The Paris Mysteries (Confessions #3)(18)

“Put simply, Harry went to a party, what I would call an out-of-control bacchanal with no adults on the premises. The girl who invited him to the party, Lulu Ferrara, overdosed and died in a bathroom.”

Jacob expressed his shock, then asked, “Did Harry give drugs to this girl?”

“He says not,” said Delavergne, “and there are no witnesses to the contrary, but the two of them came to the party together, and that makes Harry a person of interest—at the least.”

I shouted, “Harry went with someone to a party? That’s what he did? That’s IT?”

Ignoring me, Delavergne went on. “Mademoiselle Ferrara’s father is deputy foreign attaché to the Italian Consulate. Obviously, Monsieur Ferrara is pulling out—how do you say?—the ‘big guns.’ ”

Jacob said, “Big guns be damned. What are the charges against my nephew? If he’s not charged, they have to release him, isn’t that true in this country?”

Delavergne said, “At present he is being held as a—”

Even as Delavergne said “Témoin important,” I said, “Material witness.”

I knew the drill. Where I come from, material witnesses can be held for forty-eight hours, enough time to break down a hardened street thug into a sobbing baby. Harry was no hardened anything. With enough skill, a cagey cop could get him to confess to something he didn’t do.

I was sweating and chilled at the same time.

I was about to start shouting again when Delavergne turned his head toward the intake desk. He said to Jacob, “One moment. I’m being called.”

Delavergne went over to the desk sergeant, who took him through a side door. The door closed behind them, and a few minutes later, the sergeant returned to the desk alone.

We waited.

Hugo was crying softly. “This isn’t right. Harry didn’t kill anyone.”

I grabbed my brother and held him tight.

I said, “Jacob, do you trust Monsieur Delavergne?”

“He’s a good lawyer. In fact, he’s very good.”

Of course I noticed that Jacob hadn’t answered my question.





Jacob, Hugo, and I hunkered down in plastic chairs in the police station’s lobby for three endless hours.

My uncle and I took turns pacing. Sometimes we spoke to each other in screaming whispers, then went dead quiet so we didn’t wake Hugo, who was sleeping on the floor at our feet.

Finally, as sunlight pierced the front windows, Monsieur Delavergne came through the metal door with his arm around Harry’s shoulders.

I jumped to my feet, stepping on Hugo’s hand.

“Owwwwww!”

“Sorry, Hugo.”

I looked at Harry coming across the room with Delavergne. Harry was free—right? He looked terrible—both weak and pale, like he’d spent the night running on a treadmill. I’m sure the all-night interrogation must have felt exactly like that. But all that mattered now was that we had him back.

Hugo called out to Harry and started running to him. Jacob and I were only steps behind. We all hugged Harry really hard, but he hardly hugged us back.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “What did they do to you?”

“I’m really mad,” he said. “Does that count for anything?”

Delavergne said, “You’ll be all right, mon fils. Jacob, you can take this young man home. There may be more questions until Monsieur Ferrara accepts the facts of his daughter’s death, but right now, Harry is free.”

Delavergne had fought for my brother, and he had won. I felt a little explosion of intense love for the man, until Delavergne said to our uncle, “Jacob, you and I have to meet. The board will have to be informed of this situation. On the other hand—they may already know.”

I whipped around, looked out through the front windows, and saw a pack of people jostling for position behind the short iron fence on the median strip.

My heart, already exhausted from today’s workout, sank.

The press had found us. Mega-press. And then we were out on the street with Harry.

From the insignias on their caps, jackets, and satellite vans, the reporters were French, American, German, and English, both TV and print journalists, all of them shouting.

“Harry Angel. Harry!”

“Harry. Over here. Look this way.”

“Did you give drugs to Lulu Ferrara?”

Monsieur Delavergne, Jacob, and Monsieur Morel formed a wall of muscle, and I followed right behind them with a brother under each arm.

Harry hissed to me, “I didn’t hurt anyone. You know that’s the last thing I would ever do.”

I said, “I know that. Who knows you better than me?”

We were only steps away from the safety of the car when Harry’s knees buckled. He gasped, his eyes rolled back, and then my brother dropped to the pavement.

I screamed, “Harry! Harry, what’s wrong? Jacob, help!”

Harry was shaking horribly, twitching and foaming as the press jumped the median strip barrier. Oh my God, what was wrong with Harry? Had he been poisoned with whatever had killed Lulu?

Was he dying?

Hugo threw himself on top of Harry, covering him as best he could, protecting him from the clicking cameras and the rolling tape. I pulled at Hugo. “Hugo, no. He has to breathe.”