Monsieur Spiros Papandreou jumped up from his chair as soon as he spotted them through his plate-glass office window. Though mid-afternoon, he bounced with morning brightness, grabbing Stanislas’s hand and pumping out his honor at meeting a prominent functionary. He waved away the ID. It wasn’t necessary, he assured Stanislas. His call earlier had provided enough proof. “One can’t go through life distrusting everyone, which my friend, Monsieur Pincus, never seemed to understand. This way, please,” he said, leading him and Christophe into his office, while the judicial police waited outside. “In twenty years running my business never a problem like this. A friend and customer murdered. How can I help?”
Stanislas said he needed to ask some questions and afterwards inspect Pincus’s storage.
