Murder in Passy

by Cara Black

  She jumped up and put her arms around him. Big solid Morbier, the one she depended on. She inhaled his musky scent mingled with tobacco, mustard, and worn corduroy and glanced at the guard. “Who’s framing you, Morbier?” she whispered.

  His brown eyes flickered. In his gaze, she saw the reflection of the silver pinpricks of dripping water.

  “Stay out of this, Leduc. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He kissed her on both cheeks, took his bag. “For once in your life, listen to me.” Her last view of him was his stooped shoulders. Then he disappeared under the vaulted cell-block arch.

  * * *

  AIMÉE RAN FIVE flights upstairs and through the swinging doors into the Brigade Criminelle offices. Empty, apart from the cigarette smell and acrid odor of burnt coffee, not even a clerk to talk to. No one back from lunch, she figured.

  Or all hands on deck for the investigation Thesset had mentioned? The flic killer?

  Catching her breath at the far reception desk, where she’d finally found someone on duty, she asked, “When’s Inspector Melac due back?”

  “Melac’s on personal leave.” The female officer looked up. Her stiff blue cap, worn at the regulation angle, moved not a centimeter.

  Merde! The one inspector who, as far as she knew, still respected Morbier. A rising workaholic detective in the mold of Morbier—albeit younger and better-looking. She pushed aside the memory of their night together last month, the brief interlude of phone tag. After that, he hadn’t called back.

  “Please ask him to ring me.” Aimée handed her a card, knowing she needed to swallow her pride. “It’s urgent.”

  “As I said, he’s on leave. Incommunicado.” The female officer, her lips gleaming with pink gloss, stuck it in a box labeled MELAC.

  * * *

  SHE TRUDGED BACK down the drafty staircase, past officials with bulging files under their arms and strutting blue-uniformed flics. Everyone hurrying. Working. Like Morbier should be.

  It tore her insides apart to see him so defeated, so lost and full of despair. No one else had lifted a pinkie. She would have to be the one to help him.

  Her mind went to the blood spatters on the gravel, the figure watching from the window, the missing Mercedes. If things smelled bad last night, they stank today. Morbier’s footprints, his tiepin.… Still, how could a case be mounted against him when he’d been in Lyon? Her hand paused on the smooth stone balustrade.

  Had he gone to Lyon? But of course he had. He’d had a driver waiting.

  When she asked him why the case hadn’t folded, he’d changed the subject to the leaking robinet. A shudder went through her. So unlike him to make a trite comment like that. Not just “unlike”: he never would.

  That’s leaked for twenty years. Time someone took care of it.

  It bothered her. Was he telling her something? Knowing Morbier, there was more below the surface than he was letting on. And that protective “I don’t want you hurt.”

  Her ringing cell phone interrupted her thoughts.

  “Aimée, don’t you ever answer your phone?” René said in a peeved tone. “I thought you were monitoring the account today.”

  “All handled,” she said. “Early this morning, I set up the remote to record and store data.”

  “But you’re where? We need to talk about—”

  “At the Brigade Criminelle. Un moment,” she interrupted, running down the stairs to the courtyard. She stopped by a pillar, took a deep breath. “Morbier’s devastated. He’s in a cell downstairs. I’m worried.”

  Pause.

  “Cell? I don’t understand.”

  “An Internal Affairs investigation. It’s not good,” she said. “No one takes my calls.”

  A sharp intake of air came over the line. “But they can’t think … Xavierre? That’s impossible. We were there. Mon Dieu, the poor man. But what happened?”

  “Like I know, René?” She leaned against the cold stone pillar.

  “Can I help?” Pause. “You don’t think … ?” René’s words dangled over the line.

  “That Morbier, who’d rediscovered the first love in his life after twenty years, strangled her?” A passing flic stared at her. She was shouting. “That he’d ruin his last chance at happiness? No, René, I don’t. It smells like a setup.”

  The tinkle of a piano sounded in the background. “Meet you at the office later,” René said, his voice now hushed. “Got to get back to the meeting.”

  “Some meeting, René.”

