“He’s Tunisian or something. Is there any way to track him down?”
“Is he an immigrant, or a French citizen?” Dylan asked.
“No idea.” She sighed.
“Give me his name and I’ll see if I can find something in the databases we use.”
Between courses they talked more about Reece Pugh’s case and where she might take it. While the food was in front of them they were both mesmerized by it, taking small bites to make the fabulousness last a little longer. Francie had no idea what she was eating and didn’t care. It was all too delicious.
As the evening wound down Francie began to think of Reece, in his cell at that awful prison. What was he having for dinner tonight? Did they get good French food there? She doubted it. She felt guilty enjoying all this while he was locked up.
And yet, what could she do? The threatening text wouldn’t stop her, although it was a bit creepy. She didn’t want to tell Dylan about it. He might get weirdly chauvinistic and tell her how to handle it. That would definitely spoil the mood. No, she would find a way to figure out who sent the text by herself.
As they left the restaurant, floating down the cobblestones on a high tide of sated bliss, Francie pulled out her cell phone. “I’m going to text you the roommate’s name. Not positive about the spelling, but I appreciate if you can do a search, or a background search, or something.” She typed in ‘Sami Amoud’ and sent it off to Dylan. His phone pinged in his pocket.
He took her arm. “You never stop, do you?”
“What?”
“Working for your clients. All through dinner, all we talked about was poor Reece.”
She stopped and turned to him. “Are you dissing me?”
He blinked. “I admire you for helping him when he, well, obviously is involved in illegal drugs in some way.”
“You think? Yeah, he probably is.” They started strolling again, turning left at the corner to head to the river. “I got to know his mother a little. His parents weren’t going to help him at all. I couldn’t believe it. They were just going to let him rot in that horrible place. Thank goodness they decided to spring for a good lawyer. He’s good, isn’t he? Yvon Caillaud?”
“So I’m told,” Dylan said. He had his hands in his pockets now. “We don’t do criminal work at the firm but we’ve referred cases to him before.”
“And was he successful? Did he get them off?”
Dylan glanced at her, frowning. No, she thought, the guilty rarely go free. And most are guilty. The French police were ruthless in their pursuit of justice. Pascal was anyway. And Reece Pugh? Mostly guilty, it appeared.
At the Seine they walked under the glow of street lamps as the sky darkened. It was insanely romantic. Yet Francie couldn’t help but feel the weird disconnect that had crept into her mood. Reece would not be out strolling in the moonlight any time soon. His life, such as he knew it, was basically over.
They walked silently for ten minutes then Dylan said, “It’s hard to give up on a client. Not that you have. It’s just— it’s hard to lose. I know, it’s happened to me, like everybody. We’re competitive. We want to keep fighting, filing more motions, making somebody pay for the injustice. But usually, you know— when it’s over.”
They stopped on a bridge and watched the water move past, inexorably to the sea. Francie felt uneasy, unmoored, as if she would float away, down the dirty green river. She put her hands on the stone balustrade and asked herself the tough questions.
Was it over for Reece? Was she beating her head against the wall? Was it time to go home and face the music about her sexual harassment problem? She felt like she was hiding out here. Back home Alice and Brenda were fighting for her, or at least she hoped. They weren’t strolling around the City of Light with old boyfriends. She didn’t deserve somewhere so lovely as Paris.
She glanced at Dylan. He was frowning at the river too, his profile as strong and rugged as she remembered. If she hadn’t come to Paris would she have ever seen him again, sought him out? Would she have ever thought of him again? Maybe not. So why was she ruminating on her failures with Reece Pugh— a stranger to her really— when this gorgeous man was right here? Was she going to be an idiot again?
She took his arm at the elbow, surprising him. “Give me your hand, Dylan,” she whispered. He removed it from his pocket and put it in hers. “And the other one,” she commanded. He obeyed, smiling. She put his hands together, palms in, and wrapped hers around them. There, she was sheltering him for once. It was only fair.
“Whatever happens with ‘poor Reece,’” she said, mimicking his voice, “I am glad I came to Paris.”
He looked into her eyes. She could see the ancient lamp posts reflecting gold light in his eyes. He looked surprised, and a little wary. Could she blame him?
He blinked. “Are you?”
“Oh, yes. Very glad.” And she kissed him.
Twenty-Four
Francie lay in the bed in the dawn light, a weak glow from the small, filthy window that faced the back alley. The ceiling held no answers as she stared at it, following cracks with her eyes as if they would end up at some eureka moment.
Today she must decide when she was going home. She was leaning on the first available ticket but a small part of her hoped she could do more good here.
And then there was Dylan Hardy.
Their kiss on the bridge had been quite good, she thought. But he cut if off, turning away before it worked up to anything more than a bit of nostalgia for days gone by. He was cautious. She understood that. She’d broken his heart once and he didn’t want that to happen again. But he had been cyberstalking her for years. What did he want exactly? To just keep tabs on her from afar, make sure she wasn’t more successful than him? Make sure she never married anyone else? Stick pins in her voodoo doll?
