Piercing the Veil by R.W. Wallace

Author:R.W. Wallace [Wallace, R.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Varden Publishing
Published: 2022-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Four

Before getting out of the car, Emeline tries calling Amina but gets no answer. It doesn’t go straight to voicemail, so her phone is on, and it only rings twice, which Emeline thinks means her girlfriend hung up on her.

Which is infinitely better than her girlfriend not being able to answer the phone.

Still, Emeline won’t stop worrying until Amina is in her arms again—preferably without arrest warrants or corrupt retired police captains in tow.

She leaves a quick message asking Amina to call her back, and to watch out for Parayre.

Amina will do neither, of course. She’s even more stubborn than Emeline.

Despite her constant, underlying worry for Amina, Emeline is excited about talking to Théophile Clément’s widow. This has the potential for giving them a much-needed break in the case. When several of their leads take them to the same place, it’s a sure sign they’re closing in on a resolution.

Madame Clément certainly seems to have done all right without her husband. The house Emeline is parked in front of is a gleaming, sprawling villa with a panoramic view of the rolling hills to the south and Toulouse in the distance. It must have at least four or five bedrooms, a covered swimming pool glinting sunlight from the west side of the house, and the stately elm down by the narrow street leading up here is occupied by an actual tree house. It has a rope ladder and windows and everything.

How much money did they think Théophile took off with for him to conclude it was worth running away from this?

This was Lieutenant Florentin’s case, and she would have been easy to convince. Emeline isn’t certain the woman is bad. She might simply be an incompetent cop and easily influenced by people like Parayre. Which made her the perfect pawn for the people behind all this because she would execute their schemes without knowing anything of the motivations behind them or the larger picture, and if she got caught, she’d be hung out to dry. Alone.

How many other cops at the station are working against Emeline because they don’t know any better? And how many are actively part of a plot killing dozens of people for real estate?

Only one way to find out, of course. Emeline pulls on her jacket and her scarf and exits the car. The crisp November air has her huddling into the collar, her hands deep in her pockets. It’s invigorating, though, to get some fresh air for once—a nice change from the polluted big-city air of Toulouse. It’s not as bad as Paris, but still.

She walks quickly to the villa’s front door. It’s gleaming white, with a cute round tinted window at eye level, and the front steps are covered by a small overhang, held up by two Roman columns.

In Emeline’s experience, Roman columns are only used by people who think keeping up appearances is a priority. And showing off how much money they have.

Madame Clément must have been waiting behind the door, because she opens it two seconds after Emeline rings the bell.

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