Page 15 of The Devil Wears Orange
From a desk drawer, Coteau pulls a clear plastic bag of my belongings and slides it across to me. Ripping the bag apart, I dump its contents for inspection. My hands skirt over one purse, two red lipsticks, cell phone, a Dior hand mirror, notepad with pages clipped together, one silver pen, two cheaper backup pens, scarf, sunglasses, and one condom wrapper, its corners worn from being in my purse longer than I’d hoped.
“You found my handbag. What’s this powder?” I say, rubbing my fingers together, then toss the items, except for my cell phone, into my purse.
Coteau says, “All items were swept for fingerprints.”
“Glad you retrieved my purse from where I dropped it during the kidnapping.” I turn on my phone, but the screen remains black. “Is the fingerprint powder known to destroy electronics?”
Coteau shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” I repeat, aghast. “If it’s destroyed, you owe me a new phone.”
“Very well,Mademoiselle,and you owe us a painting.”
Teeth clenched, I think of ways to use my 500,000 followers on social media to unleash fury at the Parisian police for wrongfully detaining me. Then, I remember the 500,000 followers aren’t mine but belong to the editor-in-chief atCatwalk Style Magazine, a position I’ve been fired from. I can start over, but how many will be interested in what I have to say without the power and influence I once wielded? I need to persuade Pierre to reinstate me.
“Mademoiselle,you signed here that all your personal items have been returned to you in the manner that we found them,” he says and holds up the document.
He’s right. It’s my signature on the page, written in a flourish like a celebrity autograph. I reach over the desk in an attempt to grab the document, but to no avail. Turning to Jack for help, I say, “You saw what he did. He tricked me. Do something.”
Jack holds his hands up and shrugs his shoulders with a flabbergastedwhat-can-I-do?expression.
“Useless,” I hiss and storm off.
“Don’t go through the front,” Coteau calls after me.
I stop mid-stride and face the police officer, my head to its side, a hand on my hip. “Why?”
“Press is outside. We have a back exit for this purpose.”
“I can handle a few reporters,” I say.
“Don’t underestimate the Parisian press,Mademoiselle#Editor-in-Thief.”
In a huff, I storm down the yellow corridor, take a wrong turn and backtrack until I hit a door markedSortie. The cool night air smacks me hard, and I gulp it, listen as the Seine laps against the water’s edge. I wonder if I still smell like the river. Pulling at mytop, I sniff, then grimace at the stench of sweat and perfume with a hint of urine, which may not necessarily be the river’s fault.
“Excuse me, Ms. Milton, a word, please.”
I glance over my shoulder to see the Professor trailing behind me. I keep moving without acknowledging him.
“I would like to help you.”
The clickety-clack of my footsteps hitting the cobblestones stop. I’m tired and hungry and worn down, and when an absolute stranger says they’d like to help, all instinct tells me to run the other direction, but I’m not in my right frame of mind. I turn, and in the semidarkness, he reminds me of Mr. Pepperman, my eighth-grade science teacher who failed me on an assignment when I refused to cut up a frog.
“Help how?” I say. My voice sounds more irritated than tired, which isn’t my intention.
A car turns a corner, heads down the street, and when it comes into view, I note the sign’s green illumination. “Taxi!” I scream, but the cab rushes past. I look about distractedly, crossing the empty street, and whistle for the taxi, but it is too far gone.
“May I ask where you’re going?” says Jack.
“My hotel,” I say and look about to the empty street. “Where are all the cabs?”
“It’s after midnight, and they tend not to pick up fares outside a police station. I have a rental nearby. I can give you a lift.”
I squint at him, bothered by his eagerness. “Who did you say you are?”
“Professor Jack Carey. I teach Art History at Ox–”
“–Oxford, that’s right. And why are you here? At the police station?”
