Minola Grey was heading toward the elevator when she heard a shrill wail. She glanced to her left and saw the maid dart into the hallway in sheer panic. Minola reached her in a few brisk strides and asked, "Yvonne, what's the matter?" She didn't detect any sign of injury, just pure terror in her eyes. This type of behavior was unlike Yvonne, who was always steadfast. Nothing ever ruffled her.

"Mademoiselle Grey ... body ... blood..." she sobbed.

"Body? Blood? Whose body? Yvonne, please ... please sit down." Minola led her to the plush oversized chair near the elevator. "Tell me what happened," Minola pleaded.

"Lord Yardleigh. In his room ... dead ... blood," Yvonne said, her voice shaking. Her weeping dwindled to a whimper.

"Yvonne, knock on Dr. LeBrun's door. See if he's there. I'll go to Lord Yardleigh's room. Use the phone in the hallway and call the front desk for help. Get Security up here, fast."

Since Lord Yardleigh's door had been left open, Minola walked in, and what she saw left no doubt in her mind. Lord Yardleigh was dead. The body lying splayed out on the floor did not diminish the quiet elegance of the room. Her stomach twisted in a knot, her muscles tightened, and nausea rose in her throat.

She had never seen a body in this state before. Think! Don't touch anything. She shook her head, as if to clear any lingering cobwebs. Get hold of yourself. I don't see a gun. Was this murder? Lord Yardleigh lay on his back in a big pool of blood, which had begun to darken. As a great fan of the mystery genre, she knew enough not to disturb anything in the room. The crime scene needed to be preserved.

Reluctantly, Minola looked at the body again and noted how impeccably dressed he had been-crisp white linen shirt, gold cuff links, and an expensive watch still on his wrist-impeccable except for the bloody stain that had spread beyond the hole in the shirt, creating a crimson river against the achromatic background. To relieve her queasiness, Minola swiftly glanced at the rest of the room. As an artist, she focused on the de rigueur hotel furniture, then on the few contemporary canvases displayed on the walls. She could tell they were not hotel issue.

The colors and textures of the paintings strangely complimented the hues of the grim, yet powerful, scene before her. Contemplating the pieces on the wall gave Minola a reprieve from the ghastly outline on the floor. Her hands clenched and she began to shake.

Nothing appeared to have been disturbed in the quiet, serene room. The curtains were open, and the sun filtered through to cast a warm dappled glow over the body. Minola shuddered. Trembling, she left the room untouched, went back out into the hallway, and patiently waited for what she knew would be a barrage of questions by hotel security and the Police Nationale de Paris.

This hotel is my home. What happened here? To give her an essential, although temporary, reprieve from the tragedy in the next room, she focused on yesterday's idyllic day sitting in a café, in a cozy secluded booth across the street from the Luxembourg Gardens. Through the gilded wrought-iron fence she gleaned the contemplative and everyday life of the Parisiens.

As she waited for the police, she relived the relaxed pace inside the gardens, so peaceful and calm. She remembered an old couple sitting and holding hands, a woman watching her child play, and on another bench, two women sitting and comfortably rolling prams containing their precious cargoes. Their hypnotic movements, back and forth, back and forth, helped lull Minola into utter contentment as the mesmerizing and soothing minutes flicked by.

The image of Lord Yardleigh's body intruded on her thoughts. So peaceful in repose ... so still, except for the blood. Go back to the gardens. Go back to the gardens.

"Mademoiselle Grey ... pardon, Mademoiselle," she faintly heard a voice calling her back to reality.

Art drew her to Paris, so well represented-not confined to museums, but present everywhere, and always in the gardens which peppered this amazing city.

"Mademoiselle Grey ... Mademoiselle, s'il vous plait." She heard the voice again, faintly and urgently calling her. Her serenity shattered, pulling her back to the reality of a gruesome murder in her quiet hotel. Slowly opening her eyes, she noticed that the hallway was now filled with police and crime investigators. She recognized what looked like a solitary pathologist carrying a black medical bag. The police did not block his entry.

"Mademoiselle Grey, are you alright? I need to ask you a few questions." The gentle yet insistent voice persisted through her hazy reality. "Yes, of course. I am sorry," she replied, and again clenched her hands to keep them from shaking.

