Murder in Passy

by Cara Black

  Léo paused. “And of course you don’t want the flics involved.”

  “You got it, Léo.” Aimée swallowed. “Blinded by love, Morbier wanted me to protect Xavierre. And I didn’t.”

  Léo shook her head. “I’ll input the phone’s ESN and MIN code. When a call’s made or received, my scanner will pick it up. Remember, the longer the call, the better the trace. For me to locate the phone, it needs to emit the roaming signal so the next nearby antenna tower picks it up. It’s all about the towers.”

  “Don’t all cell phones now do that continuously?”

  “Not yet, but Big Brother’s coming. Right now that feature’s a military tool.” Léo looked up. “Tracking depends on the signal strength of the antenna masts. This wind doesn’t help. It scatters the electromagnetic waves like confetti. Say your prayers that the radio transmitter tower out there cooperates.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Aimée dug her cell phone from her pocket and punched in the number.

  Irati’s number flashed on the screen. The halogen light cast a bluish glare on the window.

  “Oui,” Irati answered on the first ring. A breathy quality, as if she’d run to the phone.

  “Any word, Irati?”

  Pause. Glass clinked in the background. “Word?”

  “On your mother’s funeral? It’s Aimée.”

  Disappointment and something else tinged her voice. “I told you—”

  “I’m sorry for this afternoon,” Aimée interrupted.

  A click on Aimée’s cell phone indicated another call. She ignored it.

  Léo rolled one hand in a circular motion, mouthed, “Keep her on.”

  “Please listen: I want to help you,” she said. “Do you understand, Irati?”

  “L … leave me alone.” Short shallow breaths.

  But she hadn’t hung up.

  “Enfin, I lost my father in a bomb explosion. But the flics closed the file; the Ministry ignored my requests.” That yawning hole inside opened, that need to know why, if it was a terrorist, an informer, a mistake. “I know the feeling. Afraid, alone.… ”

  A sob came over the line.

  “Irati, you can talk to me,” she said. “Whatever happened, I won’t judge you. If you’re in danger, you have my word, no flics involved.”

  Léo mouthed, “Got it.”

  “You haven’t gone to the flics again, have you?” Irati’s voice was a whisper.

  A cold feeling hit the pit of Aimée’s stomach. Why did Irati want to know? Léo pointed to the address that had popped up on her screen. 40 rue Raynouard. At least that proved that it worked and the towers in the area were functioning.

  “Stay away, not safe to.… ” Irati trailed off.

  A creaking noise like a door opening, footsteps.

  The phone buzzed. Dead.

  The address disappeared from the screen.

  “Zut! At least we established the trace. But it’s more important to find out who calls her and their location. Not all that different, right?”

  “In theory, if the call’s active long enough, the towers cooperate, and her caller’s not in a dead zone. But I’d need my second scanner free and operational to nail it. Takes two to tango.” Léo gave her a pointed look. “Your five minutes are up.”

  Aimée lingered, pulling her scarf tighter against the draft. “Let’s say her caller was in close range, nearby, in the quartier?”

  “That’s a best-case scenario,” Léo said. “Otherwise, compare it to the chances of finding a brown lentil in that.” Léo jerked her thumb toward a 25-kilo sack of green lentils.

  In the meantime, so much could go wrong.

  A velvet-like fur brushed her leg. She looked down to see a svelte Siamese cat, turquoise-eyed, yawn, then stretch.

  “Meet Marconi,” Léo said. “He’s hungry. His pâté’s on the counter.”

  No proletarian, this cat. He ate better than Léo. But Aimée kept that observation to herself as she spooned the glistening pâté into a ceramic bowl glazed with the words CHAT LUNATIQUE.

  Léo motioned from her wheelchair. “Irati’s got a call.”

  Aimée rushed to see Irati’s number on the screen. Her pulse raced. She glanced at the clock. “Can you pinpoint the location of who’s calling her, their number?”

  “Try patience, Aimée, and hope she stays on the line so I can track it.”

  Crackling noises. Beeping, a muffled voice: “… a package. Got that?”

  Irati’s number disappeared again from the screen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’d say Irati’s cell phone ran out of battery.”

