The information was so sensitive and the allegations so damning that after a second reading, we knew we would not be able to run the larger investigation called for by her shocking allegations.
After we took pictures of both sides of the statement and thanked Margaret Forester for her time, we went upstairs to explain the situation to Metro Chief Michaels and Police Commissioner Dennison.
Commissioner Dennison was something of a media hog, known to leak juicy items that bolstered his reputation. The trait was one of the reasons Bree had left her job as chief of detectives to join Bluestone Group. Indeed, as soon as we began to describe the contents of the confession, Dennison asked to see it, and I could tell that the commissioner was playing the publicity angles, imagining himself in the spotlight. Thankfully, Chief Michaels argued that any effort Metro Police might make as far as investigating members of federal law enforcement would be stonewalled and the FBI would end up seizing the case and eliminating our role.
“We need to turn it over to them, Commissioner, or we’ll be kept in the dark in the long run,” Michaels said. “This is bigger than Metro PD.”
The commissioner bristled at the idea and remained noncommittal throughout the day, effectively wasting an opportunity for the FBI to get a nationwide investigation up and running with appropriate speed. It wasn’t until around nine that evening that Chief Michaels texted us to let us know Dennison would contact his liaison with the Bureau first thing in the morning.
Neither of us were happy about the delay, but as Sampson had said, better late than never.
Chapter
10
Paris
Bree left her hotel on the Rue Jean Goujon in the eighth arrondissement and walked through the streets as the French capital came alive that sultry summer day. Despite the building heat, when she reached a walkway above the Seine River, she saw people jogging everywhere.
And mobs of tourists. And young lovers holding hands as they strolled by. And two well-put-together older women walking arm in arm and wearing bright summer dresses, one carrying a baguette and the other three yellow roses. Both were giggling at some shared secret when Bree passed them.
She knew well that she was in Paris on a serious assignment that had big consequences for everyone involved. But she was still enjoying the elegance of the French capital and its people, who seemed more refined and yet more relaxed than the citizens of DC.
On her stroll earlier, Bree had been enchanted by her first glimpse of Paris. Now, as she walked toward Bluestone Group’s offices, she felt herself falling head over heels in love with the city. She had to bring Alex. She had to show him—
Her phone buzzed with a text in French she mentally translated: Bree Stone, this is Marianne Le Tour. For reasons I’ll explain face to face, I’d prefer we meet away from Bluestone’s offices. Please hail a cab or call an Uber and come to the following address. It is my favorite place for coffee and croissants.
Twenty minutes later, Bree exited an Uber in front of Toujours Printemps—“Always Spring”—a café and patisserie on the Left Bank, not far from the école des Beaux-Arts. She entered and saw a woman in her fifties waving at her from the back of the café.
Bree smiled and walked toward Marianne Le Tour as the woman stood, revealing her height and her chic gray pantsuit. With every step Bree took, the head of Bluestone Group’s Paris office grew more stunningly beautiful.
Le Tour’s hair was short, lush, steel gray, and swept back. She had gently arched cheekbones and cream-colored, nearly flawless skin. But Bree decided that it must have been Le Tour’s eyes that had gotten her jobs on the fashion runways of Paris and Milan at the age of sixteen. Her eyes were shaped like a cat’s and sapphire blue, large, and sparkling. They danced all over Bree as the former model stepped forward to greet her with an air kiss and an “Enchanté.”
Bree returned the greeting and, at Le Tour’s gesture, took a seat opposite her. It was only then that she realized that Le Tour held her head artfully to show only two-thirds of her face.
As if she could hear Bree’s thoughts, Le Tour casually turned her head to reveal the faint, thin four-inch scar running from the right side of her jaw forward and down. Bree averted her eyes and in French asked, “What’s good here?”
Le Tour seemed to appreciate Bree not mentioning the scar that had ended her career at twenty-two. She gave a dazzling smile and said, “Everything’s good, but the croissants are world class. They snap open with absolute perfection. And the espresso is the best in Paris.”