“I’ve done my best, in regard to people and to life, without precepts, but with a taste for justice.” ― Coco Chanel

    Katie Cavuto could not help smiling at the perfection of her breakfast. French press coffee in a pretty porcelain cup. A warm croissant with a crisp, shattering golden crust and soft, airy, butter-rich interior. Intensely flavorful raspberry preserves and bittersweet marmalade. A small bunch of yellow flowers in a blue vase set on a blue-and-white check tablecloth. A large starched linen napkin and a carafe of water.
         The black-vested waiter had been cheerful and had shown her to a table with wicker chairs just inside a hedge of the Hôtel Fouquet’s terrace just off the Champs Élysées, within site of the Arc de Triomphe. It was a warm spring day, with the trees budding, and the traffic of tourists had not yet begun. In another hour the avenue would be a crush of cars and taxis, the stores would be open and the shoppers would be out in such numbers as to block a clear view of the street. But by then Katie would be gone, assuming her friend David Greco showed up soon.
         “Sorry, Katie, I overslept,” came a voice from her left. “Damn jetlag had me awake until four o’clock.”
         David Greco had known Katie for several years, both as an assistant and friend, and even though he was twenty years older, at fifty-five, he’d had a long crush on her that he increasingly felt awkward about.  They had met after David retired from the New York City Police Department where he’d been a top detective, moving up to a house and land on the Hudson River not far from West Point. Katie was an investigative reporters for the magazine McClure’s, and she had convinced David to come out of retirement to help her on a story that needed his  detective skills, trying to find out what had happened to gold bullion that gangster Al Capone had stolen from the Federal Reserve back in the 1930s.
         The story that came out of that made Katie’s reputation and led to other investigations for which David’s expertise was invaluable, which included once saving her life, as she had once saved his. So, the bond was very strong between the two Americans now in Paris, where Katie had chosen to take her spring vacation. Since she only knew one person in Paris and because she enjoyed traveling to far-off cities for work with David—they’d been everywhere from Moscow to Hong Kong, London to Vienna, and more—she knew he’d be a good companion whose last two-day trip to Paris had been twenty years before on a case that involved the French Police. Also, Katie’s on-and-again,-off-again lawyer boyfriend was stuck on a case involving corporate malfeasance that would keep him in Boston at least until Memorial Day. 
         “I slept pretty well,” said Katie, who was of Italian-American background, still lived in the Bronx and had gone from being a very pretty, very good student at Fordham University to become a very attractive top reporter in her field.
“I dropped off around midnight and slept through till six,” she said. “I’ve been here eating way too many croissants, and this strong French coffee helps a lot.”
         David said, “I wonder if I can get some eggs and orange juice,” hailing the waiter and asking Katie, “Do I say ‘garcon’?” knowing that she spoke French, maybe with a slight Bronx accent.
         “Don’t worry, he speaks English.”
         David ordered, spread a croissant with marmalade, took a bite and shook his head. “Jesus! This is one of the best things I ever tasted. How do they make it so. . .  buttery?”
         “They put in a ton of butter.”
         Katie was dressed in bluejeans, a royal blue v-neck sweater and flowered scarf tied in a European knot. David wore jeans, an open-neck shirt and a blue blazer that had plenty of miles on it. Katie thought she might coax him into buying a new jacket there in Paris. 
         The eggs and orange juice came, and David again expressed his astonishment at the rich color and flavor of the scrambled eggs.
         “Don’t tell me,” he said. “They put in a ton of butter.”
         Katie smiled, nodded then said, “So, David, where would you like to go today? Our first day here I think we should maybe just walk around, then tomorrow start some heavy-duty sightseeing. I pre-ordered tickets for the Louvre this week, and we could go out to Versailles this weekend. Sound good?”
         “Hey, you’re the tour guide. Whatever’s good for you.”
      Katie had spent a college semester abroad in Paris, having learned to speak French while a child at the Villa Maria Academy in the Bronx, whose nuns were of the French Notre Dame order. Now her French was rusty but good enough to deal with waiters, concierges, storekeepers and museum workers, most of whom spoke English to one degree or another. She was, though, surprised that so many Parisians didn’t seem to speak more than a few words of English as of this, the spring of 2002
         David, who was also born in the Bronx, though in a rougher neighborhood than Katie’s, was embarrassed not to speak any other language, not even any Italian picked up from his parents, and had only picked up a smattering of Puerto Rican Spanish from his early days on the police force. But he could think of nothing more enjoyable than to be with Katie and have her lead him around by the nose, wherever she wanted to go.
         Katie took a city map out of her bag, when suddenly one, then two, police cars’ piercing two-note sirens could be heard blaring from the boulevard, followed by fire trucks and ambulances. Then, from the opposite direction, down from the Arc de Triomphe, came another flotilla of rescue vehicles.  The ones headed towards the arch turned off to the right onto the Boulevard Haussmann, the others heading towards the Place de la Concorde stopping on the Rue de Rivoli. In the distance more sirens could be heard from another direction.      
         Everyone on the terrace got up to see what was going on, and traffic and pedestrians stopped all movement. Katie asked the waiter what it might be, but he just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Madame, but it sounds serious.”
         Almost immediately police were on every visible corner, stopping traffic or diverting it. “I wonder if there’s anything on the local news,” said Katie. “Well, we’ll hear when we get back to the hotel. You need anything from the hotel now?” David said no, finished his breakfast and Katie asked for the check. They then walked up towards the Arc, about three blocks away, but when they reached Boulevard Haussmann, which was one of the spokes leading from the Arch’s Place Charles de Gaulle.   
    Katie looked at David and without saying anything headed for the spot where all the police cars, fire engines, white emergency vehicles and red  ambulances were parked, their lights blazing.