  Merde.

  Disappointed, she stared at the screen. “But you’ll contact me if there’s another call, right?”

  A hooded look veiled Léo’s face. “I shouldn’t, but … seems like you and Morbier need all the help you can get.”

  On her way to the door, Aimée saw the soft curved mound, the cat’s indentations on the duvet of Léo’s hospital bed. At least Léo didn’t sleep alone any more.

  “Merci, Léo.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Léo said.

  * * *

  ON RUE DU Louvre, Aimée handed the change back to the taxi driver. “Keep it.” Her investment for rainy-night taxi karma.

  “Merci, Mademoiselle.”

  The streetlight glowed yellow above the wet pavement. Quiet hovered for a brief moment as traffic paused at the rue de Rivoli intersection. The Louvre’s lit limestone façade glowed like a misted pearl. Saddened, she thought of this spot last night when she’d met Morbier. His anguish, the slight tremor in his hand. Why hadn’t she insisted he tell her more?

  She tried to brush the guilt aside. Guilt, a luxury she didn’t have time for. Plus it got her nowhere. Her phone beeped with a saved message. Thesset with news on the Mercedes?

  She hit PLAY. Melac’s voice: “Delayed. Don’t wait for me.”

  Great! A bottle of Veuve Clicquot setting her back part of a paycheck, a cold office with a pile of work. No doubt with his career to consider, Melac had rethought testing the waters. She couldn’t blame him. So he’d deserted Morbier too.

  It was useless to go home; she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Might as well work. The wire cage elevator, circa 1910, shuddered up to the second floor. Stopped and refused to budge.

  Par for the evening, she thought, opening the accordion metal doors and trudging up the next flight.

  She unlocked Leduc Detective’s frosted glass door, hung her coat up on the hook, and wedged several juniper logs in the grate. She blew until the coals burst into flame, pulled the mohair throw around her for warmth, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

  The fax paper on the wood-paneled wall stared back at her.

  Useless to try to work, too.

  She heard the key turning in the lock. The door opened to a gust of cold air. For a moment, her hand trembled.

  “Communing with the fire spirits, Aimée?” René asked, unwrapping his muffler. “Or sacrificing more logs to appease the god of fire?”

  She turned to look at René, then back at the names on the paper flickering in the firelight.

  “I think you’ve got something, René.”

  “I do?” He set down his cane, unzipped his judo bag, and took out a bottle of Evian. “Nice and toasty in here.” He scanned the files on his desk, blinked in surprise. “All caught up too. A first. You even finished my proposals. Merci.”

  “Not quite. Another pile to tackle.” She pushed the mohair throw aside, picked up a marker. “But you might have hit the right nail. Maybe even on the right head. Gives me a scenario to work with.”

  “Care to explain? With a nice Veuve Clicquot getting warm?”

  She’d forgotten. No reason to burden René, as usual, with her nonexistent love life. She wanted to pick his brain.

  “Always good to have a spare bottle. On sale, too.” Opening the double window, she breathed in the frigid air and stuck the bottle behind the window bo
x of red geraniums. “Natural cooling.”

  She shut the window, latched it.

  “Mind if I bounce an idea off you?”

  “Now?” René glanced at the time. “Five minutes’ worth.”

  She took the blue feather duster from the cupboard, pointed the tip at her map. “Say the wounded killer comes to Xavierre’s for help.” She pointed to the taped gravel, which she’d colored with red marker to indicate blood. “Bleeding, he leaves traces. After he gains entry to the rear bedroom, Xavierre tries to put him off: her guests, the party, she explains. Morbier, jealous, watches from the garden, leaving footprints, and loses his tiepin. He sees them argue.”

  “And you know this for a fact?” René sat back in his orthopedic chair.

  She shrugged. “Morbier left his tiepin and his footprints.”

  “Quite an impressive state-of-the-art crime-scene reconstruction,” he said.

  “Homemade does the job,” she said. “Just listen, René; see if it makes sense. Guests pull up, Morbier leaves. At the party, Xavierre pleads illness, some excuse. After a quick Champagne toast, Irati shoos the guests out. Meanwhile we show up, the old couple leaves. Remember?”

