Maurice Frossard listened to the messages from the detective in Canada. The fact that Roger Aubert had been killed set all kinds of alarm bells ringing. Was his scam discovered? How? By whom? There was no way he would be suspected, he thought. Was it a fluke? Did the police have the forged papers? If he didn't reply he would be a suspect and all because he got greedy.

He could have just sold the document and not tried to go that extra step with provenance papers. The decision had him cursing to the empty room. Now that greed had him slap dab in the middle of a murder. The impersonation would naturally have them reaching out to Tremblay. Thank God he was in another country at least.

The call was placed and Maurice, after assuring the detective he spoke English, listened carefully to the clever questions. He expressed his rehearsed shock at hearing that the victim had posed as his courier, and that the police didn't have papers. At the end of the call, the relief dissipated. Where were the papers then? Who had them?

Was it possible, he wondered? The owner of the document? Maurice Frossard decided he needed to disappear.

***

Arthur listened politely as his client expressed considerable dismay over the current events, and that he had been grilled by the police over his connection.

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Tewksbury, it's been a trial for all of us."

"Well, my interest in this is over. I have other business in Morocco that needs my attention. Send me your invoice for services rendered and I'll see to it when I return."

"You're going right away?"

"Yes, I should only be a few weeks."

"Well, I'm sorry again for how this all turned-"

"As am I. Goodbye, Mr. Galbraith."

The upset seemed so very over the top considering it was a one in a billion chance of authenticity, and he hadn't incurred a huge financial amount in his investigation. It wasn't very likely Galbraith Research would be doing business with Edward Tewksbury again soon.

Arthur brought up the file and gave it a cursory read before entering their fee and sending it to accounting.

***

The telephone apology had led to other, smaller talk and then circled around to another request for a diner date. Barbara resisted thinking about the professionalism, considering his investigation, and instead thought about her own feelings. She wasn't some infatuated teenager, but then she hadn't been socially active for some time either, and the years weren't waiting for her to catch up.

Dinner was in an enclosed flagstone patio, festooned with potted plants of all descriptions and sizes. Muted track lighting gave the setting a moonlit ambience. Barbara was surprised that a police detective would have such a place in his list of dining sites; her notion coming mainly from movies and TV.

"This is lovely, I had no idea it even existed."

"It has become a favourite of mine since I closed an attempted murder here about eight months ago."

Barbara gawped at his casual, incongruous testimonial, then wondered at the favourite place connotation. Did he come here with other women – often? The arrival of a young server with water and menus broke the spell, and she gratefully read the offerings.

"Would you like a drink or some wine?" He asked.

"Uhm - wine I think, but let me decide what I'm having first."

"Are you an aficionado?"

"No, but I do prefer how some accent the different dishes." She peered over her menu and straight into his amused, hazel eyes.

"I thought my saying I closed a murder case here might have got more of a reaction."

"You said, attempted, and frankly I did react – I just concealed it. Was that some kind of test you give all your – anyone who dines here with you?"

"Are you offended?"

"Should I be?"

He closed his menu. "No. Have you decided on what you are having?"

"I think I'd like to try the Cajun pork chop."

"So, red wine then?"

"Why don't you surprise me . . . keep it in style with the evening so far."

He blinked, acknowledging the dig. "Okay and I think we've reached a point where names instead of titles could be used. I'm Keith."

"Barbara. Nice to meet you, Keith." The both laughed lightly.

Dinners and wine were ordered, consumed and exclaimed over a lingering, genuine appreciation.

"I am truly impressed, everything was delicious."

"Coffee? Apéritif?"

"Coffee I think, thanks."

The real moonlight made an appearance and the track lighting dimmed even more, leaving the diners in mysterious shadows, enhanced by the romantic strains of a saxophone.

"This was wonderful, Keith. I really enjoyed it, but I'm curious. Should you really be dating a suspect in an ongoing investigation?"

"Is that what this is, a date?"

Barbara coloured, thankful for the lighting. "Well, dining then – whatever you want to call it."

"I'd like to call it getting to know you better."

Her first question repeated in her head. "Would that be personally or professionally?"

"Some of one, more of another." He watched her over the rim of is coffee cup.

The feeling of romance suddenly faded along with the accompanying music, and Barbara felt emptiness in her chest. Detective Railton was still working his case and dinner was just a different approach.

"So this is just another interrogation technique you think might work on me?"

"Are you suggesting I have some ulterior motive?"

"Do you?"

"Honestly? The official part of me wanted to see if you relaxed in a social situation or if you were tense and cautious-"

"You mean guilty of something."

He looked down at his coffee and shook his head slowly. "The personal part wanted to see if there was a chance of- of-"

"I think I would like to go home." She folded up her serviette and dropped it on the plate, gathered her purse and pushed her chair back.

Instead of objecting, he copied her moves and stood, waiting for her to lead the way. On the way out, he stopped and paid the bill, had a few words with the owner, then caught up with her out front on the street. His car arrived and the valet held the door for Barbara.

"Just to be clear," he said, glancing at her profile, "your boss raised some suspicion about a possible scam and how your client had seemed excessively disturbed. Apparently he's left the country for Morocco on business and we are having little success in reaching the seller in France. I had one call with him, but he seems to have disappeared."

"I don't see how any of that clears up this evening."

"It doesn't . . . not for you anyway." He steered around a stopped bus. "

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I have eliminated you from any involvement in the case, but you are not yet excluded from the overall investigation."

She shifted in her seat as much as the belt would allow, and stared at his profile. The image nearly made her forget her indignation.

"Are you telling me that because you don't think I'm a murderer now it was okay to buy me a dinner?"

"That's not-"

"Oh, really. Just get me home, please." Silence defined the rest of the trip.

Keith pulled the car to the curb a few steps down the street from her door and killed the engine. As Barbara struggled with the seat belt, he placed a hand on her arm and she tensed.

"Please, Barbara, listen to me." Her struggling slowed but she kept the annoyed frown in place. "I'm sorry things came out the way they did. It wasn't intended that way – honestly. I wanted to be with you . . . and I know it's not smart to get involved with – with people involved – " He sat back and banged his head on the seat rest in exasperation. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Barbara popped the buckle and slid the belt off her shoulder. She sat staring out the window a moment then opened the door.

"I don't suppose you'd want me to call you again – unofficially?"

"Keith . . ." She turned back, staring helplessly into his eyes. His seat belt flew off and he leaned across the console and kissed her before she could react. When he pulled back, she was still leaning toward him, eyes opening slowly and her mouth open slightly – speechless.

"I won't apologize, and if you just go I'll understand. Just know that tonight was supposed to go a lot differently."

Barbara sat back and tried to gather her senses. This kiss had been a shock, no question, and one which left her muscles trembling – and now she didn't know how to react. She felt him watching her and it was making her dither. She got out of the car and shut the door, said a brief thank you for the dinner and fled into her apartment.