"I'm Sergeant Luc Dubois with the Police Nationale. Mademoiselle, we already have a statement from the maid. She said that you went into the room. Did you touch the body?" he inquired politely.

"I didn't touch anything ... no ... nothing at all. I went in to see if I could help. Yvonne had said blood ... I just wanted to make sure ... I..."

The Sergeant nodded his head and continued, "Did you notice anything unusual? Did you see or hear anyone come up to this floor while you were waiting for the police?"

"The room appeared undisturbed. It was so clean. I didn't see or hear anyone, but I closed my eyes because I needed to escape the image. I am sorry, but I believe I drifted off a bit. Maybe Yvonne heard or saw something. Not a robbery..." Her calm voice belied her distress. She looked down and tried to still her quaking hands.

"Yes, I know. I had a difficult time bringing you out of your trance, Mademoiselle. The maid had gone downstairs to summon help; she could not get the phone to work. I believe she was too agitated. Pour quoi? Why are you so certain that it was not a robbery?" he queried.

"Sergeant, you must have noticed he was wearing a Rolex. There are also several very worthwhile contemporary art pieces on the wall. A thief would have certainly stolen these items. No self-respecting crook would leave a Rolex on his victim's wrist. The Luxembourg Gardens are a far more delightful escape than seeing a murder victim, Sergeant." She looked up at him expectantly. Her eyes shimmered, but she refused to let the tears fall.

"There I would agree with you, Mademoiselle. I am sorry you were a witness to such a tragedy."

"Merci. Thank you for understanding."

Minola glanced at her own watch and realized she was late for her class, an excuse to get away. She could still see the sun filtering through the pool of blood-a macabre scene, one that would stay with her forever. "Pardon, Sergeant Dubois, but I am already late for class. May I please go, unless you still need me for any reason? I will be back this afternoon. I can leave my passport at the front desk." As an afterthought she added, "If necessary."

"That will not be required, Mademoiselle. You may go. I understand this is difficult for you. There will be more questions for you this afternoon; please do make yourself available. Merci, Mademoiselle." He moved on to speak with another policeman.

Yves Lanier, of the Police Nationale, was a man with a mission. His dingy grey office with matching furniture was so littered with papers and books that he couldn't find the phone on his desk. It was here somewhere, he knew. Damn it, I used it yesterday. He momentarily stared at the mess ... then, with quiet efficiency, slid everything off his desk to the floor, and heard the ping of the phone hitting the ground. He bent down, picked it up, and dialed a London number he knew well. A quiet voice answered, "Peter Riley."

"Bonjour, Peter. How are you, my friend?"

"I know that tone, Yves. Interpol at your service. What's going on?"

"Peter, Yardleigh was murdered sometime late last night or early this morning. I think your investigation into money laundering just veered off track."

The silence at the other end was palpable. "What the hell happened? He was cooperating. What do you have?"

"We have nothing, mon ami. He was shot once in the chest with a small-caliber gun. No exit wound-the lab's still working on that. Purely as an observation, it looks like he knew his killer. No surprise or fear ... there's nothing reflected on his face. Nothing stolen. Everything, as you English say, was neat and tidy, save for the corpse on the floor. We secured the crime scene and did all the other things we are supposed to do. The bastard was not nice enough to leave any clues." Lanier spoke with the confidence of a seasoned cop.

"Let me talk to Clivers, my superior. Murder is out of our jurisdiction. I suppose that leaves Scotland Yard in the game."

"Peter, this started in England."

"Don't I know it. I will call you back." Lanier heard the phone click in his ear.

Peter Riley ran a hand through his hair and swore. As he reached for his phone, it rang. "Riley," he recognized the brooding voice, "what the hell is going on?"

"Sir, I just spoke with Lanier. I assume you know as much as I do."

"Scotland Yard just filled me in. As of right now you are on loan to Scotland Yard. Riley, get over there ... yesterday."

"Sir, just what am I supposed to do? We can continue the internal investigation here..." Peter was cut off again.

"He was killed in Paris. You will go to Paris, do I make myself clear?" The voice at the other end softened perceptibly. "I can't think of a better man to handle this mess. Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir, I am on my way," Peter responded, and hung up the phone. "Bloody hell," he murmured to himself. He made a couple of phone calls and prepared to leave for Paris.