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Beretta.
    Forget convincing Melac that she was being framed. He’d question the woman at ToutMoto and her case would look worse.
    For a moment, her mind went back to Mathieu’s warm breath on her neck. What reaction would he have to being questioned by La Crim ?
    Had the shooting made the press? The shooter could be lurking anywhere, might even be stalking René while Vichon sat on his fat behind catching up on old cases.
    Crowds thronged the pavement: delivery men, shopgirls, and couture-clad women with little dogs peeking out from their oversize Dior bags. Cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles ringing their bells wove through the narrow street of this commercial quartier, thrumming with activity, around the corner from Place Vendôme.
    The shooter had made one small mistake: she’d bought the newer helmet.
    The waiter, gray-haired and past retirement age, set a double espress and brioche before her. He might remember something.
    “Did you work lunch yesterday, Monsieur?”
“Mondays, we’re closed.”
“ Merci.”
    She reached Hôtel Dieu on her cell phone and asked for the intensive-care nursing station. Busy. On her second try, a nurse answered.
    “Monsieur Friant’s condition remains stable,” the nurse responded to her query.
    Thank God!
    She had so many questions. “Can you tell me if he’s able to speak on the phone?”
    “Not now, Mademoiselle,” the nurse interrupted. “Talk to the doctor. We’re run off our feet.”
    “And his name?”
    “Dr. Soualt,” the nurse said. “Give me your number and I’ll attach it to Monsieur Friant’s chart.”
    She did and hung up, none the wiser. She dunked her brioche into her coffee. Crusty buttery flakes fell onto the worn marble tabletop.
    A blue and yellow postal van had double-parked, creating a jam in the street. Horns blared. A taxi driver got out of his car, shaking his fist.
    And then she noticed the video surveillance camera mounted above the parfumerie shop next door to ToutMoto. A parfumerie also selling gloves, evidenced by the sign Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier.
    She finished the flaky brioche, downed her espress, and slapped ten francs onto the table.
    * * *
    T H E parfumerie E X H I B I T E D crystal flacons topped by gold stoppers, exuding a heady mix of scents: cypress, vetiver, musk, a touch of fig. Glass display cases contained opera-length gloves made of lambskin, deerskin, peccary, and silk, according to the hand-lettered signs. At hefty prices, she thought.
    “Don’t tell me.” An older man in a black suit waved his hand back and forth in the air. Sniffed. “You go for the classic, Mademoiselle.”
“Pardon, Monsieur, but your video camera—”
“You’re wearing Chanel No. 5.”
    “How did you know?”
    “I have the nose, Mademoiselle.” He beamed. His prominent nose, red-veined cheeks, and wavy white hair gave him a distinguished look. “May I interest you in a mix, classical but light, earth tones layered by a hint of mulberry?”
    Sounded good enough to eat.
    “Another time, Monsieur,” she said. “I’m interested in your video camera’s capability.”
    “State-of-the-art model, yes,” he said. He tented his fingers, rocking forward on his heels, a look of concentration on his face. “I’m the first merchant on the street to employ the device. It’s foolish not to use modern technology these days. I’ve aired my views at our merchants association. One is already in place over at the Ritz. You’ve seen Princess Diana getting into that Mercedes via the camera at the rear. Such a sad testimony to her last minutes of life.”
    He liked to talk. And she lusted for the ostrich leather wrist-length gloves displayed on the counter. But not right now.
    “Beautiful, non ?” He’d noticed her gazing at the pale citron-scented gloves. “Just a tinge of green apple mingling with the color of Normandy butter, and as soft.”
    Exquisite.
    “Quite a history to them. Henri IV’s mother was poisoned with a similar pair. But