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“Send me what you have.” Then his tone changed, and she knew someone else was coming in. “Gotta go.”
He hung up.
Quickly, Cora sent the details through. And by the time the call was over, Gabe was already pulling into the village where Marcel lived. Gabe was driving carefully, with one hand on the wheel. His injured left hand was hampering him. Cora hated that he was hurting. She wanted to drive him straight to the doctor, but she didn’t think she’d win that fight, and they really did need to catch this killer.
"He's on this street. House number three."
As Gabe turned into the street, Cora took a look around. The village they were in was very small, and it looked historic. It was worlds away from the bustle of Paris, a quiet place, well-treed, set on the banks of a canal, with houses that were small and looked historical and cobblestoned paths winding between them.
They climbed out and headed toward the house.
Cora could see an old Fiat parked under the overhang next to the small stone cottage. So Marcel was hopefully at home.
She knocked, waiting, listening.
After a few moments, she heard footsteps approaching the door. But it didn't open. Instead, a suspicious voice asked from behind it, "Who's there?"
"Investigators," Cora said briefly. "Is that Marcel Damian?"
"So what if it is?" he shot back.
"We want to know about your involvement in the foundation."
There was a short, surprised silence. Then the man uttered a loud oath.
"You can turn around right now. I'm not answering your questions. And I'm not letting you in. I have nothing to say! Nothing at all!"
"Really?" Cora asked.
"Go away! That foundation was nothing but trouble, and I'm well rid of it," he said, sounding furious.
But while he had ranted to her, Cora had been taking the time to have a closer look at the house.
There was a window on the side wall that she thought would work just fine for her purposes. If Marcel wasn't coming out, then she was going in.
She wasn't taking the word no for an answer. Not any longer, and not in this case.
“Wait here,” she said to Gabe. This wasn’t a job for a man with an injured hand. Gabe needed to stay on the other side of this window for now. As for her, she was going in to confront Marcel Damian and make him talk.
Jumping up, she grabbed the sill and swung her leg over it.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Cora dropped to the ground, landing lithely in a crouch, looking quickly around. She'd gained entry through the window of a spare bedroom. A tiny single bed stood opposite. There was an old framed painting on the wall and a scuffed armchair in the corner.
The door was ajar. She marched over and flung it wide, bursting through. There was no time to waste in confronting this unwilling suspect.
She was in a corridor that led down to the hallway. And at the far end of the hallway, just turning away from the front door with a smug smile on his face, was Marcel.
He had a sallow, long face and dark hair that fell in tendrils around it. When he saw Cora, his smug expression disappeared, and he looked shocked, his eyes wide.
"What the hell are you doing in my home?" he shouted.
"I'm here to get answers," Cora snapped. She was all out of patience with his evasive ways.
He came at her, fists flying. Clearly, he had a temper on a hair trigger. She could see he wasn't the compliant personality that the foundation had been looking for. No wonder they'd kicked him out.
Cora dodged the first blow, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it up behind his back. He tried to wrench it away and almost got lucky. She hung on grimly, and he kicked out at her, yelling angrily, but she jumped aside, avoided his thrashing foot, and then yanked his hand up even harder. He cried out in pain, and Cora took advantage of his momentary distraction to grab him by the collar and push him up against the wall.
