be there. The inspector, even. I just . . .”
The officer held up her hand and shook her head. “You’re a prime suspect in an ongoing investigation. It’s not possible.”
“But is he okay?”
The officer glowered at her for several seconds. “He’s fine.”
“Really? His chest? The knife wound—”
“I told you, he’s fine.”
“Will you tell him I’m thinking of him?”
The officer just stared at her.
Sidney leaned forward. “Has he asked about me?”
“I’ve told you all I can. What monsieur Chapman does or thinks, I cannot say.”
“But . . .”
The officer held up her hand. “Non. No more.”
Sidney sank back in her seat. Had he asked about her? Surely the officer would tell her that much, wouldn’t she? And what did she mean by “does or thinks”? Was she avoiding telling her something she wouldn’t like to hear?
Sidney sighed. She knew what she didn’t want to hear. Maybe the woman knew it, too. Had his emotions cooled with a week in a cell? Was that it? Was that what the woman was avoiding?
She bit her lip and mashed her hands together. She remembered everything about him. Banging heads in the shower. His stupid act to get past the police officer at Auguste’s apartment, then returning with a dog. Running away from the bank after he crashed the police car into their revolving door. Finding the painting.
She breathed out hard and straightened her back. He really had seemed different. Hell, he was probably the bravest person she’d ever met. He’d come back for her. Faced the dictator and his men, and saved her life, even after she had been the one to put their lives in danger. He’d turned out to be a real, live James Bond.
But it had only been one day. A wild day, but just one. And was that it? Had he gone back to his old self now that the adrenaline had gone?
The door creaked and the inspector walked in. He had a wad of papers in his hands and a pen tucked behind his ear.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. You are ready to help us this morning, non?”
Sidney took a deep breath and stared at him. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
Chapter 34
Piers heard footsteps in the corridor outside his cell. Every noise reverberated in the empty metal-and-concrete staging area. Footsteps had come and gone all week. Sometimes they’d been singing drunks, but often they’d been the inspector assigned to his case. This time there was no singing.
He rolled over gingerly on his bunk. The pain across his chest was almost gone. The cut had been long but not deep. His leg wasn’t so good. The bullet had torn a chunk from his thigh. The doctors had stitched and dressed the wound, but it was going to take weeks to heal.
Several times a day he’d asked to see Sidney, but every request had been denied. On one occasion, he had seen her disappearing through a door as he was led to an interview room. He’d shouted her name and she had turned, but the guards had closed the door before they could speak.
She had been right about the French police. They were efficient, but not in the slightest bit sympathetic to their situation. He understood. It was a tall tale and there was a trail of bodies to be explained.
An attorney had been assigned to each of them. Piece by piece, evidence had cleared them of the murders. Brunwald had been taken to The Hague to stand trial for crimes in Elbistonia. Kuznik had quickly followed, his men providing a ready stream of information when they discovered their escape route had been rigged to dispose of them in the air. The painting had been returned with much fanfare through the embassy, and Piers had glimpsed a moment of TV showing celebrations on the streets of the Elbistonian capital.
His attorney had refused to pass messages to Sidney, but in one interview he had told him the only charge she was still facing was illegal immigration. Piers had felt a great weight lift from his shoulders with that news. He had practically skipped back to his cell.
But that had been two days ago and he hadn’t seen or heard of her since.
He wanted her released, of course, but what would she do? Stay in Paris? Or would the authorities force her to return to Elbistonia? Would he see her again? Would she want to see him? She certainly hadn’t been pleased when the police arrived on the bridge. Her ardor had cooled rapidly