  But he’d hung up. She stared at the Préfecture’s cobbled courtyard, recalling the times she’d met Morbier here and they’d grabbed a quick coffee at Le Soleil, the flic hangout around the corner. His shuffling gait on the uneven cobblestones, the sweater vest he wore against the cold, the stoop to his shoulders. How he’d aged. Their relationship, often problematic, seesawed over the years. Close during her childhood, he’d kept his distance after her father’s death.

  But the force he’d worked for all his life had now turned its back on him. No one would blacken their fingers to pull him from the fire. Or get scorched by association.

  They’d done that to her father. Scapegoated him for a colleague’s crime, she’d discovered years later. Years too late.

  “But not this time,” she said, looking up at the yawning gray Préfecture’s windows.

  Not this time.

  * * *

  AIMÉE SQUEEZED THE handlebar brakes of her faded pink Vespa as she bumped over the uneven cobbles of the police laboratory courtyard. Weak slants of sunlight filtered through the sparse-leafed chestnut trees off rue de Dantzig. Five minutes later, she walked into the office of Viard, the crime-lab head. Viard and René’s neighbor Michou, a transvestite performer in Les Halles, had just celebrated their three-year anniversary.

  Misting his orchid collection, he looked up as Aimée set an orchid plant tied with a purple bow beside her shoes in the Baggie on his desk. “I could use your magic, Viard.” She pointed to the signature red soles.

  “Naughty, ruining a good pair of Louboutins,” he said. “Walked over your latest conquest’s chest in your high heels? You want a luminol test?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll settle for blood type, tissue samples, DNA. Tonight?”

  “Dreamer.” He raised his mister in mock protest. “Even the Interior Ministry DNA priority requests have a three-week backlog. Want to tell me why I’m more popular than the Préfecture lab?”

  “Too in-house and you don’t want to know,” she said. Her hand trembled. “Look, I know you’re busy, but.… ”

  “It’s personal?”

  Viard didn’t miss a thing.

  “Family.” There, she’d said it. Morbier was her family, her godfather.

  She didn’t trust the lab in the Préfecture basement. Her contacts there were Morbier’s contacts and under tight rein from upstairs. Plus she didn’t qualify for entry into the old-boy network.

  “A career’s at stake, Viard,” she said. “A whole life.”

  “Stop. You’re right: I don’t want to know,” he said. “We’re booked solid, a time crunch.” He paused. “But I do appreciate the orchid, Aimée. A beauty.”

  He dabbed the smooth leaf of the orchid she’d brought him with a linen handkerchief, then made a moue of distaste at the blinking red lights on his phone console. “See?”

  She nodded, wondering what she could do, who she could ask, how in the hell.…

  “You’re shaking, Aimée. Sit down,” said Viard.

  She clasped her hands, took a breath. “It’s all wrong. But no one lifts a finger, Viard,” she said. “I need to prove that this blood belongs to the murderer. Not to him.”

  Viard stared at the lit-up phone console. Sighed. “Prelim blood typing, tissue analysis, if there’s any. Say tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

  She kissed him on both cheeks. “I owe you.”

  “Just persuade René to roast a Bresse chicken in morel sauce,” he said, donning a blue lab coat over his pink T-shi
rt. “We’ll call it even.”

  * * *

  AIMÉE KNOTTED THE wool scarf around her neck and popped the Vespa into first gear. She turned onto rue de Dantzig, gunning past the butterscotch-walled compound.

  At the stoplight, she pulled out her cell and called Xavierre’s house. The fourth time this afternoon. So far, there had been only busy signals.

  “Allô?” said a woman’s voice.

  A horn blared behind her. She pulled over after the intersection to let a taxi whip by.

  “Bonjour. Irati, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “May I speak with her? I’m a friend of her mother’s.”

  “Désolée, she’s resting,” the woman said. “Try later, Mademoiselle.” The phone clicked off.

  Avoiding phone calls was more like it.

  But no time to waste. Back at the florist’s on rue de Vaugirard where she’d bought Viard’s orchid, she made a stop. Ten minutes later, she crossed under the arched metal supports of the Bir- Hakeim bridge into Passy.

