The second guy laid his bag on the table and opened it up, pulling out a long stick with a cotton swab on the end that looked like a super sized Q-tip.
"Since this is all one giant coincidence," Moreau said, heavy on the sarcasm, "I don't suppose you would mind giving us a sample of your DNA? To rule you out, of course."
I looked at the Q-tip, then back to Moreau. I squared my shoulders. "No, of course not."
Moreau nodded to the uniform, who gestured for me to open my mouth. I did, and he stuck the Q-tip in, gently scraping it along the side of my cheek. Then he placed it in a plastic case and snapped the top shut, dropping it into his black bag. He mumbled something else in French to Moreau, then nodded and left the room.
I stared after him, suddenly wary. Though I wasn't sure why. Surely whatever they did with my DNA would prove me innocent, right?
"You never answered my initial question, Mademoiselle Springer," Moreau said, scrutinizing me.
I snapped my eyes back to meet his.
"Gisella was killed between one and four am. Where were you this morning?"
"I woke up and came straight from the hotel to here. Where I found Gisella."
"Alone?"
"Yes. No. I mean, I was with Jean Luc."
"All morning?"
"No, just when we found her."
"What about last night?" he asked, his questions falling like rapid fire one on top of the other.
"I was working."
"Alone?"
"No. I was with Jean Luc."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"So, you are lovers?"
"What? No. I mean, no, not all night, not like that."
"Like how then?"
"I… we… we were working. Until late. Or at least it felt late with the jet lag. Then I went to my own room."
"Alone?"
"Yes." I said vehemently.
"So, you were alone then. No alibi?"
"What? No, wait I wasn't… I mean…"
Damn he was good. He'd effectively gotten me to say exactly what he wanted to hear. "Look, I didn't do this."
"So you say."
"It's true!"
"Yet you were alone, you have no alibi, your shoe was used as the murder weapon. And the crime fits your… how do you say… MO to a tee."
"What MO? No, I'm not a criminal, I don't have an MO! I… I…"
I was rapidly losing this battle. For all his ridiculous looks, Moreau was good. Too good. So good I had a bad feeling that if he was convinced I'd done this, he'd find a way to prove it. Even if it wasn't true.
I was just about to pull out my one and only secret weapon – crying like a girl and hoping for mercy – when the door swung open. And a vision in khaki Dockers and a white rumpled button-down filled the doorway.
Felix.
"What the hell is going on here?" he asked. "Why is that chap taking her DNA sample?"
Okay, so white knight he wasn't, but I'd never been so glad to see anyone in my life.
Moreau, on the other hand, didn't look at all pleased. "And you are?" he asked.
Felix squared his shoulders. "Lord Ackerman."
I blinked.
"Lord Ackerman?" I asked. "Lord?"
Felix shot me a look that clearly said shut up. Which I did, clamping my lips together to keep from laughing.
"I'm sorry, Lord Ackerman," Moreau said, his voice suddenly filled with a note of respect despite Felix's worn Sketcher sneakers and I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. "But, this is an official murder investigation." He emphasized the word, throwing a pointed look my way.
Damned if I didn't feel guilty under his gaze.
Felix narrowed his eyes at the detective and shot back, "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?"
Wow. Item number forty-million I didn't know about Felix. He spoke French.
Moreau seemed a bit surprised, too, his mustache twitching ever so slightly. But he parried back quickly, responding in rapid French something that prompted Felix to throw his hands up in an exasperated gesture, then shout something back. I watched the two of them go back and forth, wishing like anything I'd taken French in high school instead of ceramics. The ability to make a clay pencil holder that said "Happy Mother's Day" was completely useless right now.
Finally Felix thumped his hands on the desk, bringing home his point (whatever it was) and grabbed me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. "Let's go Maddie, we're done here."
I expected the detective to protest, but instead Moreau just watched, his eyes intent on Felix, narrowing above his mustache. (Which was twitching double time now.)
I tried not to look too smug as we left the room.
"What did you say to him?" I asked, as Felix navigated the hallways, one hand still firmly grasped around me.
"I said that if he came near you again without a warrant, I'd have his badge."
I stopped. "Warrant?"
We were just outside the tent, police vans and numerous cop cars circled around the courtyard, the long stretch of press and tourists being held back by wooden by police barricades. The main point of interest at the Louvre was definitely not the Mona Lisa today.
"Do you seriously think he'd get a warrant?" I asked.
Felix turned to face me, his eyebrows hunkered down in concern. "Maddie, she was killed with one of your designs. And, you have to admit, the shoe to the neck… not a common way to kill someone."
I gulped. I knew. I also knew I didn't do it. Which meant someone not only wanted Gisella gone, but had tried to make it look like I'd been the one to do it. A disconcerting thought. Sadly, thanks to the L.A. Informer, my past exploits weren't exactly a secret. Anyone could have heard about the shoe to the jugular.
"That was genius, by the way," I said, as Felix steered me through the crowd, signaling for a taxi. "The whole pretending to be Lord Ackerman. Really got Moreau's attention."
Felix gave me a funny look over his shoulder as a black and white cab pulled up to the curb. "I wasn't pretending."
"What do you mean you weren't pretending?" I asked, slipping onto the vinyl seat.
Felix spoke to the driver in French, giving him the address of the hotel, before turning to me.
"I really am Lord Ackerman."
I snorted. "No you're not. You're Felix."
He didn't say anything. But the tell-tale amused twinkle I'd come to associate with his teasing was noticeably absent from his eyes.
"Ohmigod, you're serious? Lord Ackerman?"
Felix nodded slowly.
I turned to Felix, pretty sure my mouth was unattractively gaping open. "You've got to be joking. What, did you buy the title online or something?"
Felix did a wry grin. "Worse. I was born into it. On my father's side, a quite distant cousin of the queen's."
"The queen? Wait, are you trying to tell me that you're actual royalty?"
"Oh don't worry, only about a hundred people would have to die before I'd come close to the throne."
"So, hold on here. " I held up one hand. "You're telling me that Gisella's half-million dollar diamond necklace was on loan from you?"
Felix nodded slowly, carefully watching my reaction. Which I'm pretty sure was a cross between pure shock and total disbelief.
I'll admit, I'd never really known that much about Felix's background. I knew his mother was Scottish, which is where Felix claimed he inherited his "thriftiness" as he called it. Though, I'd pointed out to him on more than one occasion that tipping a waiter in nickels wasn't thrifty, it was downright cheap. All I knew of his father was that he was English and Felix had inherited a good deal of family money from him at some point. And, apparently, a title. I'd always referred to Felix as a "cheap rich guy." But I'd never imagined him as an actual member of the aristocracy.
A titled Tabloid Reporter. What was this world coming to?
Though I didn't have a chance to question the Lord any further as my cell rang from the depths of my shoulder bag. I pulled it out and flipped it open, checking the caller ID. Ramirez.
I closed my eyes and did a little mini meditation before clicking the on button.