by Cara Black
“Sources close to the investigation revealed that attention is being focused on the victim’s relationship, referring to it as a crime of passion. The source indicated that a suspect was about to be detained.”
Crime of passion? The hair rose on the back of her neck. The media and the flics had gotten it all wrong.
“Last time,” Madame Cachou said. “Building regulations don’t permit receiving business correspondence here, Mademoiselle.” She pointed to a yellowed paper of building regulations as she handed Aimée a Frexpresse package.
Always a stickler for rules, her concierge. Aimée glanced at the return address. Infologic. Work-related files she could handle tomorrow.
“I bent the rules, but …, “ said Madame Cachou, “seeing as you’re recovered, fit, and back at work, no more.”
She wished she felt fit instead of exhausted. More worry lodged in her head over this turn of events with respect to Xavi erre. The pain of telling Morbier … but he certainly must already know by now.
She trudged up the worn marble stairs to her door. Darkness, a chill, and rising damp from the Seine outside met her in her empty apartment. She kicked the radiator. Then again, until it sputtered to life. She hung up her faux fur, tossed the Frexpresse package on the hall table with her bag, and wedged off her heels. Miles Davis pawed at them. “Not this pair, furball.”
She picked them up. A dark brown-maroon blotch stained the candy-red insole. Ruined. She’d never get the blood out.
And then it struck her, piercing the fog of tiredness in her mind: she was holding the proof right in her hand. The killer’s blood. Her spine stiffened. She took a plastic baggie from the hall escritoire drawer, slipping her high heels inside. “They go straight to the lab in the morning. Good call, furball.”
Tuesday Morning
MORBIER’S TOBACCO-STAINED FINGERS trembled as he lit his second Gauloise. Why couldn’t he feel numb? Numb like the victims’ families he’d broken the same news to countless times, more times than he liked to remember. And he remembered every one. Their shocked faces: “… but it can’t be”; then his words sinking in. The collapse into tears.
Why didn’t he even feel anger, hurt, grief? Instead he floated, as if out of his body. His mind blurred when he should be analyzing Xavierre’s last words, rethinking her every action.
There was so much to do, so many facets to consider in the investigation, so much to concentrate on: the crime-scene results, lab tests, questioning the family, any witnesses, speaking with Aimée. But here he was, spinning his wheels, waiting in the Préfecture’s office for Suffren. The last person he wanted to talk to. Now or ever. Suffren’s office afforded a view of the green-brown Seine. Not a corner office, but a sign of the favor he’d attained in the six years since Morbier had almost sidetracked his career.
The longer Suffren kept him waiting, the more he wondered at the abrupt summons that had taken him from the Morgue, wishing that his last view of Xavierre hadn’t been her wide red-veined eyes, her delicate neck red and bruised as she lay on the stainless-steel morgue table; that the creeping feeling of helplessness would subside; that he could do something to bring the smile back on—
The door creaked open and Suffren, a man in his early forties, whip-thin, brunette with a stripe of white hair showing above his ears, gestured for Morbier to sit down. Suffren kept his cell phone glued to his ear, emitting occasional hmms and grunts. Only once did he look up and give a small apologetic shrug.
Upstart, out to prove himself, has a chip on his shoulder were the comments Morbier recalled from Suffren’s file. Morbier’s review team, singularly unimpressed by Suffren, had passed on his application based on his low scores on the officer examination.
If Morbier remembered this, no doubt Suffren remembered with venom. Morbier settled in the upright wooden chair, wishing he could go to the crime lab. He tried to push that aside, get the interview over with, a formality. He needed to channel his nervous energy into the anger he knew would come … so as to find out who’d done this.
Suffren hung up the phone and studied the view outside his window for a moment. In the pale lemon morning light, a lone seagull squawked on the quai and clouds floated over the jagged Left Bank rooftops.
“Commissaire,” Suffren said, leaning forward, tenting his fingers. “You had a known relationship with the victim. Physical evidence found.… ”
“Oui, of course, I do … did.” Morbier leaned forward. “You’re handling the investigation?”
