Page 39 of All the Devils Are Here

There was no way he would have paid for a suite at the George V when he had a perfectly good, even luxurious apartment in Paris.

And yet it appeared that’s exactly what Stephen had done.

Now why was that?

CHAPTER 8

Armand put his arm out and stopped Reine-Marie from going any farther.

They’d let themselves into the apartment and were standing in the wide foyer. The archway into the living room was off to their left.

Reine-Marie, slightly behind her husband, couldn’t yet see the room, or the problem. But Armand could.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. She saw his body tense.

He lowered the cardboard box and shoulder bag to the floor. Leaning forward, Reine-Marie saw what he saw.

The living room was a shambles.

“Armand—” she began but stopped when he raised his hand. A clear signal for silence.

He moved slowly into the room, Reine-Marie behind him. They stepped over and around overturned chairs and side tables, lamps and paintings.

She bumped into his back when he suddenly stopped.

Armand remained completely still for a few heartbeats. He was staring behind an overturned sofa. His face grim.

When he crouched down, she saw.

There was a man on the floor. Facedown.

Dead.

She took a step back, blanching.

Armand stood and looked around quickly. What he’d seen, which Reine-Marie had not, was that the man had been shot twice, once in the back. Once in the head.

The man was cold to the touch. It must have happened a number of hours earlier. But …

“There’s a slight scent in the air. Can you smell it?” he whispered.

She took a deep breath and shook her head. Then she caught it. Hardly there. Elusive. More a suggestion than a scent.

“Try to remember it.” His voice was urgent. His eyes sharp. His whole being alert.

Slightly citrusy, she thought. And sort of muddy. Not a perfume, a cologne. Definitely masculine. Not pleasant.

It was disappearing, even as she tried to grasp it.

“Is it his?” she whispered, not looking at the man again.

“I don’t think so. And it’s not Stephen’s.”

So it was someone else’s, and Reine-Marie immediately followed Armand’s thoughts. And understood his extreme alertness.

Colognes, eaux de toilette, didn’t hang around for long. They might cling to clothes, but did not float in the air. Certainly not for hours. Which meant someone had been there recently. Very recently.

And might still be in the apartment.