by Cara Black
Bad to worse.
“I need a lawyer,” Aimée said. “You’re my only phone call.” How embarrassing to have to confess this to her babysitter. “Could you please ask René to call our lawyer? I’m at the commissariat at Place d’Italie.”
René might not answer. The bibliothèque meeting was in a few minutes.
Babette gasped. “Are you all right, Aimée?”
“I will be when I know Chloé’s taken care of . . .”
“Don’t worry. Noémi just came in. There’s always plan B, remember?”
“But what if—”
The phone had clicked off.
She looked at the flic standing nearby, who motioned her to sit back down.
Wednesday, Late Afternoon
René always thought Charvet’s sixth-floor shirt-tailoring salon on Place Vendôme resembled a men’s club. Exclusive, with an expensive hush—all it was missing was cigars. René had dropped by when the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand meeting had been postponed—again—on the off chance they’d be able to squeeze him in between scheduled appointments. Now he stood on the fitting stool, his right arm extended for measurement. The crisp smell of custom-woven Egyptian cotton filled the wood-paneled room. The deep honey light of the late afternoon slanted across the hundreds of fabric bolts and the pale blue paper shirt patterns.
Chantal, the fitter, took a straight pin from her magnetic bracelet and tsked. “Monsieur Friant, I’ll need to remeasure your shoulders.”
He’d gained more muscle mass from all the working out he’d been doing, and it would cost him. This lightweight chambray needed to be a perfect fit for the wedding. Not his wedding, although he’d often fantasized about his own wedding suit—it was a classmate from his Sorbonne days getting married.
“Your goddaughter must be so big now,” Chantal said. “Will she attend?”
“Bien sûr, she’s the flower girl.”
Chloé, almost eleven months, could totter and climb already, and she showed a fascination with numbers—René attributed that to innate mathematical ability. He’d start coding lessons as soon as she could sit still.
“You’ve decided on this chambray, Monsieur Friant?”
René nodded. “Perfect for a late September reception.”
His gaze caught on the grooms’ sample photo album on the table. The open photo spread showed a just-married couple, poised on church steps, framed by smiling well-wishers and bouquet-holding attendants. The perfect wedding. In his mind, the man in the picture dissolved and was replaced by him, René, somehow taller in a morning coat . . . The bride was Aimée, leggy, big-eyed, sporting René’s family diamond ring. Chloé stood between them, his daughter, Aimée’s perfume mingling with the flowers, her hair catching in his, their kiss . . .
A sharp prick of a pin brought him back to reality.
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur Friant. Try to stay still. We want to get a precise fit.”
Back to the sad truth—he was just Aimée’s best friend at the end of the evening. As he always would be.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Chantal’s eyebrows rose. “You know our policy, Monsieur Friant.” Absolutely no calls during custom fittings.
A surreptitious glance at his cell phone revealed Maxence’s cell phone number on the screen. Maxence knew not to disturb him. If he’d told him once . . .
“Of course,” said René.
His phone buzzed again. Maxence. What could the emergency be now? René groaned inside. Another server glitch at the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand? A problem with a Y2K-program model?
“Can you bend the rules?” he asked.
“Monsieur Friant, if I let you move so you can answer, the preciseness of the measurement will be ruined.”
“Could you answer for me and put it on speakerphone?” he said. “It’s work—”
The buzzing stopped.
Chantal sighed as she tucked a fold in one of the four layers of fabric composing the collar.
The phone buzzed again. Chantal made a face. This time, she lifted the phone from the table, pressed answer, and put the call on speakerphone.
“René, I’m on the Métro. Aimée’s nanny is trying to reach you.” The call was cutting out, but René recognized the angst in Maxence’s voice.
“Is something wrong with Chloé?” René asked.
“Aimée’s at the . . .” The line clicked.
René felt sweat forming on his neck. “Where?”
“She needs a lawyer . . . commissariat at Place d’Italie.”
A click. The line went dead.
