Page 1 of The Devil Wears Orange
Chapter 1
The room is stark.Ordinarily, I like white rooms, a blank space to clear a chaotic mind, but I find the interrogation room sterile. Had they gone with a warmer hue of white on the walls instead of hospital white, and replaced the bare lighting, I wouldn’t have looked like someone coming off a 5-day bender. I turn away from the mirror, horrified by my image – smudged mascara and hair so frizzy I don’t recognize the clown staring back at me. At least they didn’t put me in an orange prison jumpsuit, so I’m grateful for that.
The door to the small room swings open, and a man strides in. He looks like he’s approaching sixty, and handsome. Do French men have thatje ne sais quoias well? I note his shoulder strap with three white lines to indicate his rank, and while I haven’t a clue how to read it, I assume he must be important given the circumstances.
He pulls a chair out and sits opposite me, places a blue folder between us. I lift my gaze from the folder to his face and wonderhow long he’s been spying from behind the one-way mirror like they do on TV cop shows. Hopefully, he’s better than those inept Keystone Cops who harassed me earlier in the day.
“I amCapitaineFavreau.” Favreau opens the thick folder between us and peruses its contents. “Ms. Charlotte Elizabeth Milton. American,non?”
“For the millionth time, yes. Where’d those other cops go? I told them everything,” I say, exasperated.
“They don’t speak English.”
“I speak French.”
“You have been intermingling English with gibberish. Your French is atrocious,Mademoiselle.”
Even in French, the very reference to singledom irritates me.
“The great American public school system has served you well,” he says.
“Ah,Monsieur, you are jeopardizing the French reputation for being friendly,” I say in a derisive huff.
Here, he looks up at me from the folder, opens his mouth to speak, then clamps it shut. He sits straighter in his chair. “Mademoiselle, do you care to tell us where the painting is, or shall we continue with this little charade?”
“What?!” I demand, rankled by the insinuation. I have been in precarious situations plenty of times before, but nothing like this. “Iam the victim. These armed men stole the painting andabductedme.” Slumping in my chair, I shake my head. “I thought you would be better at this. Don’t you always get your man?”
“You’re thinking of the Canadian Mounties.”
“Well, then get them to help you solve this case,” I scoff.
“MademoiselleMilton, so far, you have refused to cooperate.”
He can’t be serious. They’ve been interrogating me all day and treating me like a criminal. I thought I’d be back at my hotel room by now, catching up on the remainder of Paris FashionWeek, apologizing to my boss Pierre for missing that important meeting with Prince Rashid, but things have progressed slowly. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the cops took a siesta (or the French equivalent) that afternoon. Honestly, the entire continent is so laid back, it’s astonishing they get anything done.
“I’ve been cooperating all day. Like I already told those other two detectives, these men threatened my friend Anne and...” My voice breaks, and I take a moment to pull myself together. “... and her baby.”
Favreau shuffles papers in the file. He squints and reaches for his bifocals tucked in his jacket pocket and waves his hand in the air dismissively. “Did you tell a curator of the Louvre,MonsieurJulian Norbette, and I quote, ‘What’s to stop anyone from stealing any of these paintings, especially this masterpiece?’ And here you refer toMistress In A Red Dress.”
“It’s called humor,” I say and try to laugh it off as the harmless joke I intended it to be. The French loved Jerry Lewis, so they should be used to sub-par humor.
As though I hadn’t even spoken, Favreau continues to read from the file, “‘Even I could get away with it.’ Again, a direct quote. At which point, you mimic removing the painting and hiding it under a raincoat that you chose to wear on a warm, sunny day.”
“I can explain the raincoat. Where is it, by the way?”
“I hope better than you can explain the art heist,” he says, his words clipped. “Forensics has the raincoat, and it will remain as part of our evidence into the investigation. Before the theft, you took a photo with the painting and posted it to social media, writing that you planned to take the painting,non?”
“Why would I take a selfie if I intended to steal it?”
He flips through several statements, and even upside down, I can see my bank’s logo imprinted on the top of the page. My heart sinks.
“You arefamilierwith Saks on Fifth Avenue in New York? Tiffany’s also on Fifth,non?” His voice is flat when he questions me, brief and to the point.
I sit up straight, arms crossed, my back pressed into the hardness of the chair. “Is it your turn to joke? I’m editor-in-chief for a fashion magazine. Of course, I’mfamilier.”
“Are you alsofamilierwith Visa and American Express? They seem to know you quite well. You remortgaged yourappartementa few months back to pay off your credit card debt.”
I swallow hard. “Why did you get this information?Howdid you get this information?”