“That thing of yours for the ladies, eh? I remember … didn’t your Arab mistress, one of them … I forget, die in Marseilles?”
Insult, inference, intimidation, Morbier knew well the standard interrogation techniques. He used them himself. Determined, he steeled his nerves to get this questioning over with so the investigation could proceed.
“Mouna left me years ago,” he said. “Two years later, she was caught in crossfire in the Belleville riots.”
“It’s coming back, yes, Mouna,” Suffren said, flexing his tented fingers, his voice layered with innuendo. “Her daughter Samia was murdered not much later in Belleville, in 1994.”
“Our daughter,” Morbier interrupted. His fists clenched in his corduroy jacket pocket.
“A brutal slaying, if I remember. And your grandson.… ”
“Marc lives in Morocco with his paternal grandparents.”
Morbier balled the handkerchief in his pocket.
“Quite a protracted custody battle over little Marc, non? Allegations surfaced concerning …” he paused. “Abuse, I think.”
“Get your information correct, Suffren. There was no abuse. His Muslim grandparents alleged religious and educational discrimination.” Morbier kept his breathing steady with effort. “I paid Marc’s Catholic school tuition instead of sending him to the mosque school. The court threw the case out. But in another legal round, well, two grandparents beats one.” Morbier kept his gaze steady. “But you know all this; it’s in the open file on your desk.”
“Murder follows the ones you love, non, Morbier?”
Suffren was wasting no time, Morbier thought. So he’d descend to his level and get right to it.
“Maybe you think it’s clever to knit these incidents together,” Morbier said, “but they won’t make a sweater. My grandson’s father was convicted of Samia’s murder. He’s serving the next twenty years in Clairvaux. Didn’t one of your new team put him there? Quit wasting time.”
“But I’m establishing a pattern, the history over a period of years.”
Word for word from the Police Academy textbook. Morbier tapped his worn heel. He’d be bored with this, if it weren’t for his underlying unease. His frequent refusals to play police politics over the years had won him more enemies than friends. He kept important players happy and his head down, doing investigations his way. Most of the time. But he realized he’d ticked someone off big-time if it had come to this.
“Either get creative, Suffren, or find a new playbook, but get on with it. Then look for the real killer.”
Suffren glanced up. “Creative. That’s good. I like that. But you beat me to it. Eh? No TGV ticket record to Lyon; matter of fact, you arrived an hour late … enough time to strangle her.”
“What?” His shoulders tensed. “You’re calling me a suspect?”
“Tell me why you dismissed your driver.”
Now it had gotten real, Morbier realized.
“How I run my investigation, that’s my business.”
“Why hasn’t this come up in your notes? Meanwhile, a Lyon investigation team member noted your flustered … non, pardon, disheveled appearance, and that you turned the team over to the second in command.”
Morbier could bluff this out. He had to.
“It was so the investigation could proceed,” Morbier said. “I delegated according to the surveillance information received.”
“But you were late. Can you account for that time? Where were you?”
Morbier averted
his eyes. “Talk to Inspector Laguardiere.”
“But I can’t, you see; he’s on medical leave.”
Merde! Another hernia operation? His bad back? Laguardiere spent more time in the hospital than out of it.
“Et alors, handle it through the usual channels. I understand you’ve got to rule out people close to Xavierre—”
“But Laguardiere is the proper channel, as you know,” Suffren interrupted. “Why don’t you reconsider your answer?”
“I can’t discuss the ongoing investigation.” Morbier shook his head. The fur-like fabric pellets in his corduroy jacket pocket were ground to lint now.
“But we need to establish your whereabouts. Very simple, and much less painful than the alternative.”
“Check with Laguardiere. He’ll tell you it’s—”
“Disturb the man after his heart attack yesterday? With pulmonary thrombosis and surgery scheduled?”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.” Morbier shrugged. All the old dinosaurs like him were en route to the cemetery. “After his recovery, he’ll clear this up.” Morbier made to stand. “If that’s all?”
