Page 39 of Shadow of Doubt

Brunelle and Gibert thanked him, and after he had hung their jackets in the vestibule, they followed him into the living room.

The apartment was tastefully decorated. There were leather sofas, plenty of books, and a sturdy brass bar cart loaded with liquor. Various black-and-white photographs, as well as a series of paintings and sketches, were hung salon-style in a myriad of gold and silver frames. Two worn Persian carpets, a marble bust of what may have been Julius Caesar, and a pair of highly polished Art Deco accent tables rounded out the look.

There was not one but two balconies and even on a rainy night, the views through the rain-dappledportes-fenêtreswere worth whatever Powell was paying for the place. It was one of the chicest bachelor pads Brunelle had ever seen.

“Can I offer either of you something to drink?” the station chief asked, nodding at the bar cart. “I’ve got just about everything.”

Not one to ever turn down a freebie, Gibert sauntered over to examine the selection. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked pointing to one of the bottles.

Powell nodded. “You’ve got a good eye. Pappy Van Winkle. One of the best American bourbons you’ll ever taste.” Uncorking the bottle, the station chief poured some into a Glencairn glass and handed it to him.

Gibert swirled the bourbon to help aerate it. Then, after taking a moment to appreciate its rich color, he brought the glass to his nose and inhaled. The aromas were amazing. It was now time to taste.

Taking his first sip, he allowed the warm liquid to cover his palate. The taste was incredible; better than he had imagined it would be.

“What do you think?” Powell asked.

“Marvelous,” Gibert replied.

“That’s the ten-year,” the station chief replied. “And you’re right, it is absolutely marvelous. Best thing I’ve ever tasted. The ambassador is a huge Pappy fan as well. He keeps a bottle of the 23 at his residence, which he breaks out for V-VIPs. Crossing my fingers that someday I’ll make the cut.” Smiling, he turned to Brunelle and asked, “What can I get for you?”

“Thank you, but I’m okay,” she replied, still in business mode.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Positive.”

“Shall we sit then?” Powell asked.

After pouring a small portion of the bourbon for himself, he took a seat on the sofa facing his guests. “Director General de Vasselot asked me to help in any way I can. So what can I do for you?”

Brunelle had made it clear to Gibert in the car that she would be doing the talking and that he should follow her lead.

“Are you familiar with a French national named Jean-Jacques Jadot?” she began.

Powell nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Are you aware that he was found murdered this morning?”

“Yes. It’s absolutely terrible.”

Brunelle studied him. “How did you learn about it?”

“Most U.S. embassies employ a retired high-ranking police officer as a liaison. Ours put the word out as soon as he heard. Jean-Jacques and I were actually supposed to meet for breakfast this morning. He never showed.”

“Did you report this to the Paris Police, DGSI, anyone?” Gibert asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I felt it was premature.”

Gibert looked at him. “Premature? How so?”

The station chief chose his words carefully. “Jean-Jacques was a friend. He was also a colleague. I had a lot of respect for him. With that said, I don’t know anything about who killed him or why. Injecting myself intothe story, especially before I had more information, could have brought unwanted attention to the embassy. It’s our policy to avoid that kind of thing.”

“Did you and Monsieur Jadot often meet for breakfast?” Brunelle asked, taking back control of the conversation.

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