"Excusez moi, mademoiselle?  Êtes-vous là?"

The matronly landlady knocked for the third time.  This particular young tenant was four days late on rent and, although four days wasn't much, it simply wasn't like the girl to be late.  Also, her mail was left uncollected and her car was sitting frosted over in the lot outside.

It was a bright January morning in the little French town just outside of Paris.  The streets were lined with grey slush and the sun shone down upon glistening patches of leftover snow, causing the icy cold day to appear deceitfully warm.

With a sigh, the landlady flipped through the keys on her key ring and began unlocking the door.  She opened it slowly, calling out to whomever may be inside.

But no one was home.

The neighbors hadn't seen her.

Her family hadn't heard from her.

A phone call to her university revealed that she had missed every one of her classes for about a week.

She was just... gone.

The landlady finally alerted the police and, after a more thorough search, the third-year law student was officially declared "Missing."

It took three more days, but they finally found her.

She was in a partially-constructed building whose completion had been put on hold for some irrelevant reason.  Her cold, stiff body was surrounded by the melted remains of candles whose wicks had burnt out days ago, and a gruesome, scarlet gash encircled . 

An icy chill ran down the spine of the police officer who found her as his eyes came to rest on the wooden crucifix that was held in her hands over her heart.

The officer lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth and pressed the button, his breath forming little clouds in the frigid air as he spoke.

"Uh... Sergent?"

The voice on the other end crackled through.  "Oui, c'est pour quoi?"

The officer swallowed hard as he stared at the terrible and yet all too familiar vision before him.  He pressed the button again and spoke with urgency in his voice.

"Appelez le détective, L!"

---

Directly contacting the detective known as L was no easy task. 

To begin with, one would first need a passcode given by L himself.  These passcodes were given only to law enforcement officials whom L had worked with on a case and contact was only to be made if said case were to be reopened for some reason.  The code was to be memorized and never written down.

A long and complicated URL was also given on three separate cards in sealed envelopes, to be kept in three different, secure locations.  When the URL was put together and typed into the search bar of an internet browser, a blank, white page appeared containing a single text box with a blinking cursor.  Once the passcode was entered, the text box was replaced with a phone number.  The phone number, which was heavily encrypted five times over, sent an alert to Watari containing all of the information connected to the passcode and its related case, and the person calling heard a synthetic voice instructing them to hang up and wait for further contact.

Watari, upon receiving such an alert, would then call the individual back and, using voice distortion, ask them a series of questions to ensure that they were who they claimed to be.  Once this was confirmed, the person had sixty seconds to explain their reason for calling.  When that minute elapsed, the signal connecting them was automatically scrambled and cut off.  The phone number that had connected them was, from that point on, rendered useless.

These alerts were rare, as cases closed by L tended to remain so.

But such was not the case with The Bishop.

Watari shut the phone and stood from the desk in his room.  He stepped out into the main living room area of the large suite to deliver the unsettling news.

"L, I just received an alert from Sergent Rousseau at the Paris P.D."

L swiveled in his computer chair, a sheet of paper in each hand and a lollipop stick protruding from his mouth.  His large eyes prodded Watari to go on.

Naomi, too, lifted her gaze from her work.

Watari continued gravely, knowing very well that the news would be not well received.  "It appears as though The Bishop has returned."

"What??"  Naomi instantly shut her laptop and stood to her feet.

L remained frozen, his eyes wide with confusion and disbelief.  Watari could almost visualize the gears in that brilliant head of his spinning and whirling, searching desperately for where the mistake could have possibly been made.

"What- But, how?"  Naomi looked at L, who still hadn't moved, and then back at Watari.

The old man told them everything, just as it had been relayed to him- the girl, the candles, the crucifix.

L listened, his expansive mind grasping for something- anything- to explain this.  As soon as Watari finished relaying the details, L stood to his bare feet, discarding the lollipop and extending his hand, palm up.

"Give me the phone.  Watari, make arrangements for a place to stay in Paris.  Misora, go pack up.  We're leaving as soon as possible."

