Though Molly didn’t know what to make of the news that Sean was in France, she thought it important to tell the inspector right away. She also told him about her father’s falling-out with his partner over his dealings in stolen art. Molly couldn’t believe Sean murdered her father and mother, let alone their friends. That in some way he might be at the bottom of what happened, however, she accepted as a distinct possibility.
Mazarelle received her information with more than routine interest, his eyes fixed on Molly, streams of smoke shooting up from the bowl of his pipe. He was open to following up any outside lead that seemed promising. Recalling the accident in Schuyler Phillips’s rented Mercedes, he wondered if her father had been the intended victim after all. He asked how long Sean Campbell had been in the country, which she didn’t know, and then took down a description of him, the address and phone number in Manhattan of the Reece-Campbell Gallery. Mazarelle assured her that if Campbell was in France, he’d find him.
They stood up and shook hands. She was almost as tall as he was. No ring on her left hand except a small one with an oval peridot birthstone that matched her green eyes. Independent, intelligent. A Leo, if he believed in such nonsense. He supposed that back home in the States she had a lover. More than one, probably. She’s good material for love, he thought. He liked the easy way she moved, the way she lit up a room when she walked in, her courage. To have both her parents chopped up like hamburger and, rather than go home and grieve, to be so strong, so determined to get justice … Yes, a remarkable young woman. He’d seen the interview with her in the morning issue of Sud Ouest. Underneath all that beauty she was tough as a tank, and she didn’t miss much. As long as she stayed out of trouble, Mazarelle didn’t mind in the least having Mademoiselle Reece in the neighborhood for a while longer.