She sighed and sat up. Maybe it was for the best. She wasn’t in a good place right now, not with the sexual harassment claim against her. She hadn’t confided all that to Dylan. He’d probably agree with stupid Greg that she was some kinky dragon lady who liked torturing men.
A knock on the door surprised her. She checked her watch— 6:15. Early for all of them. Merle’s voice came through the door: “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” she called. “Come on in.” Merle opened the door, still in her robe, hair uncombed. “What is it? Has something happened?”
“Pascal wants to talk to you before he leaves for work. Can you come out for a coffee with us?”
Francie took a minute to brush her hair and wipe the mascara off her under-eyes. She tightened her robe sash and stepped out into the hall. Merle called from the sitting room to tell her the coffee was in there. Pascal and Merle sat on the sofa, sipping their coffee silently. Merle looked up and smiled at her sister.
“Morning, sunshine. Here’s your coffee.”
Francie took the third cup on the coffee table and perched in the upholstered chair. Had she done something stupid? She felt weirdly nervous.
“You guys look serious.”
Pascal sat forward, setting down his white cup. “I talked to some of the guys, at the Police Nationale. The narcotics guys, les Stups. They tell me you should stay out of this case. I don’t know. It seems odd to me. But that’s what they say.” He shrugged.
Merle took up the baton: “For your own safety, Francie.”
She frowned. “Is this about the text?”
“What text?” Pascal asked.
Francie stood up. “Let me get my phone.”
“It’s not about the text,” Merle said. “The cops think it’s dangerous. Drug dealers are dangerous.”
Francie ignored her sister and retrieved her phone from her bedroom. She flicked through to the weird text she’d gotten and handed the phone to Pascal. He read it, squinting, and handed it back.
“The number is blocked. It could be from anyone who saw you at the University.” He rubbed his chin. “All the more reason to let it go, Francie. The guys in Stups say there are a lot of unsavor
y characters involved.”
“Reece isn’t unsavory.” Francie sat down again. “Did you ask them about him?”
“Yes. But they didn’t tell me much.”
“Have they looked in his bank accounts? He can’t even pay for a lawyer so I don’t think he was getting rich dealing drugs.”
Pascal glanced at Merle. “Drug dealers use cash mostly. No banks.”
“So did they confiscate bags of cash? I didn’t hear about that.”
Pascal shrugged. “I didn’t either. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t cash.”
Merle tapped his knee. “Can you find out? If they didn’t find any cash in his apartment— or does he have a car?” Francie shook her head. “That might be significant for the defense. Don’t they usually find a stash?”
“Most likely,” Pascal agreed. “Have they identified a partner?”
“Not that I know of,” Francie said. “The roommate, the Tunisian guy, has disappeared. Maybe he was the partner and ran with the cash.”
Merle looked perplexed. “It sounds like, to me, that the roommate turned him in to the cops. At least he let them into the apartment.”
“There was a warrant, I believe,” Pascal said.
“The roommate could have called the cops, told them about Reece’s activity.”
“Why would he do that?” Francie said. “Was he afraid of Reece or something?”
Shrugs all around.
“I should go back to the prison. Talk to him again,” Francie said. “I’ll talk to Yvon.”
“Who is Yvon?” Pascal asked.
“The lawyer. Yvon Caillaud. Do you know him?”
“Ah. By reputation. His is not so good, I’m afraid.” He glanced at each sister. “Last year he was avocat for one of my arrests. He was reprimanded by the judge several times for procedural errors during the trial. I was not impressed.”
“Oh, dear,” Merle muttered.
“Dylan Hardy told me they had sent several referrals to him,” Francie said. “But he admitted that his success rate was not great.”
“No,” Pascal said. “But that is the nature of criminal work. The police put together a solid case. They have lots of time before trial to pin down everything, especially in high profile cases. Reece is possibly not so high profile.”
“What does that mean?” Merle asked.
“He may get his trial sooner, that’s all. I don’t know the particulars.”
Francie felt discouraged. What could she do to help Reece? “Dylan is getting me in to see the attaché at the American Embassy. I’ll see if they will help. Then I’m going home. I’ve done all I can.”
Merle stuck out her lower lip, pouting. “Phooey.”
Pascal squirmed uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean you have to leave France.”
“But I do,” Francie said. “It’s like a dream, coming to Paris in the springtime. Such a beautiful city. But I’ve found Reece a lawyer, and I need to go home and find one for myself.”
He frowned. “For yourself?”
Francie sighed. “I’ve been accused of sexual harassment, at my law firm. Supposedly I asked a junior associate for sexual favors related to a nonexistent promotion.”
“But, no,” Pascal said, eyes wide. “It is not possible for the woman to—“
“I’m afraid it is,” Merle said. “Not common but it does happen.”
“And did he comply with your request?”
Merle and Francie looked at each other and burst out laughing. “No, I didn’t do it, Pascal,” Francie cried.
He looked embarrassed. “My mistake. Of course, a beautiful woman such as yourself would have no need of coercion.”
“Thank you, Pascal.” Francie stood up. “Now, I have to get dressed. See you two later.”
When Francie had shut her bedroom door, Pascal spoke in a confidential voice to Merle. “Blackbird, I am a little worried about this case.”