  “The complaining geriatrics?” he said. “What about the caterers’ noises in the kitchen?”

  “We saw no van or truck, right?” she said. “What if those noises were coming from the impatient killer? Say they were, and we complicated matters, messing up his agenda. Xavierre needs us to leave.”

  “Why?” René said. “It would make more sense that she’d want us to stay, if she’s in danger.”

  Aimée pointed the feather duster to the salon. “True. Let’s say that at that juncture, she counted on being able to handle him. Using leverage, I don’t know.” Then she pointed to the rear bedroom. “But the argument escalates—say he demands that Xavierre find a doctor or let him stay. She refuses, threatens to expose him. She runs out the rear terrace doors; but, desperate, he catches her, strangles her.” She jabbed the paper. “He has to prevent her from turning him in.” Pointed to the Mercedes photo. “The killer hears you close the gate, assumes we’ve left. He runs back to her car, drives away. We know the rest.”

  “So if Irati confirms this, they’ll release Morbier?”

  “That’s the point. Morbier’s the main suspect in a crime of passion, as the news termed it. Why?”

  René shook his head. “But you’re going to tell me, right?”

  “If you were Irati, with your mother murdered almost before your eyes, would it make sense for you to lie? To corroborate Morbier’s guilt?”

  “You’re going somewhere with this, right?” René stretched his short legs. Checked his watch.

  Cool your handmade shoes, she wanted to say.

  “Say this killer calls Irati, threatens that the same thing will happen to her if she exposes him to the flics,” she said. “Irati’s hysterical: her mother’s been murdered; she’s threatened.”

  “A few issues you’ve neglected,” René said. “The fiancé, this Robbé; the possibility that the killer was a guest who left and returned to meet Xavierre outside and then killed her.”

  Shadows flickered on the office walls.

  “That could work. Still, it doesn’t explain the kitchen noises, or why a wounded killer, who was bleeding outside, would attend the party. But Robbé’s scared. Irati was calling the shots when I tried to talk to them. Both were eager to see the back of me.”

  “So the killer threatens Irati with her fiancé’s death unless she cooperates,” said René, nodding. “That might make me lie, to save the person I loved.”

  “Exactement.” Aimée knelt down, adding a log to the now-sputtering fire. “Didn’t you ask me if I was ‘appeasing the fire god’? It fits, in a way. But you’ll never appease your mother’s murderer. Tonight Irati asked if I’d gone to the flics again, then said ‘Stay away … not safe’ before someone walked in the room and she hung up.”

  “But you’re neglecting a simple scenario.” René tented his fingers, interested now. “One you won’t like. Say this blood has nothing to do with the killer or Xavierre. What if it’s dog’s blood?”

  “Good point. But the lab results—”

  “Will confirm or deny it,” René interrupted. “So for argument’s sake, say the blood has no bearing. The old couple borrowed the Mercedes, they’re unfamiliar with the car so it takes them time to start it. Say Morbier, who’d asked for your help, has second thoughts en route to Lyon. Feels foolish, jealous, whatever. He instructs his driver to turn back. Or dismisses him. Either way, say Morbier returns, sees us inside, and is afraid Xavierre’s revealing why she avoided his phone calls: she wants to break it off. She doesn’t, of course, but what if she was afraid? But Morbier doesn’t know that. He waits, lures her onto the terrace, accuses her … then.… ”

  Aimée dropped the duster, battling a seed of doubt. “How could you think Morbier … ?” Her throat caught.

  “Not me.” René’s brow creased. “But I’m saying that’s ten to one how the flics would look at this. His driver’s his alibi. So why hasn’t Morbier been released?”

  She sank on the recamier. “I asked him that.”

  “Didn’t answer, did he?” René averted his eye. “The facts don’t look good. I’m sorry, Aimée.”

  “Morbier’s no amateur. He knows the system. It doesn’t make sense.” She stared at René. “Unless.… ”

  “Give up, Aimée.”

  “The mustard stains on his suit.”

  “Eh?” René’s eyes widened. “So he’s hungry, stops at a routier. Non, not many of them any more. So a rest stop where the food’s in plastic. He changes his mind and heads back to Paris.”

