discovery of the body, I am concerned.”
Javet nodded. “Miss Adair, you should have mentioned that fact from the beginning.”
“Since you’re aware that we’ve met, you should understand my concern.”
Again, he gave a slight inclination of his head.
“Perhaps I should inform you as well that your grandfather’s interest in the tomb is also suspect.”
“My grandfather!”
“Our records indicate—along with the testimony of Professor Dubois—that Jacques DeVant had a tremendous interest in the tomb before it was opened.”
“My grandfather is in poor health, Inspector. He could hardly hurt anyone.”
“He is a man of some means, Miss Adair. And he was adamant about that site not being disturbed. He wrote many letters of protest, to the church, to the government, even to the police station.”
“He is a scholar, a man of history, and also a very religious man. With sound convictions. But my grandfather is not at all a violent man!”
Javet studied her for a long moment. “Your grandfather came to be known as a hero of the Resistance, Miss Adair. I assure you, he must have known some violence at one time of his life.”
“He was a soldier in a war, Inspector. All men must do their duty at such a time.”
Javet shrugged. “I’m merely explaining to you that your grandfather loathed the very idea of the dig, and that he is definitely a wealthy enough man to have had influence on others.”
“He would never hire a killer. Ever. And you can bring in every expert from Paris and around the world, and you’ll still never find anything to suggest that he would!”
Javet smiled, then stiffened suddenly. “Ah, well. Miss Adair, perhaps this gentleman will make you feel a bit better about the situation.” He inclined his head toward someone coming their way, footsteps landing softly on the pavement.
She swung around to see a pleasant looking, light-haired man with deep eyes and a hard chiseled face. Taller than Javet, broad-shouldered, with the look of a long-seasoned police official.
“Miss Adair, this is Inspector Trusseau, from the Paris office. Inspector, Miss Adair. The young lady is an American visiting French relatives. The DeVants.”
“Mademoiselle,” the Inspector murmured. Low-toned, charming voice. He kissed her hand, as if he were a prince rather than a policeman. She smiled, nodding, drawing her hand back. Smooth. Definitely smooth. Very charming smile. Too ... suave for a policeman. Maybe not. He had very direct eyes, and she found that she couldn’t easily draw her own gaze away.
“How do you do, Inspector Trusseau?” she said.
“Wonderful, thank you. How nice that we have met now.”
“Really, sir? Why is that?”
“Well, naturally, I intend on paying a visit to your grandfather.”
“Why?”
“Because he is such a scholar, of course,” Trusseau said. “I’m hopeful that he can give me some insight into the crime.”
She glanced at Javet.
“I’ve already told her that Jacques DeVant could come under suspicion.”
“And I’ve already told him that suspecting my grandfather of any evil is insanity.”
“Then I would go to him simply for help,” Trusseau said politely, smiling and inclining his head in a gesture that acknowledged her defense of her grandfather. Trusseau shot Javet a hard stare that suddenly made Tara uneasy. Yes, the man could be charming, but he could also be hard as nails. Well, that was good. He was here to find a murderer.
“Inspector Javet has suggested quite plainly, I think, that my grandfather paid someone to kill the worker in the crypt, and spirit away the body in the casket.”
“That’s not quite true,” Javet said, his tone irritated. “What I meant for you to understand is that all leads are being followed.”
Someone called Javet’s name from within the office. He turned, nodded to the officer hailing him, then gave his attention back to Tara. “You’ll excuse me?”
“I shall see Miss Adair to her car,” Trusseau said. He took her arm. There was strength to his hold, and an electricity about him. He was well suited for his job.
“I’m really quite fine. I’m not sure I’m headed straight home,” she told him.
“Then I shall, at the least, bid you a pleasant day, mademoiselle. And may I say that I’m certain we’ll meet again.”
“When you come to question my grandfather?” she said.
He smiled. “Ah, my dear! Just like Lady Liberty, standing tall, protecting the shores of her harbor! Truly, I have heard about your grandfather for ages. Don’t begrudge me this chance to talk with him. When I come, I pray that you’ll be there, and that you’ll invite me in with warmth, and join in the conversation.”
She held very still, imagining this hard-core man listening to her grandfather’s tales about vampires.
Jacques would definitely wind up locked away.
“My grandfather is very ill.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. We’ll not take much of his time.”
“I promise you that when he is resting, we let no one disturb him. No one.”
Could she say that in France? Tara realized that she knew little of French law. In the States, of course, they would need some kind of a warrant to insist on speaking with an aging and ailing man. Here, she wasn’t certain. But Ann would know.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. A pleasure,” he repeated softly.
He turned to the station.
Tara found herself alone on the street. She had gained nothing, she thought, except greater fears and exasperation.
Jacques!
The police were investigating her grandfather! They knew about his interest, and they knew that she had become acquainted with Malone.
She suddenly hated the man! He’d done nothing but bring trouble and danger into their lives.
And her grandfather had not really told her everything; he had given her stories about legends and fantasy. And if the police kept investigating Jacques and he talked about vampires and evil, he would surely wind up in a mental institution. Especially with a man like Inspector Trusseau insisting on speaking with him.
She stared down the block and across the street. The doors to the present St
. Michel had been repaired. A few people were entering and leaving, intent on their daily prayers.
The outer entry to the site remained roped off with yellow crime tape.
There had to be something more that she could do. There had to be a way to protect Jacques. She felt lost, angry, and a little more than afraid.
She started toward the café, thinking a café au lait and a few moments’ thought and reasoning might stand her well. How on earth could she get Malone and his friends away from her household?
And more disturbing, why was it that, when she was near him, she wanted to forget the basic facts she knew and the sensible, logical thoughts that should be prevailing in her mind? He intrigued her, he had informed her with complete confidence. And, of course, the frightening thing was that it was true, and he did far more than intrigue her. He seemed to have some kind of a mesmerizing hold on her that went far beyond intrigue.
When she was away from him, she was fine. The closer he came ...
As she stood there, someone opened the police station door and emerged behind her. She started to murmur an, “Excuse me,” and step away. The greatest sense of cold swept over her. A chill that went far beyond the touch of the breeze.
And there was no one there. No one at all.
She frowned, staring at the door that still seemed to be closing. An overwhelming sense of fear seemed to come crashing around her, like a cold wave.
Why not? Javet and Trusseau both seemed to be after Jacques.
They were the cops! she reminded herself. Out for justice.
Malone was the one who had brought fear into her house.
She decided suddenly that she didn’t need coffee or time to think.
She needed to get back to the chateau.
Brent Malone was there. Alone with her grandfather.
She should have never left.
CHAPTER 11
Ann stared at the piles of manuscripts on her desk, and sighed. She allowed her head to fall on her desk. She was exhausted! They had not stayed out so late last night—in fact, she could have stayed much longer. She had enjoyed herself until ...
She almost laughed aloud. Why had they been so afraid when they left La Guerre? Shadows! How silly. Fear had bred fear, and they had then thought that they’d hit something, that something had been on the car, that ...
Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance) Page 17