I do need to ask you a few questions.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “I’m just gathering information about something that might have happened here a little over a week ago.” She gave him the date of the hit-and-run. “Were you working that night?”
“I was. I work here every night.”
“I bet you get a lot of customers.”
“Not so many as you’d think,” he said. “Not too many people drive to Manhattan nightclubs, even upscale ones like this. Don’t want to deal with driving home, I suppose.”
“That makes sense,” Francesca said. “The person I’m investigating would have had white-blond hair. He’d be very tall—over six feet—and muscular, with light blue eyes.”
“Oh, sure,” the valet said. “I remember that guy. Had an accent, too. Not from around here.”
That had to be Viggo. She was sure of it. “Did the same man pick up the car at the end of the night?”
“Of course,” the valet said, bristling slightly. “We don’t release vehicles to people other than their owners.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t have done so deliberately,” she said. “I’m just wondering if it was possible that a mistake was made.”
“No, I remember. It was the same person.”
She nodded. Turning, she beckoned to Viggo, indicating that he should come over.
“This man,” she said as Viggo approached. “He was the one who dropped off the car, was he not?”
“That’s not the same person,” the valet said.
“Imagine him with blond hair and eyebrows,” Francesca said. “Then would you recognize him.”
“Maybe this will help,” Viggo said, and removed the glasses Francesca had given him.
The valet frowned. “That—yes, now that I look at him more closely, I do think this was him.”
“And was he the one who picked up the car?” Francesca asked. “Look closely now. Try to be sure. This is important.”
The valet examined Viggo carefully, then shook his head. “I think it was him,” he said. “I was sure a moment ago. But now…I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right. Maybe I did make a mistake.”
Francesca pulled out her phone and found the picture of Jean Fabron. “What about this man?” she asked. “Did you see him that night?”
The valet paled. “That’s him,” he said. “This is the man who picked up the car at the end of the night. I remember now. I remember thinking that a night of drinking had made him less attractive somehow. But it was a different man!”
“You’re sure of this?” Francesca asked, heart pounding with excitement. “This man here dropped off the car, and the man in the photo picked up that same car later that evening?”
“I’m sure,” the valet said. He turned to Viggo. “I’m so sorry, sir. He had the ticket, and he did look the same. I believed he was you.”
“You’re not in any trouble,” Francesca assured him again. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
She hurried away from the club, Viggo right on her heels.
Neither of them spoke until they had put a block between themselves and the club. Then Viggo caught her hand in his.
“You did it,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.
“It isn’t over yet,” she reminded him.
“But we know now that Fabron had the car that night. I didn’t. Which means that he was the one who committed the hit-and-run. I’m innocent.”
She looked up at his face and saw that he was on the verge of either tears or laughter. She reached up and wrapped her arms around him.
“Yes,” she said. “We can’t prove it in court yet. But we know the truth of what happened, and we have a credible witness.”
“It almost doesn’t matter,” Viggo said. “I mean, it matters, of course, but at the same time…I feel as though what really matters is knowing that I’m innocent. I’ve been living with the idea that I might have killed someone this whole time, and now I know that I didn’t.”
“That must be a relief.”
“It’s unimaginable.” He smiled down at her. “I almost forgot what it felt like not to have such a horrible thing weighing on my soul.”
“We’ve done enough work for tonight,” Francesca said. “We’ve found out as much as we can. Why don’t we go home and celebrate? I think I have a bottle of wine.”
“Wine, huh?” Viggo said, raising his darkened eyebrows.
“I know it’s not exactly brännvin.”
“No, it isn’t,” Viggo agreed. “But I can think of a way I’d rather celebrate than brännvin.”
His eyes were locked onto hers. It felt as if he were holding her magnetically with his gaze. She couldn't break free, and she