CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Detective Granger poured himself a refill of coffee from the jug in the kitchenette before making his way back to his compact office. Here, the air conditioning rattled on its warmest setting—everyone joked that Granger was born cold-blooded—and the blinds were open just enough to give him a view of the Marne River. He loved this sight, enjoyed being able to look down at nature, to see happy people going about their lives, even when, like today, it was gray and rainy.
He placed the coffee on a side table where it wouldn’t be accidentally knocked over, and turned his attention back to the files and papers spread out in front of him, representing his newest case.
The death of Margot Fabron.
Granger picked up his pen and unplugged his cell phone from the charger. What
