“It’s very late. I’m very tired. What were you saying?”
“Your husband was arrested earlier today.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Arrested? For what?”
“Murdering you.”
Sutton’s brows creased. What in the world? This was a trick, a trick to get her to talk. She said as much, then asked again for a lawyer.
When Badeau frowned, a small crease appeared on her forehead. Sutton had gotten used to this.
“Madame Montclair. Allow me a moment to speak frankly. I will admit, now that we have become aware of this information, something feels...off about this situation. According to the American police, your body was found, murdered and burned in a field outside the town in which you live. I was told the body was wearing your wedding rings. Your husband was arrested for murdering you.
“And yet, here you sit, very much alive, a murder suspect in your own right. There are two bodies here in the morgue, brutally murdered at Sacré-Coeur. We have video of you at the crime scene. We have the murder weapon that you were trying to dispose of. And there is this.”
She pushed a small gray-and-black box in a plastic bag toward Sutton.
“This was found in your apartment.”
It looked like a ring box. As she watched, Badeau unsealed the evidence bag, creaked open the box. Flakes of black fell onto the table. Inside was a small diamond engagement ring.
“The blood on this ring box also matches that on the knife. There is no more logical conclusion other than to assume it must have been taken from the Sacré-Coeur crime scene.”
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
Badeau’s brow furrowed. “I thought you would claim as much.” She leaned forward, almost as if she was going to touch Sutton’s hand. “Madame, you are in very serious trouble. I implore you, explain yourself.”
Sutton shook her head.
Badeau sat for a moment, unmoving, unspeaking, then shrugged. “My superior is at this moment making a call to the police in your town to tell them we have you in our custody. And that we will be charging you with double homicide. It would not surprise me at all if a third charge will not be pending.”
“A third?” Sutton blurted out.
“Mais oui, madame. It seems quite logical to me that you attempted to obscure your flight from the United States by murdering someone, putting your rings on the poor soul’s finger, and fleeing here to Paris. Your murderous rage took you to Sacré-Coeur, where you killed the two innocent students, hid the murder weapon, then casually returned to the scene of the crime to lay flowers in an effort to make yourself look sympathetic. You are quite the dangerous creature.”
Sutton felt the blood draining from her head as the woman spoke, each word a nail to her heart. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not how she meant for anything to go. A sick and deep nausea gripped her. She knew she was going to be ill. Sutton clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Please, the trash can.”
Badeau shoved it toward her with her foot.
But she didn’t get sick, just sat miserably, sweating, the gorge rising. She hadn’t eaten, there was nothing to throw up. Her stomach churned. What had happened? What was going on? A dead body, wearing her rings? She’d left them behind in Franklin, with...
Everything, crashing into place. The past month: the plans made, the precautions taken, the confidences given. The “plan” was for Sutton to get away from it all, to start a new life. To excise Ethan without the messiness of a separation and divorce. To get away from the man she was afraid of, the man she feared killed their child. Self-preservation, yes, but something more, something else. Punishment. For both of them. For what had happened, and what was to come.
Paris was the obvious choice. The place they’d talked about. The dream location. If you’re going to escape your life, you might as well do it right.
And now there were bodies, one wearing her rings, two more practically lying at her feet, and a horrible realization started deep within her.
Ethan, arrested.
Sutton, arrested.
Only one person knew what she’d planned. Had helped. Had encouraged. A shoulder to cry on, a compatriot in the plot. And now...
She had to get out of here. She had to get home. She had to fix this. Dear God, what had she done?
“Are you going to be unwell?” Badeau asked.
Sutton coiled her hair in her hand, lifting its mass off her neck, passing her hand quickly behind to fan herself. “Yes, I’m going to be unwell. How would you feel if someone accused you of murdering three people when you did no such thing?”
Badeau smiled, briefly. “It is warm in here. Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, I would.”
The door opened and a bottle of Evian was handed in. Sutton opened it and drank. She felt better. It was hot in the stifling little room. She hadn’t had any sleep, or food, and she was tired of being harassed. It wasn’t smart, speaking without counsel; she could hear Joel Robinson’s voice in her head, warning her off. Actually, it was terribly reckless, but she was sick and scared, and being pushed was never something she could handle. And truth be told, Sutton’s specialty was recklessness.
