A Paris Melody

Late Night Jazz

The sleepy Paris jazz club was nearly empty, and the girl at the piano was tired of singing the old favorites. With a tinkle of soft, bluesy notes she began telling her own sad story to music.

"I suppose we all had a favorite nursery rhyme as kids," Jill McDonald mused, speaking softly into the microphone. "Mine was Old McDonald's Farm. I used to think it was all about me. But hey, what does a six year old know?" Nobody smiled except the sleepy-eyed bartender. His tired shrug showed how late it was. "I guess we all dream of having the old days back again," the piano player continued, her slim white fingers gently stroking the keys. "Those carefree golden hours, those innocent days when love made us happy. Do you remember, my friends?" Nobody answered, so Jill tried again in French. "Vous souvenez-vous, mes amis?"

A snore from the back of the club was all the answer she got. Jill reckoned it was just an old Frenchman who'd had a drop or two of cognac and managed to forget some long-ago love affair. Well, at least he could dream of his lost love. All she could do was sing silly songs and laugh about a broken heart.

Jill McDonald had a man, oh so long ago,

And all night long he held her tight,

Oh so long ago . . .

Jill was smiling brightly even as a big fat tear rolled down her cheek. A soft blue spotlight caught the gold in her hair, the glimmer of her tears, and the string of cheap glass beads nestled between her firm young breasts.

Outside the seedy jazz club, a tall, broad-shouldered French detective waited alone in the pouring rain. Marc Moreau hated the unfamiliar anxiety churning in his gut. His golden girl might not be a thief, but she was clearly mixed up with some very bad people. How much proof did he need? There was enough evidence hanging around her pretty neck to send her to jail for fifty years.

"Let's make it quick." Marc's team turned up late because of the rain. But they understood what he expected. Cover the back exits. Keep the room covered. Leave the girl to him. No, that wasn't right. Jill McDonald was not a girl. She was a suspect.

Leave the suspect to him.

Only this time, Marc wondered if the suspect was really guilty. And he wondered if her big brown eyes were as sweet and sad as he remembered.

Inside the smoky little jazz club, Jill suspected nothing. She was pounding the piano keys and singing at the top of her lungs. Two or three sleepy old Parisians knew enough English to sing along.

With a kiss-kiss here, and a kiss-kiss there,

Here a kiss, there a kiss, everywhere a kiss-kiss . . .

Jill didn't see the detective until he was right on top of her. That was the trouble with singing at the piano. The bright lights on her face made everything else seem dark. But there was something very familiar about those broad shoulders and that growling voice.

"Please come with us, mademoiselle. You're under arrest."

A swollen red sun was rising over the grimy streets of Paris by the time Jill's processing was complete. She'd been photographed and fingerprinted, stripped and searched, poked and prodded. Now she sat slumped in one corner of the crowded police station, drooping with fatigue, oblivious to her tawdry surroundings.

"The necklace isn't the problem," Marc explained, picking up with the interrogation once more. He put a paper cup of coffee in front of the prisoner, sensing how exhausted she was. "We can't prove you stole it. But mixed in with those glass beads are a couple of real diamonds. Your uncle obviously had to hide them in a hurry. Why else do you think he gave them to you?"

"I haven't seen Uncle Simon in ages." A weary Jill roused herself with an effort. She forced herself to look Marc right in the eye, while trying not to lose herself in those icy-blue depths. "Arrest him if you want. Question him. I know nothing except he's my uncle and I love him. Uncle Simon is the only real family I have."

"He's dropped out of sight. We think he's in danger." Marc tossed a folder full of photographs onto the cluttered desk. He gave his prisoner time to look it over. "That's your Uncle Simon, the respectable diamond dealer, meeting with a key member of the Russian syndicate. The diamonds you had on tonight were stolen. The syndicate wants them back. And now they're looking for him."

"You're looking for him too," Jill pointed out, sipping her coffee. Marc had made it just the way she liked, remembering the extra sugar. "You want him, but you can't find him. I don't know where he is, but even if I did I wouldn't tell you. Do you really expect me to trust you, Marc?" Jill kept her soft voice cool and unconcerned. But her cheeks burned as she sipped the hot drink. She didn't trust Marc. But her tired mind kept playing tricks on her, replaying memories of midnight passion and morning coffee shared in bed.

"We found you," Marc answered. "You've got the diamonds. All we have to do now is wait."

"Wait?" Jill's big brown eyes were suddenly wary. "You mean you expect my uncle to come looking for me?"

"Oh no," Marc assured her. "He won't risk that. He'll stay hidden. But the real killers still think he has the diamonds. They'll be looking for him. When they make their move, we can grab them. That's why we need your cooperation. We need you out of sight and off the street. Those flashy diamonds stay hidden for now."

"I won't cooperate. Either arrest me for being a thief or let me go." Jill stiffened her spine, the strong coffee restoring her alertness. Her uncle had been in trouble before, but it usually blew over. This time was different. Her weak, good-hearted uncle was in danger. She had to forget her intimate history of involvement with the sexy Paris cop. She had to get away from Marc. She had to find her uncle and warn him in time.

"We can release you," Marc Moreau admitted, watching the prisoner straighten her sagging shoulders. "There's no evidence that you stole the diamonds, only that you received stolen property unknowingly. However, if you opt for immediate release we can't guarantee your safety. Especially if you stay in Paris."

"Of course I'm staying in Paris! Where else would I go?"

"I know a place." The French cop made his meaning very clear.

"Go to hell." Jill glared at Marc, refusing to give in to the past. Things had changed. Oh, but she couldn't look into his eyes for long. His electric blue gaze brought back too many memories.

"I will leave you to think things over for a few minutes." Marc shrugged. And then he walked out, leaving her alone in the stuffy interrogation room. Leaning back in her chair, Jill picked up the bulky police folder, leafing through the photographs with a frown. Her fat little uncle was only in the first few pictures. The other photos were seemingly unrelated, a series of gruesome crime scenes. Every single victim had been hacked to pieces, and some sort of star-shaped symbol was carved deep into their flesh.

Jill was starting to perspire in the windowless interrogation room. The ghastly images got her guts churning. She was worried about her uncle, and she also felt a bit queasy from all the blood. But something about that star-shaped symbol jarred her memory. She turned back to the first photograph in the folder, and saw her uncle sharing a drink with a big, muscular male with a shaved head and a distinctive star-shaped tattoo.