  In the pale afternoon light, Aimée buzzed the intercom set in the high stone wall of 40 rue Raynouard. A sense of déjà vu came over her. She wished she could turn back time. If only she’d.…

  The buzzer sounded and she stepped inside.

  Black cloth draped the front door, a mourning tradition she’d last seen in her grandmother’s Auvergnat village long ago. Her gaze followed the driveway tunneling under the town house to the rear. A wisp of yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from the bushes.

  Aimée heard leaves rustling and looked up. A middle-aged woman scrutinized her from a balcony trailing with vines. The woman beckoned. “Viens.”

  By the time Aimée arrived at the black-draped front door, it stood ajar. Instead of white chrysanthemums, the condolence arrangement de rigueur, she held a bouquet of gardenias—Xavierre’s favorite, according to Morbier.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” Aimée said. “I’d like to pay my respects and offer condolences to Irati.”

  “Quelles belles fleurs,” said the woman, dressed in a shapeless black skirt and sweater. The maid? Late forties, no makeup, an unlined face, her black hair streaked with gray pulled into a bun.

  So far the tactic had gotten her in the door.

  “All this food I prepared!” The woman shook her head. “A waste. We can’t even hold the memorial, much less the funeral.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes brimming with tears. “They won’t release my sister’s body. No feelings for the family, I tell you. This tragedy, it’s a crime.”

  In more ways than one, Aimée thought.

  Butter smells came from the salon dining table, which was groaning with tarts and assorted pastries. Irati’s wedding banner was gone, the mirror turned backward. An old village superstition, she remembered, so the departed wouldn’t see their reflection and linger. It looked like the sister had turned her grief into a flurry of baking.

  “How’s Irati, Madame … ?”

  “Madame Urioste. But you can call me Cybèle,” she said. “The poor girl’s gone mute. It’s shock, I tell you.”

  Or fear. “I’m so sorry. May I give her these, offer support? Her mother’s favorite, I believe.”

  Doubt darkened Cybèle’s eyes. “The police questioned her this morning. She’s upset. The doctor’s limiting visitors.”

  Frustrated, Aimée didn’t know how to get around this. She needed to see Irati, to learn about this man Morbier had mentioned.

  “Cybèle,” she said, “during last night’s party, Irati insisted that we talk. Told me it was urgent. And then.… ”

  “Last night? You’re from Robbé’s side of the family?” said Cybèle.

  Wasn’t everyone connected by six degrees of separation? She nodded, trying to ignore a twinge of guilt.

  “Just a few moments, then.”

  Cybèle led her down a creaking hallway lined with paintings and motioned her to wait.

  Aimée faced an arresting abstract of bright yellow punctuated by black lines. Alive, bright, and somehow disturbing. On the other wall, a sepia drawing of a factory in bold russet brown lines. Industrial and modernistic.

  A door opened. Irati’s aunt motioned her inside, then padded down the hallway.

  A twentyish man with dark curly hair and thin black-framed glasses blocked the doorway. Weak-chinned and with a questioning look. “But I’ve never seen you before,” he lisped: hair on the tongue was the old saying. “Who are you?”

  Robbé, the fiancé, stared at her, a mixture of alarm and irritation on his pale face.

  “Some confusion. I’m sorry, Irati’s aunt presumed I came from the family.” She stepped forward. “We didn’t meet last night. I’m Aimée Leduc.”

  “So you’re the one!”

  Whatever Robbé was implying didn’t sound good.

  “Irati’s too shaken to see anyone now,” he said, “as you can imagine.” He turned toward the door.

  “I’m sorry, of course. I understand.”

  He hesitated, a thaw in his voice. “But I’ll mention that you came.”

  From what she’d seen of the ground floor layout, Xavierre would have used this hallway to reach the garden. So would the murderer.

  She had to get information. No doubt he could shed some light.

  “It’s terrible, Robbé,” she said. “Who would do this?”

  “Talk to the flics,” he said.

  “Maybe you’re unaware of the terrible allegation against Morbier. That he’s a suspect. Can you tell me—”

  “That’s the real reason you’re here, non?” he interrupted. “Not sympathy and flowers. A tragedy, and you’re asking questions?”

  She hadn’t expected this.

  “He’s the jealous type, I heard,” Robbé said.