His mind raced. Aimée was in jail. What if Karine’s murder the previous night had been a trap, a setup? He hadn’t been able to convince Aimée to come forward.
Coward. If only he’d insisted.
“Desolé, Chantal, it’s an emergency.”
Chantal, wide-eyed, nodded. “Bien sûr.”
He struggled out of the sleeve around one of his arms. Tried to not wince at the pinpricks. “We’ll reschedule the fitting.”
He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed his prescription. Downed one pill with a swig of water from the bottle he carried. He couldn’t forget his medicine.
Wednesday, Late Afternoon
At the grilled storage locker window, Aimée signed for her belongings—her leather jacket, her bag, the Tintin watch her father had given her so many years ago.
Her palms damp, she called René.
“I’m out. You’re a lifesaver, René,” she said, breathless. “Still in the meeting? Shall I come?”
She thought she should take a shower to get the smell of sweat and fear off her.
“Thank God,” said René. “You had me worried. The lawyer called and filled me in. What’s this about an assault?”
“A total fabrication,” she said. “Never mind.”
“Alors, the meeting’s winding down,” he whispered. “We’ll talk later.”
“I’ll make this right.” She’d put too much on his shoulders, and now she was missing a big meeting. She’d let him down. He’d lay into her later for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, and he’d be right.
“Just don’t forget tonight’s the reception—we’re giving the award. And you’re meeting the media mec, Xavier, fundraiser extraordinaire.” Pause. “You will make it, non?”
Merde. She’d forgotten. The reception and award ceremony at the graffiti art foundation.
“. . . and Chloé . . .” René was saying.
She’d clean forgotten her daughter after she’d talked to Babette. What kind of mother was she? She had to check with Noémi.
“See you later, René.”
She hung up, feeling terrible. But it wasn’t as if she’d been able to do anything locked in a holding cell without phone access.
Breathe, she reminded herself.
Babette’s phone went to voice mail. Of course, she couldn’t answer during an exam.
Noémi answered on the first ring. “Aimée, ça va?”
“Fine.” Squeals and banging. “Is that Chloé making all that noise?”
“Happy as a clam with garlic. Did you know you have a drummer?”
Relief spread through her. But what must Noémi think of her being arrested and held at the commissariat? “There was a huge misunderstanding, Noémi. I’m sorry to take advantage like this—”
“Pas de problème,” interrupted Noémi. “Take care of what you need to do; get legal counsel . . . Come by, and if we’re not here, we’re at the park across the street. You know the one I mean.”
“You’re a jewel, Noémi. Merci.”
“You’d do the same for me,” she said, “and I might ask you for help next week.”
“Guaranteed!”
After they’d set a pickup time, Aimée’s mind turne
d to the next problem—the award ceremony that night. How could she wangle this?
She’d think about it later.
Outside on Boulevard de l’Hôpital, she breathed in the afternoon air. She needed a shower.
Avocat Dillion grinned as she shook his hand.
“Merci,” she said.
His white teeth highlighted his South of France bronze tan. Another distant relation of Martine’s, he specialized in criminal law. “You do get into trouble, Mademoiselle Leduc.”
No doubt that meant a hefty check.
“I don’t understand how they could hold me,” she said.
She had her suspicions but wanted his expensive opinion and advice. After all, she’d be paying for it.
With Cyril now in the mix—nosing around for Léo Solomon’s notebook—she wondered if he had anything to do with Karine’s murder. She wouldn’t put it past him.
“Cyril Cromach decided not to press assault charges,” said Avocat Dillion. “That’s a good thing. But he won’t answer my calls. I’d say someone wanted you out of commission.”
A shiver traveled up her arms. “Out of commission? Can you explain?”
“Someone wanted to keep you out of the way a few hours. I’d speculate Cyril fabricated the incident, then dropped it once he’d done what whoever was paying him wanted him to do without your interference. Take it as a warning to watch your toes.” He looked behind him. “And I never said that.”
