against ours.
Then there was the matter of the truck. Neither of us had bothered wiping our prints from it before we dumped it. It was only a matter of time before they found the truck and ran our prints. I suddenly remembered I’d been fingerprinted the night of Juliet’s murder, which meant I was screwed. As bad as I felt for Simon, I needed to get to the embassy and tell my side of the story before I was arrested. Then I suddenly remembered I still had Simon’s business card. I could call and warn him.
I was just about to hunt for the card in my bag when I noticed the filthy bearded man from the train I’d just exited. He stood about twenty feet away from me showing a baby-faced, uniformed police officer the newspaper cover and pointing at me. He must have overheard the entire conversation between the woman and me. The officer and I made eye contact and I froze. He squinted at me then back at the newspaper. The lighting on the platform wasn’t exactly the greatest. Quickly, I walked away, heading for the stairs to the street above.
“ Madame! ” He called out. I kept walking.
“ Excusez-moi, madame! ” His voice was louder this time, more commanding. I still didn’t stop. “ Arrêt, si vous plait! Arrêt maintenant! ”
Blood was pounding in my ears as I rounded the corner. I pushed through the turnstile and felt the strap of my bag get caught, pulling me back. Crap! I tugged frantically at it. The officer rounded the corner just as I managed to get the strap free. Pushing past people, I ran like hell and took the steps to street level two at a time. My skinned knee made each step painful. The officer behind me yelled.
“ Arrêt, police! ”
I was almost at the top of the stairs. A cab was idling at the curb several feet away—just a few more steps and I’d be able to jump into that cab and escape. A hand grasped my ankle. The officer had dived face-first onto the staircase to reach me. He was lying in the middle of the stairway on his stomach. He was reaching for his gun with his free hand. Instinctively, I kicked out. The officer struggled to hold on to my ankle but in doing so bumped against a young woman walking up the stairs backward, pulling a baby stroller. She lost her grip.
“ Mon bébé! ” the young woman screamed.
The stroller bumped down the steps. He looked back at me, and for just a split second, I could tell he was torn. But he let go of my ankle and flew down the steps to catch the stroller before it could hit bottom and overturn. It was the break I needed. I ran up the remaining steps and practically flew into the cab.
The U.S. Embassy in France was located just off the Place de la Concorde. Because several tour buses were blocking the street near the embassy’s entrance, I got out in front of the Hôtel de Crillon, which was next door and across a narrow side street, I quickly maneuvered around the well-dressed, wealthy people coming and going from the hotel, and the abundance of picture snapping. The security around the embassy was understandably heavy with a multitude of white concrete pylons and metal gates in front of the main entrance. There had been similar reinforcements around all the government buildings on my recent trip to D.C. It should have made me feel secure. Instead, I was afraid that at any moment one of the guards would throw me facedown on the ground and point a gun to my head.
I went inside the embassy, and after wandering aimlessly, I finally got up the nerve to ask where I could find help with a serious legal issue. I found out from an embassy employee that I needed to go to the consulate office. But by the time I finally located the consulate it was closed. The hours posted indicated that it was only open from 9:00 a.m. to noon. I was more than two hours too late. I sagged against the door. I’d just have to come back tomorrow. In the meantime, I had to warn Simon. That is, if he hadn’t already been arrested, or was even speaking to me after
Then there was the matter of the truck. Neither of us had bothered wiping our prints from it before we dumped it. It was only a matter of time before they found the truck and ran our prints. I suddenly remembered I’d been fingerprinted the night of Juliet’s murder, which meant I was screwed. As bad as I felt for Simon, I needed to get to the embassy and tell my side of the story before I was arrested. Then I suddenly remembered I still had Simon’s business card. I could call and warn him.
I was just about to hunt for the card in my bag when I noticed the filthy bearded man from the train I’d just exited. He stood about twenty feet away from me showing a baby-faced, uniformed police officer the newspaper cover and pointing at me. He must have overheard the entire conversation between the woman and me. The officer and I made eye contact and I froze. He squinted at me then back at the newspaper. The lighting on the platform wasn’t exactly the greatest. Quickly, I walked away, heading for the stairs to the street above.
“ Madame! ” He called out. I kept walking.
“ Excusez-moi, madame! ” His voice was louder this time, more commanding. I still didn’t stop. “ Arrêt, si vous plait! Arrêt maintenant! ”
Blood was pounding in my ears as I rounded the corner. I pushed through the turnstile and felt the strap of my bag get caught, pulling me back. Crap! I tugged frantically at it. The officer rounded the corner just as I managed to get the strap free. Pushing past people, I ran like hell and took the steps to street level two at a time. My skinned knee made each step painful. The officer behind me yelled.
“ Arrêt, police! ”
I was almost at the top of the stairs. A cab was idling at the curb several feet away—just a few more steps and I’d be able to jump into that cab and escape. A hand grasped my ankle. The officer had dived face-first onto the staircase to reach me. He was lying in the middle of the stairway on his stomach. He was reaching for his gun with his free hand. Instinctively, I kicked out. The officer struggled to hold on to my ankle but in doing so bumped against a young woman walking up the stairs backward, pulling a baby stroller. She lost her grip.
“ Mon bébé! ” the young woman screamed.
The stroller bumped down the steps. He looked back at me, and for just a split second, I could tell he was torn. But he let go of my ankle and flew down the steps to catch the stroller before it could hit bottom and overturn. It was the break I needed. I ran up the remaining steps and practically flew into the cab.
The U.S. Embassy in France was located just off the Place de la Concorde. Because several tour buses were blocking the street near the embassy’s entrance, I got out in front of the Hôtel de Crillon, which was next door and across a narrow side street, I quickly maneuvered around the well-dressed, wealthy people coming and going from the hotel, and the abundance of picture snapping. The security around the embassy was understandably heavy with a multitude of white concrete pylons and metal gates in front of the main entrance. There had been similar reinforcements around all the government buildings on my recent trip to D.C. It should have made me feel secure. Instead, I was afraid that at any moment one of the guards would throw me facedown on the ground and point a gun to my head.
I went inside the embassy, and after wandering aimlessly, I finally got up the nerve to ask where I could find help with a serious legal issue. I found out from an embassy employee that I needed to go to the consulate office. But by the time I finally located the consulate it was closed. The hours posted indicated that it was only open from 9:00 a.m. to noon. I was more than two hours too late. I sagged against the door. I’d just have to come back tomorrow. In the meantime, I had to warn Simon. That is, if he hadn’t already been arrested, or was even speaking to me after
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