Watari placed the phone in L's hand and he and Naomi left to do their bidding.  L made contact with Sergent Rousseau and crouched on the couch, speaking in French and pausing in between to listen to the answers to his questions.

Within a matter of hours, all three of them were on the plane en route to France.

Naomi sat across the aisle from L in one of only four passenger seats on the luxury jet.  She was re-reading the files on Jasper Broussard and Rosella Leveque, searching for something they may have missed.  She was going over everything with a fine-toothed comb, from the Rosella's car accident trial report to the newspaper article detailing Gerard Leveque's suicide.

L was staring out the window, his long arms wrapped around his bent-up knees.  The coffee and biscuits before him sat untouched.  His brow was lowered in bitter agitation as he stared down onto the fluffy clouds below.

"Where did I go wrong?  What did I miss?  We caught him... he confessed... everything fit."

L's thumb moved to rest on his bottom lip and his shoulders hunched into an even tighter curve.  He traveled back over every little detail, revisiting every deduction.

"We're missing something... something big... but what?"

His thumb trailed his bottom lip, pushing it to the side.  He stared into the abyss below, at nothing in particular, and he stayed this way until the plane touched down.

Watari had bought out an entire floor of a newly constructed apartment building.  The apartments were large and only two were on each floor.  Naomi piled her things in the one on the right and then moved to help unpack the computer equipment in the one on the left.

Watari then set to work installing security measures inside the elevator to limit access to their floor.

L parked himself at the computer desk, speaking only to himself in low, inaudible half-sentences.

Naomi approached the desk, pulling on her new leather jacket.

"L, I think I should go talk to Jasper Broussard's mother, Clarisse.  I think maybe she can answer some of the questions I have about Rosella's father, Arthur."

Naomi had read the case files over again and was reminded that Arthur Broussard had served time in prison for domestic abuse.  A part of her wondered if he may be the real Bishop.

"Yes, that's good, please do that."  L was completely absorbed in the information displayed over a dozen or so tabs open on the multiple computer monitors before him.

Naomi stopped inside her still unpacked apartment to grab her false ID and her keys.  Her bike was parked in a lot across the street.  She hurried over to it and climbed on, awakening the onyx beast with a rumbling purr and taking off down the bustling streets of Paris.

She drove to the outskirts of the city, to a little residential area tucked away in such a manner that one may be surprised to learn that an urban metropolis lay only a stone's throw away.  Naomi switched off her motorcycle and removed her sleek helmet, hooking it to the handlebar.  As she swung her leg over to disembark, she smiled to herself at how out-of-place her "Batmobile" looked nestled against a homey wooden fence with a wildflower trellis.

She made her way up to the little cottage front door and knocked.

The door opened and a small woman in a floral cotton dress and a light grey cardigan smiled warmly.  She had soft, blue eyes that sparkled with youthfulness, despite the crow's feet around them that gave away her age.  A large barrette held half of her greying blonde hair back and the rest hung down in natural curls to the base of her neck.

"Comment puis-je vous aider?" the woman asked politely.

"Hello... pardon me, but do you speak English?"  Naomi was hoping she wouldn't have to use the translator on the laptop she'd brought.  Things would be so much easier if they could just speak to each other.  To her relief, the woman nodded.

"I do.  How can I help you?" she repeated, this time in English.  Her French accent was strong but her English was proficient.

Naomi held up her badge, but smiled in a friendly way, so as not to appear too intimidating.  "I'm with a private detective organization.  If I may... are you Clarisse Broussard?"

The woman's blue eyes clouded and she folded her hands primly in front of her.  "I am," she said sadly.  "I suppose you're here because... because of the murders."

Naomi tucked her badge away again and nodded.  "Yes, ma'am.  May I ask you some questions, please?  I'll only be a few minutes, if you can spare the time."

Clarisse Broussard nodded and turned, beckoning for Naomi to follow her inside.

Naomi stepped into the little home.  It was simple, but clean and well cared for.  House plants lined the windowsills and hand-crocheted blankets draped over the comfortable-looking furniture.  They moved into the kitchen and Clarisse motioned for Naomi to have a seat at the little wooden breakfast table by the window.

