Holly needed to speak again to the friends, especially to Ivy. The one who’d so adamantly insisted Ethan Montclair had hurt his wife and possibly killed his child. To whom pictures had been shown, murder weapons given. It seemed to Holly that Sutton Montclair was a master manipulator. She’d killed her child, done a mighty fine job of trying to set up her husband for murder, all under the guise of poor little me, I’m an abused wife. She’d deceived everyone around her, including the women who thought she was their friend. She needed to run this past them, and see who thought Sutton Montclair capable of this level of deception.
Holly hated her. Which was ridiculous. She was mad at a woman she’d never met, because she’d managed to turn everyone’s world upside down, and two people were dead because of it.
The whole team had been digging, and Holly had been digging, too. Deep. She’d talked to Siobhan Healy in Canada again, who’d called Holly back at the station when she heard that her daughter’s body had been found. The conversation that ensued was one Holly wouldn’t ever forget. Mrs. Healy had expressed disbelief, as was to be expected. And then she’d said, “Well, since she’s dead, I guess you can unseal the juvenile records now, can’t you?”
Holly had nearly dropped the phone.
“What does she have juvenile records for, ma’am?”
“You’ll see. This truly is a shame. I never did believe Ethan had the balls to murder her. Do I need to come home? No, of course I don’t. We should be able to finish our vacation before the funeral.” And she’d hung up. The woman was cold as ice. But of course she was. Her daughter had to learn it somewhere.
Was the mother involved? She’d skedaddled out of town quickly, but if there was one thing all the people in Sutton’s life agreed on, it was her prickly relationship with her mother.
Holly tapped her fingers along the base of her laptop. She was three cups of coffee in and needed a bathroom break badly, but those juvie records were calling her.
She typed in Sutton Healy, came up with nothing. Tried Siobhan Healy, nothing. It was half an hour later, deep in the system, she found a name change petition. Maude Wilson. Mother of Elizabeth Sutton Wilson. Maude’s new name was Siobhan.
Now who was being devious? Looked like Sutton came by it naturally.
She plugged in Wilson, Elizabeth S. There was an immediate hit. She opened the file, and started to read. An hour later, she emerged from the computer, rinsed her coffee cup, used the bathroom, and perched on the edge of her desk to think.
Sutton Montclair wasn’t who she said she was.
And Holly wasn’t surprised at all.
HAZE ON THE SEINE
Sutton talked for two hours. She explained everything that had led up to her fleeing from Tennessee in the first hour, and in the second, everything that had happened since she’d arrived in Paris. Badeau and the unseen others listened without interruption until she brought up Constantine.
“Constantine Raffalo. Did you ever see an identification for him? A passport, a license of some sort?”
“No. But you say you have me on video at Sacré-Coeur? I was supposed to meet him there. That’s why I went, to see the sunrise, work, and meet him for lunch. He encouraged me to go. Perhaps he will be on the video. And if there are cameras at my café on the corner, he was certainly there a few times. He is involved in this. I don’t know how, but he is. He must be. If I were a paranoid woman, I would say he is Colin Wilde, and he’s set me up. But that would be quite a leap.”
“He was in your apartment alone? He had access? Did you give him a key?”
“No, I didn’t give him a key, but that means nothing. He could have made a copy. He could have picked the lock. He could have watched to see when I left the flat for a walk or for food. He could very easily have gotten in when I was gone, any number of times. I’ve spent more time walking the streets than I have at home.” Sutton shrugged. “It’s Paris. Why stay inside if you don’t need to?”
“It is very convenient, this phantom man who you barely know.”
“But it’s the truth, Inspector. I’m not proud of my behavior, but it’s all true.”
Badeau stared at her a moment, then stood. “I will be back. Can I bring you coffee?”
“Do you have any tea?”
Badeau nodded and slipped out the door.
She believes me, Sutton thought, practically collapsing against the chair. Thank God, she believes me.
Twenty minutes later, Badeau returned. She had a mug of tea in one hand and a slip of paper in the other. She set both down on the table in front of Sutton.
The tea was milky, sweet, and hot. Sutton felt tears rise when she took a sip. Just like Ethan made for her, though this wasn’t as strong. Still, it was warm and sugary and comforting as a hug. She took another sip, then looked at the paper.
It was a grainy still photograph of Constantine.
“That’s him. That’s Constantine.”
“You are certain?”
“I am. Where was this taken?”
“Sacré-Coeur. You were correct. He was there the morning after the murder, as well. I would be interested in speaking with him. Do you have any way to contact him?”
“I don’t. I broke it off this morning. Yesterday morning?”
“You have been here for nearly twenty-four hours.”
No wonder she felt so awful. No sleep, no food, only the tea. “Then yesterday. I told him I came to Paris to be alone, that I didn’t want to see him anymore.”
“Was he upset by this? Angered? Threatening?”
“No. More...disappointed, but not hurt, or rejected. He seemed cold but not angry. He left without fuss. Can you find him?”
“Not without considerable help.”
“Why is that?”
She slapped down another photo, this one much clearer. Shot from above. Constantine, but not Constantine. The man in this picture had surfer blond hair and a grim smile on his face. His tall body was clothed in khakis and a blue button-down. He was midstride, carrying a black leather duffel bag.
“The man who told you he was called Constantine Raffalo took a flight from de Gaulle last night. Paris to JFK. We have made calls to the FBI to warn them. Hopefully, they can arrest him quickly. When they do, they will arrange for us to have a discussion with him.”
“I don’t understand. He bleached his hair and caught a flight to JFK?”
“He changed his name, as well. Or lied to you. The passport he flew under names him as Trent Duggan. American citizen, thirty-five years old, birthplace, Orlando, Florida. The passport’s issuing office is also in Florida. The problem is, the name, address, social security number, and passport number do not match anyone from the state of Florida. I will need to see the passport itself to make the determination, but, like yours, I believe his papers are false. Your issuing office is the same as his.”
Sutton tried to wrap her head around it. “But he said he was a military brat. That he grew up all over the world.”
“More lies, it would seem.” Badeau sat down. She seemed tired. Sutton supposed she must be; she’d been here the whole time.
“If am I to believe you, madame, that you are here because you are in trouble, this is the narrative you expect me to put forth to my superiors. You arrived, you found a flat, you explored the city, started writing your book, then went to bed with a man who gave you a false name, a false background, and, apparently from the photographs, a false look, as well. You are utterly innocent of any wrongdoing. Everything that has happened since your arrival is some sort of coincidence, which, as a police officer, I am reluctant to believe in. Yes?”