“Why?”
“I did not tell your sister but the detective that makes the arrest of Monsieur Pugh is operating under, shall we say, a cloud.”
“A cloud of suspicion?” Merle asked.
Pascal nodded. “There have been problems in the department. Some quite large problems.”
“You mentioned that.”
“Right, the cop with the fancy mas or new Mercedes. Then, if someone investigates, voilà. Cash disappeared from the headquarters, or the drugs from evidence. This detective has never been charged, but he was partners with one of the dirty ones.”
“So this detective is—?”
“Nothing official. I don’t know. But I am thinking, this University bust— you call it a bust? This bust is a little too neat. For instance, the roommate who disappears.”
“And no cash found in the apartment.”
He nodded. “If that part is true, it is significant, as you said. It could be there was no cash. That means what? He is an unsuccessful drug dealer? A failure to push drugs? I have never heard of it.”
“Or the cop took it for himself?”
“Possibly. Not out of the imagination. Or. . ..”
“What?”
“Or he was simply set up. Put in the frame, by the old parlance. By the roommate, by someone else.”
“Or even by the cop,” Merle added.
Pascal pointed at her. “He is under a cloud so he makes these busts, using drugs from evidence perhaps, or from his friends on the street.”
“So he is— could he be protecting drug dealers?”
“Nothing surprises me, blackbird. Nothing.”
Before Francie left for the embassy, she made plans to meet Merle for a late lunch. With an 11 AM meeting, who knew how long it would take. They decided on a reasonable time and planned to meet at an old-style ice cream parlor on the Champs-Élysées, near the American Embassy, that Merle had scouted out.
She wanted to go with Francie to the embassy. Merle felt protective of her little sister after Pascal’s warnings. But Francie said no. She would go alone for what would probably be her last heroic task for Reece Pugh.
“Is Dylan going with you?” Merle asked.
He was busy, Francie explained. She would talk to him on the phone afterwards. This appointment wasn’t going to get Reece out of jail; she was sure of that. She wore jeans and boots with her red trench coat. She’d found a scarf like Merle’s in a tourist shop and tied it around her neck in a futile attempt to look French.
The American Embassy sat just off Place de la Concorde, behind an impressive display of wrought-iron fencing, crowd barriers, and cement-filled drums that lined the curbs. After the wave of terrorist activity over the last few years nobody in France took any chances. Francie had seen sidewalk barriers going up everywhere, to help dissuade bad actors from mowing down pedestrians. It was all rather sad, she thought, but that was the way of the world.
After a few wrong turns, trying to find the correct entrance, Francie showed her passport to a Marine guard and waited as she was checked out for entry. Trees in front of the elegant stone building were leafing out, a vivid green that gave an underwater glow to the sidewalk scene. Finally a tall man came to the gate and called to the guard. “I’m expecting Miss Bennett, it’s okay.”
Another guard, a woman, stepped out to give her a light pat-down, then she was free to enter the embassy. The tall man was Walker Crum, the man she was meeting. They shook hands then he led her inside, up a flight of stairs, to his office.
He sat behind his desk, a rangy, dark-haired man of 40 or so, with an FBI haircut. She glanced around his office. Ah, certificates from the actual Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was an agent then. “Legal attaché” seemed a nebulous term. She smiled at him, setting her purse on the floor.
“As I said on the phone, I’m a lawyer back in the States. Connecticut, just north of New York City. Some friends and family of Reece Pugh asked me to look into his situation here, see if they could get him out on bail or something, at least until his trial.”
“And when is that?”
Crum asked. He had a soft Southern accent that was nice.
“No idea. He was arrested in December and has been sitting in that terrible prison ever since. Fresnes, have you been there?”
He nodded. “Not exactly the Ritz.”
“No. His parents naturally want him in a better situation. But do they even have bail here?”
“Not as frequently as in the US. He has a French lawyer?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure how good he is. But at least he has someone.” She leaned forward. “I think more could be done, more investigations, more evidence from the police. They haven’t really given our side anything. Is there anything the US government can do?”
“Drug trafficking, right? Probably a no-go with any sort of release. He’s a foreigner. Even without a passport he could jump on a ship or something.”
“I suppose. So— ? No help?”
Crum leaned back on his swivel chair that creaked loudly. He tented his hands on his midsection and squinted. “What have you tried?”
Francie told him about going to his neighborhood, asking around for students he mentioned, finding the two stoner girls, and putting up posters in the main building.
“I think I was onto something, I really do. I got a call almost right away after putting up those flyers with my phone number.”
Crum’s eyes widened. “You used your real phone number?”
“I don’t have any other one. I hoped someone would see it, and call me with information about Reece, or at least about his roommate. He’s a Tunisian student. His name is Sami Amoud. He’s disappeared.”
Walker Crum was making a note of the names. “No idea where he is?”
“No. He may have left the country for all we know.”
“I may be able to track him down, if you think that would help.”
“Oh, yes. Thanks.”
“What did the person say, the call you got after you were over there?”
“It was a text.” She reached into her purse for her cell phone. “Here it is.” She handed him her phone.
Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7) Page 17