"Can I get you some tea?"

Naomi smiled.  "Tea would be lovely!"

Clarisse seemed relived to have something to do with herself.  She moved about the little kitchen, putting water into a copper tea kettle.

"Mrs. Broussard, I first want to apologize for intruding.  I know this must be difficult for you.   Your cooperation is very much appreciated."

The older woman was quiet.  She managed a small smile in Naomi's direction, but the pain in her eyes was clear.

"I'll answer anything you'd like," she said softly.

Naomi felt so sorry for the motherly woman.  "Thank you," she said sincerely.  "Now, when was the last time you heard from your former husband, Arthur?"

"Oh it's been years," Clarisse answered, her French accent mixing with her English words.  "And thank God for that."

"Was he close with either of your children?"

"Not at all.  He left when they were quite young... Never wanted them in the first place."

"I see..."  Naomi had been hoping for something more incriminating.  She tapped her pen atop her notepad and thought of what direction to take her line of questioning.

The kettle whistled and Clarisse poured them both a hot cup of herbal tea.  She took a seat in the chair across from Naomi's.

"There is one thing..." Clarisse began, holding her teacup with both hands.

"Oh?"  Naomi picked up her tea and blew softly into the steaming liquid before taking a small sip.

Clarisse's eyes were fixed on the tabletop but her gaze was thoughtful and far away.  "Someone has been leaving roses at my daughter's grave.  I visit her every day, since I work at the thrift store next to the church where she's buried.  And every Monday morning, there's a new one."

Naomi was intrigued.  "Every Monday?"

Clarisse nodded.  "Sunday mornings when I go to church, the rose is wilted and dead.  But every Monday morning, there's a brand new one lying there, on top of the headstone."

Naomi realized that today was Sunday.  Whoever was leaving those roses would be there tonight.

"Who else was close to Rosella?" Naomi asked.

Clarisse lifted thin shoulders in a shrug.  "I've asked everyone I can think of. No one knows who puts the roses there.  I thought it was Jasper until he got arrested and the roses kept appearing like clockwork."

"Are you close with your son?"

The woman's gentle eyes lifted to meet Naomi's.  They were filled with grief and loss.  "No," she said softly.  "Jasper resented me because I foolishly chose to stay with Arthur for so long."  She shook her head.  "Looking back, I know I should have left him sooner."  She lifted her teacup to her lips and stared at the tabletop again.

Naomi commented slowly, "I'm sure you did what you thought was best."

Clarisse shrugged again and smiled sadly at Naomi.

The two women sat for a moment in silence.  Naomi pretended to be looking over her notes but really, she was thinking.  She was close to something... She could feel it.  Something deep down told her that whoever was leaving those roses had to be The Bishop.

Suddenly her head came up.  "Mrs. Broussard... Did the roses start appearing right after Rosella's accident?

Clarisse shook her head.  "No... No, it actually wasn't until about a year later."

Naomi's eyes widened with instant clarity.  She stood to her feet and extended her hand.

"Thank you so much, you've been very helpful."

Clarisse stood as well and accepted the handshake.

Naomi moved with hurried steps to her bike, her mind whirling.  In one swift motion, she swung her leg up to sit on the motorcycle and slid on her helmet.  Leaning forward, she turned the key in the ignition and sped off, her long hair streaming out behind her.

She knew.

She knew and she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before.

Jasper Broussard had eliminated a vast amount of evidence, but for all of his efforts, there was one thing that he could not simply delete with the press of a button... and that was the printed word.

That very morning on the plane, she had reread the newspaper article that told the sad story of a car that had been pulled from a river.  The owner and driver of the vehicle had been one Gerard Leveque, husband to the late Rosella Leveque.  He had been away on a military black ops mission at the time of his wife's death and had not learned of the accident until he returned home, a year later.  His own demise had been deemed a suicide.

Naomi zoomed along the curvy roads, leaving behind a streak of black and purple.  One singular phrase pulsed over and over in her mind:

"His body was never found."