Why couldn’t he feel numb? Numb like the victims’ families he’d broken the same news to countless times, more times than he liked to remember. And he remembered every one. Their shocked faces: “… but it can’t be”; then his words sinking in. The collapse into tears. Why didn’t he even feel anger, hurt, grief? Instead he floated, as if out of his body. His mind blurred when he should be analyzing Xavierre’s last words, rethinking her every action. There was so much to do, so many facets to consider in the investigation, so much to concentrate on: the crime-scene results, lab tests, questioning the family, any witnesses, speaking with Aimée. But here he was, spinning his wheels, waiting in the Préfecture’s office for Suffren. The last person he wanted to talk to. Now or ever. Suffren’s office afforded a view of the green-brown Seine. Not a corner office, but a sign of the favor he’d attained in the six years since Morbier had almost sidetracked his career. The longer Suffren kept him waiting, the more he wondered at the abrupt summons that had taken him from the Morgue, wishing that his last view of Xavierre hadn’t been her wide red-veined eyes, her delicate neck red and bruised as she lay on the stainless-steel morgue table; that the creeping feeling of helplessness would subside; that he could do something to bring the smile back on— The door creaked open and Suffren, a man in his early forties, whip-thin, brunette with a stripe of white hair showing above his ears, gestured for Morbier to sit down.