Suffren grimaced as if in pain. “If that could only take care of the discrepancy. But I’m afraid this gets in the way.” He held a clear plastic evidence bag in his hand. “A Commissaire Divisionnaire—rank tiepin. Serial number on the inside. One of only eight issued in the last few years. Yours, I believe, Commissaire Morbier.” He said it with relish.
Morbier stared at the tiepin glinting under the fluorescent light. Then he felt his tie. Gone.
“Looks like mine.” Morbier nodded. Where had he dropped this?
“We discovered your tiepin in a muddy footprint close to the victim’s body. I believe it will match the worn left heel on your shoe.”
“What?” Morbier’s jaw clamped tight.
Suffren pressed a button on his intercom. “We’re ready.”
Two white-coated technicians from the basement laboratory under the Quai des Orfèvres entered the office. He’d played cards with one of them, Desnos, the older and senior in rank, last Friday. Desnos still owed him a hundred francs.
“We’re affording you privacy, of course, given your rank,” said Suffren. “I’m sure you’ll cooperate while they take an impression of your shoe. Undo your shoelaces, s’il vous plaît.”
Stunned, Morbier leaned forward.
Desnos averted his eyes and set down his metal box labeled PLASTER.
Morbier’s jaw spasmed … he made himself speak … the words came from somewhere. “Under these circumstances—”
“From now on, Commissaire, I caution you to speak only to the legal representative assigned by the Inspecteur Général,” Suffren interrupted.
Inspection Générale des Services, Internal Affairs, la Police des Polices. Most called it boeuf-et-carottes: the stew of suspicion a flic simmered in while suspended.
Morbier could have sworn he saw a gleam in Suffren’s small eyes.
“This is all wrong, Suffren. You don’t really want to do this—”
“Escort him to IGS downstairs for interrogation, gentlemen. I believe it’s on your way.”
Tuesday Morning
AIMÉE WOKE UP to the ringing of her cell phone, which was beside her on the duvet. Weak bands of sunlight slanted across the herringbone-patterned wood floor. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the time. Eight A.M.
Morbier’s number showed on caller ID. Finally. She sat up, took a breath, and clicked ANSWER.
“Leduc, why didn’t you tell me?” Morbier’s hoarse voice came over the line.
“I tried to.” A pang of guilt stabbed her. “I’m so sorry, Morbier. When do you return from Lyon?”
She heard clanging noises in the background, like steel treads running over concrete. “I’m at the Préfecture.”
“Bon. Won’t take me ten minutes,” she said, sitting up, grabbing her stovepipe jeans from the chair. “Just a moment.” Awake now, she put the phone down, slipped her worn cashmere sweater over her head, put the phone back to her ear. “I have things to tell you. Much better in person.”
Pause. More clanging. “Not a good time.”
“Why?”
Shouts, then a voice came over the line: “Time’s up, Commissaire.”
“I can’t talk, Leduc.”
“You’re involved in an interrogation?”
“You could say that.” Morbier’s voice sounded different. Almost resigned.
That fast? “Look, something smelled last night. We need to talk—”
“A little difficult, Leduc,” Morbier said. “Since I’m the suspect.”
* * *
THE PRÉFECTURE’S VAULTED stone holding cells oozed mildew and rot. Last remodeled during the Terror, if then, Aimée thought as she held Morbier’s hand across the gouged wooden table. She felt his thick fingers, the moist ridges of his palm, and squeezed hard.
“Don’t worry, Morbier, of course they’ll release you at any moment,” she said, managing a small smile. “Clear up this horrible mistake on top of—”
“I don’t want you involved, Leduc.” Stubble dotted Morbier’s chin, lines were etched in his brow, and his drooping Basset-hound eyes were pools of pain.
“Xavierre loved you; there was no other man.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “She told me you met more than twenty years ago, a coup de foudre. You have to know that.”
He nodded, but there was a lost look in his eyes. “Merci.”