“So you’ve done that kind of thing, too, non? That’s why you know what happened.”
“Not I, mademoiselle, bien sûr. But let’s just say I’ve seen it done. It’s a delaying tactic. Unethical.”
“I think . . .” Should she tell him? “Do you have fifteen minutes?”
On the Place d’Italie roundabout, they stood at the bustling café tabac counter among old-timers and matrons buying Loto tickets and Pernods. Keeping her voice lowered, she gave him an edited version of what she knew. Cigarette smoke spiraled to the nicotine-yellow ceiling. She wished she had a Nicorette patch.
After listening, Avocat Dillion downed his espresso. “I think you’re omitting a few details.”
“If you look at Marcus Gilet’s homicide report,” she said, “you’ll see what a shoddy job the investigating cops did, blaming his murder on drugs, claiming his girlfriend was a prostitute.”
If he was surprised by anything he’d heard, he didn’t show it. Or even ask her how she knew anything. He didn’t want to know. “If the flics are treating this as the homicide of a druggie and his trick-turning girlfriend . . . they don’t put much energy into those.”
“It’s a cover-up.”
“Easy to say. The autopsy will clear up the drug accusation,” he said. “That’s the first call.”
“Meanwhile, I’m in the way. An irritant to shuffle aside, as you said.”
“You’re important enough if they pulled a stunt like this. My advice?” he said as he threw down several francs. “Stay under the radar. And keep me on your speed dial.”
Nagging thoughts followed her all the way to her scooter still parked by the Gobelins. How could she get out of the Hand’s cross hairs?
Heat shimmered on the ivy dripping down the vanilla-colored brick.
Despite Morbier’s so-called retirement, the old fox was still connected. She remembered what he’d told her about Vauban—thrown under a bus, supposedly assassinated by the Hand. A group of people who protected one another and their interests.
Who was left now?
Only one way to find out.
She parked at Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand, a modernistic affair of chrome and glass on the corner of bustling rue de Tolbiac. She got online via an alias account. Didn’t want this on her home or office computer. Aimée pulled up Morbier’s search history and that email she’d forwarded to herself. Sucked in her breath. Let it out with a whistle.
Morbier’s web search history revealed articles on the 1989 murder of a petty thief, Charles Siganne, and of his family. Siganne and his wife and two young children were victims of a gruesome stabbing in their apartment near Porte d’Ivry in the thirteenth. It had been during Aimée’s premed year—she remembered the horrific family murder detailed in Le Parisien, the sensational headlines. The perpetrator had never been caught. Soon afterward, there was a bloodbath in a rival gang of Siganne’s, a slaughter of two members and their entire families—attributed to a revenge spree, although that was never proven. It had been a notorious gang war.
She opened the email, in which Morbier’s contact at the préfecture updated him on Vauban’s upcoming trial, even going so far as to cut and paste supposedly secure in-house intranet communications. How Morbier managed to get people to . . . Zut, no time to think about that now. Not the point. The email was part of what must have been a running email exchange—elliptical and hard to comprehend. If only she’d forwarded more.
Passing of the torch . . . take-over by the fixer? No one’s sure. He contracted out to Vauban. The fixer leaves no loose ends or witnesses.
Her eyes gravitated to the references to the “fixer” employed by “the big fish.”
Vauban’s meeting la Proc. Talk to him. Tell Dandin. We’ve got to keep our story straight.
Dandin . . . had she heard that name before Morbier’s email? She thought back to her father’s time—those Friday night poker games at the kitchen table. Of course. Now she remembered Dandin’s cauliflower ears. He’d worked in robbery detail, too. She searched the police database she’d uploaded on the quiet. Nothing on him. Retired, maybe? Still, no one threw away records.
This smelled riper than yesterday’s fish.
But right then she had to pick up Chloé.