There were more people listening to the interview; the water had been forthcoming almost immediately. She needed to be careful, but she needed to talk, to clear herself, to get home to Ethan. She needed him. He needed her. They were going to have to face this threat together.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sutton said.
“Are you willing to make a statement, for the record, then?”
“Yes. On one condition. When I finish, I want to call my husband.”
“We cannot guarantee anything, madame. But I agree to pass on a message to your husband should you answer our questions adequately.”
Sutton took a deep drink of the water. And then she told them. She told them everything.
ONCE A JUVIE, ALWAYS A JUVIE
Holly didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so insane as the media frenzy when Ethan Montclair walked out of jail and the chief had to eat crow for arresting him before they’d formally ID’d the body found at the farm off Highway 96. Which the ME hadn’t been able to do yet. There were no other officially missing women in the area, so unless a family member came forward or the dental database got a hit—which she doubted they would, because the victim clearly hadn’t been being treated by a dentist recently, so current radiographs were a long shot—they had a Jane Doe on their hands.
An anonymous victim. Lost. No way to determine age, ethnicity, or identity, thanks to the very well-placed fire. A stranger, wearing Sutton Montclair’s wedding set.
Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes. Holly couldn’t get the refrain out of her head.
Once the crow had been eaten, the friends lined up for more interviews, both with the Franklin Police and the media, now begging Sutton to come forward, to show herself, to stop the charade. Ethan Montclair drank himself into oblivion while Joel Robinson gave proxy interviews begging Sutton to come home.
Holly ignored it all. She shut the doors to the conference war room and went back to work.
Because now, they were acting under the assumption that Sutton Montclair was a murderer.
It was quite clear from all the interviews that she’d been parceling out information to her friends. Phyllis, the comforting knowledge she was the only confessor. Ellen, the honor of intelligence and professional intimacy. Ivy, taken advantage of the most, given the Benadryl bottle to make it look like her husband had killed their child. Holly imagined Sutton to be a disturbed woman, volatile and unpredictable. A woman with problems, who was lashing out at everyone and everything around her. A woman who lost her child, Holly. That alone would drive anyone insane.
Lost? O
r was Sutton Montclair responsible for her baby’s death?
It was an easy hypothesis. Kill the baby, lose her mind, fake her own death, set up her husband. Perhaps it should be the realm of fiction, but it wasn’t outside the bounds of reality. People had done worse for less.
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 po
lice officer, I am reluctant to believe in. Yes?”
Sutton nodded. “It’s the truth. I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear it.”
“And yet we have two murdered students at Sacré-Coeur, a female victim in Tennessee, and you’ve admitted to traveling under false papers, which, as I’m sure you know, is a very serious crime, especially in light of our current security situation. You are a contradiction in terms, as they say.”
“I didn’t do any of it, except for getting the fake passport. I swear.”
Badeau nodded. Was the woman softening? Sutton felt a glimmer of hope.
“Tell me again how you came by the false papers?”
“My friend got them for me. She said she knew a man who could help me disappear. He does work with women’s shelters, getting abused women new identities so they can flee their situations and still be able to get a job. He creates a whole backstory, gives them a new passport, new license, new everything. It’s like witness protection, only run by real people, not by the government.”
“I will need this man’s name.”
“I don’t know it. My friend handled everything. Inspector Badeau, please. I know you don’t believe me, and we can hash through the details as long as you want, but I have to make a call. I need to warn my husband. If my friend is behind this, if she’s trying to hurt me instead of help me, I have to talk to him. I have to make sure he’s watching out. If he gets hurt because of my stupidity, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I must alert the police in your home state about this situation. Once we have discussed things, you may make a phone call.”
“Are you arresting me? Formally?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I leave?”
“Most certainly not. As I said, there are many unanswered questions. You have broken a number of laws, and you must answer for those crimes. To start, I will need the name of your friend, the one who got you the papers.”
Sutton nodded. She hoped like hell she was wrong, but there was only one person who knew where she was. “Her name is Ivy Brookes.”
Lie to Me Page 28