  Anger flushed her cheeks. “Morbier was working in Lyon on a case.”

  Aimée heard footsteps, the creaking of the wooden floor. Irati—still in the red silk skirt, now wrinkled, her blouse halfunbuttoned—leaned against the door frame. For support, Aimée figured, given her vacant look and shaking fingers.

  “Can I help, Irati? Why don’t you lie down?” Aimée said. “We can talk.… ”

  “You told me so yourself,” Irati said. “Jealous bastard. I hope he rots in hell.”

  Did she really believe that? Instead of being struck mute by tragedy, Irati’s voice was edged with anger.

  “But you know that’s not true, Irati,” she said. “Morbier loved your mother.”

  “Do I?” Her lip quivered. “I can’t think any more,” she said, clenching her fist. “I don’t want to.”

  Robbé put his arm around Irati’s shoulder. “Can’t you see the strain you’re putting on Irati? You’d better leave.”

  “Robbé, let me handle this,” said Irati, shrugging him off.

  “Someone was here, Irati. A man. You must remember. The noises?”

  “What?” Her legs wobbled.

  Aimée reached to steady her, but Irati batted her arm away. Anger and fear suffused her pale face. Afraid to reveal what really went on? The bouquet fell, scattering gardenia petals over the Turkish carpet runner.

  “Je regrette, I didn’t mean to.… ” Her voice was tinged with remorse.

  Aimée sensed a chink in Irati’s confusion. A chance to push for the truth.

  “Did Xavierre’s argument with this man get loud, so you shooed the guests away? Did you end the party early because of it?” she asked. “Did he threaten your mother, then you?”

  “Who?”

  “The man whose blood I found on the gravel.”

  Irati burst into sobs.

  Robbé’s hand clutched Aimée’s arm and he pulled her down the hallway. “Look, last night we told the police everything,” Robbé said. “And again today.”

  “Then you can explain. Who was he?”

  “But there was a party, a house full of guests,” Robbé said, his lisp more pronounced. “We’ve cooperated. They told us a suspect’s in custody.”

 
“Why can’t you understand, Robbé?” she asked, exasperated. “They’ve got the wrong person. Irati needs to tell the truth.”

  “Truth? As if we don’t have enough to deal with right now? Canceling the wedding, relatives struck with grief, now we have to bury her.… ”

  Helplessness emanated from him.

  “Overwhelming, I know. But …” She grabbed at a straw. “… I never saw a catering truck.” He blinked. “Now you’re talking about caterers? You’re crazy.”

  He edged away, shaking his head.

  “What about the other Mercedes I saw parked in the driveway?”

  “That’s it. I’m getting a restraining order. Get out.” He muttered something. A Basque curse by the sound of it. Slammed the door and locked it.

  Closing ranks against outsiders. Again that smell of fear, like Irati. She’d hit a stone wall. Played her cards and got nothing. She counted on Irati’s aunt proving more helpful.

  “Don’t start with me, Mademoiselle,” said Cybèle, hands on her hips in the dining room. “My husband’s ill; I only arrived from Bayonne this morning,” she said. “What do I know? Why should I be bothered about Irati’s wedding? Xavierre, bless her soul”—she paused, making the sign of the cross—“I don’t circulate in her chichi crowd. Growing up, we never did either. We were just sheepherding Basques.”

  A troubled look creased Cybèle’s brow. “The Basques say if you don’t believe in a law, don’t break it; simply sidestep it.” Cybèle shrugged. “I hadn’t seen Xavierre for months. But I tell you, all she talked about was this wedding and that Morbier. What we call destino, that fate meant them to meet again.”

  She moved closer to Aimée. “Was it a crime passionnelle? I’m not condoning it, I tell you, but if it happened.… ”

  Aimée shook her head. “He’s my godfather and I’d never seen him so happy. A different person when they were together. I saw them laughing, in love.… ” she said. “Morbier’s devastated. He doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Who does? They say if the gods bless you with a great passion once in your life, you just endure the rest.” A wistful look filled Cybèle’s eyes. “I discovered police instead of wedding preparations,” she said. “Did anyone think to inform me?” A snort.