The streets of Cité florale, where Noémi lived, were named for the flowers that blossomed in this fragrant pocket—rues des Orchidées, des Iris, des Glycines. Birds fluttered in the jasmine vines, the only disturbance in the quiet cobbled streets of two-story houses—built on a former meadow unable to support any taller buildings. Many were painted in turquoises, yellows, and pinks. Like a village, Aimée thought.
She punched in the code. Her index finger came back sticky, smelling of Carambar, a sweet she had loved as a child, and the gate buzzed open. She winced at the shriek of the green metal gate over the stone. In the matchbox-sized garden, Aimée passed Noémi’s bicycle, her lemon tree in a pot, a table and chairs, and chopped firewood piled under her winding metal stairs. Noémi, a textile artist and a single maman like Aimée, lived in a second-floor studio apartment with work space below. They had become immediate friends when they’d met at the pool—and their babies had, too. Noémi’s ex, a bigwig at the Mobilier National, was a real thorn in her side over custody. Aimée sympathized; dealing with Melac, Chloé’s biological father, had been difficult, although Aimée had eventually allowed him to put his name on Chloé’s birth certificate.
Come to think of it, Melac’s new job brought him to Paris once a month, and he owed her babysitting. Aimée made a mental note to get in touch with him.
Noémi answered the door, petite in her paint-spattered shirt and zebra-striped leggings, the phone crooked between her shoulder and ear. She pecked Aimée’s cheeks. Her brow was creased in frustration, anger, or worry; Aimée couldn’t tell.
The girls crawled on the wood floor under the graphics that plastered the brick walls. Noémi’s bébé, Elodie, a chestnut-haired button of cute, looked so much like Chloé they could have been siblings. They were only a month apart.
Noémi mouthed, My ex, then twirled her finger by her forehead—Crazy. Aimée nodded. Poor Noémi. Time to get out of her hair.
Aimée grabbed Chloé’s diaper bag, swept her up, and planted kisses on her pink cheeks. Inhaled her warm, sweet scent.
Aimée held up Chloé’s chubby fist to make it wave goodbye.
Merci, à demain, Aimée mouthed.
&nb
sp; Aimée set Chloé in the scooter car seat especially designed by her godfather, René. Chloé kicked in glee; she loved riding on the scooter. Her strawberry-pink helmet, not so much.
Aimée collapsed Chloé’s stroller and bungeed it to the rack, also custom crafted by René. They took off, winding through Cité florale as the wind fluttered the plane-tree leaves over them.
Her phone rang. René. She glanced at the time.
Mon Dieu, she’s forgotten.
Blown it again. He’d shoot her.
Wednesday Evening
The reception was held in the nineteenth-century two-story maison de maître in Square Héloïse et Abélard. This maison was a village vestige that had once been a commerçant’s country house, now smack-dab in the sprawling thirteenth arrondissement, not far from the Bibliothèque François-Mitterrand. The building had been renamed la Maison des Cinq Sens and now functioned as a community center, a preschool, and an art exhibition venue.
René reached for a limoncello.
“C’est très cool, non?” breathed the pink-haired graffiti artist next to him.
If only the concoction in the frosted jam glass met one’s expectations of an Italian aperitif, René thought. He managed a grin. But the artist had vanished in a whiff of spray paint fumes. Where was Aimée?
Amid the throbbing beat of techno music and laughter, René felt a hot suffocating in his lungs. He hated crowds. Wished he hadn’t agreed to present this award. Wished Aimée were there.
He couldn’t even see over the tables laden with wine, Chinese spring rolls, and honey-drenched Algerian sweets. The hosts had tried to reflect the diverse quartier in their catering. The reception celebrated graffiti supernovas Jef Aérosol and Miss Tyk, and other tag artists were tagging the walls with “masterpieces” that would be up for the art foundation award. A new world to René. His friend Demy said art was most vibrant before it went mainstream. René remembered when, not so long ago, they used to jail kids caught tagging.
As René edged through a forest of suits, his phone rang. Aimée. About time.
“Tell me you’re here and I just can’t see you,” he said, fuming.