Her heart ached at seeing him like this. But they’d fix this mistake any moment. This terrible mistake.
She pushed the bag with a change of clothes and his shaving kit across the table. Handed him un express from the machine in a small white plastic cup. “I got this upstairs,” she said.
He took a sip. Nodded. “The usual lukewarm brown piss.”
His rumpled corduroy jacket and a food stain on the lapel caught her eye. The faint smell of mustard and defeat clung to him.
“We’ve only got fifteen minutes.” She omitted telling him about the four hours it had taken to call his colleagues— numerous—and friends—not as numerous, it turned out—to wangle visitation for her in the garde à vue. No one had the “right connections” with Internal Affairs, they said. More likely they were head-in-the-sand afraid, she thought. It sickened her, knowing how Morbier had stuck his neck out for others. Favors oiled the system, her father always said, give and take, like currency but more valuable when your neck sat on the block. Favors conveniently forgotten if you became a pariah. Or had Morbier used up his favors?
In the end, she had opened the cell door by threatening to call the Libération journalist known for his recent exposé on police corruption.
“Xavierre was afraid,” Aimée said; “your gut told you right. Someone was in the house. I saw blood outside on the gravel, heard a car take off, and found her … I’m so sorry, Morbier.”
“Nice try, Leduc,” he said. His shoulders sagged. “Proof puts me at the scene.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Proof? But you were in Lyon.”
Dripping sounds in steady rhythm came from the corner. Morbier looked away. “I was watching Xavierre through the window. I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “A jealous old fool.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She let go of his hand.
“I was in the garden, Leduc.” There was a faint hiss under his breath. “I left my footprints in the mud, and my tieclip.”
This couldn’t be happening. It didn’t make sense.
“What?”
“I saw Xavierre arguing. Shouting, but I couldn’t hear. She threw something at a figure. A man. But his back was turned.”
She fought welling tears. There was a knot in her stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“Then cars pulled up with arriving guests and I left.”
She took a breath. Tried to make sense of it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I hoped Xavierre would �
� what good did it do?” Remorse and grief cratered his face. He put his shaking head in his hands.
“Mais … wait, you’d gone to Xavierre’s earlier?”
He nodded.
“What else, Morbier?” A growing doubt nauseated her.
“Don’t get involved, Leduc. It’s not safe.” He looked up, then put his head back in his hands.
“What the hell does that mean, Morbier?” She stood up, took a step, sat down again hard in the chair. Calm, she had to act calm, and rational. Get answers. “What’s really wrong, Morbier?”
“I’m too old for this,” Morbier said. “Been too old for a long time. Xavierre’s gone. Life’s gone to hell.”
Like a dog kicked too many times, the fight had gone out of him. “Tragic, yes, Morbier. So you spied on her. That doesn’t mean anything. My god, I saw her alive after that. Your driver, the Lyon team will confirm.” She snorted. “Why hasn’t this idiotic investigation folded like a pack of cards hours ago?”
But he’d looked up, his gaze following the pipes snaking up the stone wall. An old-fashioned robinet, a metal-faced water spout, dripped, leaking a thin silver trickle into the grooved stone gutter. The whole place reeked of damp and wet. The continuous drip, drip got to her.
“That’s leaked for twenty years,” Morbier said, his voice lowered. “Time someone took care of it.”
“Call the plumber,” she said, irritated. Why had he given up? “Look, Morbier, you’ve got to fight this. You’ve given a lifetime to the force, lived and breathed your work.… ” She stopped before she said until Xavierre stepped into your life and gave you a shot at happiness. Poor man, nothing to look forward to now. “So many years of service. High-profile investigations. Your retirement’s coming up.”
“All gone up in smoke, Leduc.”
Her spine stiffened. “What are they holding over you?”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they say.”
“Meaning?”
“Désolé, Leduc. My fault to have involved you.” Morbier stood, nodded to the guard. “Forgive me.”
Morbier asking her forgiveness. Had he ever in his life asked her that?