  “The first part’s brilliant, René.”

  “All this from a mustard stain?” René shook his head.

  She remembered Morbier pacing on the wet pavement, the thrumming of the waiting car’s engine, his black wool coat glistening with mist, open to his corduroy jacket.

  “If anything, the timing could confirm his guilt,” said René, his voice terse. “Look. Morbier’s my friend too. This hurts. It’s terrible. But right now, leave it alone. Don’t pursue what guarantees his—”

  “Innocence?” She picked up her cell phone, scrolled down her address list. Hit a number. “Inés? Oui, ça va? Non, I’m fine. Silly question, but does Emile still run Les Acacias? Retired? Of course … your son? Nice to keep it in the family. My number’s the same, I’d appreciate if he could call me. You too.”

  She hung up. Rubbed her hands in front of the fire. Warmth crept up her arms.

  “Why didn’t I think of it?” She shook her head. “Emile’s son runs the routier now, still a trucker stop with the best frites and saucisson on the A6 approach to Cachan.”

  “The A6 south to Lyon?”

  “My father met his suburban indicateurs at Emile’s. A lot of the flics did. The old-fashioned routier, good food, easy to blend in, and everyone’s on their way somewhere. A quick getaway.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Let’s say Morbier met an indicateur there to get information on Lyon,” she said. “He loves Emile’s saucisson smothered in moutarde de Dijon.”

  “You’re serious?” René’s brow creased in thought. “But then why not.… ”

  “Reveal his informer?” She shook her head. “He’d never get another whisper.”

  How many times had she seen her father unearthing a lead, checking every detail cobble by painstaking cobble, finding it a dead end? Then came the one odd piece at the back of the file or discrepancy glossed over—or rechecked for the fourth time— that broke the case.

  “Sounds far-fetched to me,” said René. “You’re reaching, Aimée.”

  “You’d drop your socks if you realized how much a flic’s work owes to an informer’s tip,” she said. “Like a slow-moving train gathering information—a name, the girlfriend’s last address, bits and pieces that add up.”

  “Protecting a source, fair enough. B
ut that goes both ways,” René said.

  “Depends on how deep the source goes, his cover, the connections, a lot of intangibles. Half of the flic’s work’s done by listening to snitches; the other half, methodical plodding.”

  The reasons she hated criminal investigation.

  “Et alors, say that’s so, say the informer’s related to Morbier’s investigation in Lyon.” René stood, did a neck roll. “My turn.” He took the black marker, reached on his tiptoes, and circled Xavierre’s name.

  “What do you really know about her?”

  Good question. Morbier had revealed little about his relationship until last night.

  “Not much more than you,” she said. “I’d only met her on the street once before. But she was in love.”

  René drew a column. “In love. Voilà, we also know she was haute bourgeoise, moneyed, lived in a chic quartier; she’d rekindled an old affair with Morbier—”

  “But why her?” Aimée interrupted. “Why now, with her daughter’s wedding, guests, the preparations?”

  “Let me finish.” He pointed the duster handle like a schoolteacher. “Very important. We know she’s Basque.”

  “True. Yet Xavierre and Irati don’t fit the Basque Separatist profile in the headlines—hiding revolutionaries in safe houses after armed attacks and bombings.”

  She’d gotten nowhere with Agustino about Xavierre’s past. But he had been hiding something. Cybèle had denied her sister’s links with ETA. But Aimée wondered if Xavierre had supported the cause in other ways.

  If it smelled, her father always said, track it down. Or it would bite your sinuses like ripe Port Salut.

  Before she could pursue it, René’s cell phone trilled on his desk. He glanced at the number, then reached for his judo bag.

  “Cherie? Ready?”

  Aimée looked up in surprise to see a wide smile on his face. He clicked off his phone and headed to the door.

  “Hot date?”

  “If that’s what you call pot stickers with her parents at Chez Chun.”

  “The woman from the dojo? I call it progress.” Aimée said. “Chinatown’s perfect on a night like this.”

  She felt happy for René. It was time he met someone and it worked out.