by Cara Black
“And when did you take Yves’s wallet and cell phone?”
He froze.
“Look, I don’t care. It’s over. Just tell me what happened.”
“The street cleaner pointed. He was excited, jabbering in some kind of African,” he said. “And then we saw a mec sprawled in the doorway. Nobody I knew, but Romeo saw the wallet and phone next to him. Well, Romeo needed a fix. Then we took off.”
“You just left . . . ?”
“We couldn’t help him any more. Look, I live on the street. I know when someone is dead.”
She was horrified; she couldn’t imagine finding a dead body and stealing from it. But to Berto, it meant a fix and survival. This sounded like the truth.
“Who else did you see, besides the garbage man?”
He shrugged and held out his hand.
“Think. What else did you see down the street?”
“It was deserted. We heard sirens.”
“How’d you get that scratch?”
He touched his neck. “We speeded up and turned into Cité Paradis. That’s when I barrelled right into some mec and got this.”
“Sounds convenient,” she said.
“And we would have got away, too! Romeo didn’t kill the guy. Maybe it was that mec. He was crouching, trying to catch his breath. . . .”
Her ears perked up. “What do you mean?”
“The mec was running away, like we were. . . .”
Her shoulders tensed.
“Was he the killer?”
Berto shook his head. “I doubt it. He was a little guy. Crying, too. ‘Supposed to meet him. I couldn’t help him,’ he says, ‘all that blood.’”
She leaned closer, smelled the acrid odor of something chemical from him. Junkies didn’t sweat like other people.
“What else?”
“The mec was scared and then he took off.”
“Describe him, Berto. Give me more.”
Berto’s shoulders twitched. “Little. Works at the train station.”
Her hope soared. Yves’s contact who worked at the Gare du Nord?
“You knew him?”
“You see them all the time at the station in their blue work jackets.”
“A Turk?”
His head bobbed, anxious for the money.
“You’re sure? Did he have a beard or a moustache?”
“I told you. A little man, a little moustache. Only Turks do the dirty jobs at Gare du Nord and Gare de l’Est. He took off, and then a flic caught Romeo at the corner.”
“That’s all?”
“If we hadn’t run into the Turk, Romeo would have got away.”
“But you did, Berto. How?”
“I hid behind a truck. Romeo bolted like a fool and got caught red-handed.”
She handed him the cash, and he spun away. “Wait.” She pulled out another twenty. “Go eat first, eh?”
LANGOIS WAITED FOR her farther down the quai.
“You heard?”
“Most of it,” he said. “And I got some photos, if you need them.” He took Aimée’s arm. “His story makes sense if this little Turkish mec was Yves’s contact from Gare du Nord.”
She nodded.
“You should speak with Gerard,” Langois said. “He was Yves’s Ankara admin chief.”
“Gerard Drieu?”
Langois nodded. “Sad story. His wife left him a month ago. She walked out the door and got hit by a lorry as she was getting into her car.”
That explained his aura of sadness. Poor man.
“But I just spoke with him before you turned up at the AFP. He knew little, but he said he’d search for Yves’s articles.”
Langois exhaled. “Yves got the trust of the iKK, the radical Kurd group, and traveled with them in the mountains. He insisted that they weren’t the violent cutthroats the Turkish military termed them.”
“Cutthroats?”
She stopped and thought for a moment. “Hadn’t he given up all that? He told me he was buying the loft and would be stationed in Paris with a new job.”
“Yves was the best, bar none. He was up for an award. AFP wanted to keep him, at least according to rumor.”
She took out her phone and punched in a number.
“Rouffillac,” a man’s voice said after the first ring.
“Aimée Leduc,” she said, summoning her courage. “Yves Robert had a contact he was supposed to meet at Gare du Nord, perhaps a worker, Turkish—”
“And your source for this, Mademoiselle?”
She hesitated.
“If you can’t give me the source, then it’s hearsay. Didn’t I indicate that we’re conducting this investigation and your help’s not required?”
“His photographer . . . the man he worked with, told me. He’s right here; why don’t you speak with him?”
She handed her phone to Langois, who took it eagerly. As he spoke to Rouffillac, she had an idea. But before she could get the phone back, Langois turned to her. Rouffillac had rung off.
“Nice mec, thanks. Now I’ve got to appear at the Brigade. Says to tell you he’s already canvassed the railroad station and to butt out.”
“He said that?”
“In so many words.”
“At least he won’t say I’m obstructing his investigation.”
If Rouffilac’s men had canvassed the Gare du Nord, turned up suspects, and were following another line of investigation, she wanted to know what it was. But he’d never tell her.
Time to use a police connection and pull in a favor, which she hated to do. But the chance existed that a busy Rouffillac hadn’t tied up all the loose ends.
Langois walked ahead of her on the cobbled bank, taking night shots of a confused squawking seagull.
No time like the present. She punched in another number. At this time of night, she hoped to reach the access machine, hoped it was still on.
The phone picked up. She heard clicks, then a long pause.
“Laure, ça va? You awake and feel like talking?”
She waited until the voice-activated, halting computer-generated voice answered. “Keep your skirt on Aimée, I’m checking e-mail. One moment.”
Aimée’s friend Laure, a flic and daughter of her father’s first partner, had suffered a stroke eight months earlier as the result of an attack in which her partner was killed. Laure’s slurred speech was slower than the typing fingers on her right hand. So she used a special program to allow her to respond over the phone. Her rehabilitation, a long, frustrating process, edged one step forward and two steps back. Laure did data-entry work for the Commissariat now. “My mind’s lightning fast, it’s the rest that’s slow,” she’d insisted to Aimée.
“Back on the old desk job two months, right?”
“And you know how I love it,” said Laure’s computer voice. “Give me a beat to walk any day. But it keeps me current until these legs get moving.”
“I need a homicide report,” Aimée said, “and a catalogue of the victim’s belongings.”
“Cut right to the chase, don’t you? What about ‘How’re you doing, Laure, done your exercises today, lifted those weights?’”
“And sound like your therapist?”
“Right now, I’m pissing mad. I did all my exercises and feel like crap after lifting weights, thank you.” Pause. “You don’t want much, do you?”
“Matter of fact, I want the homicide victim’s belongings. And I need them tonight.”
“LOL.”
“Does that mean you’re laughing out loud?”
“Computers can’t laugh, but you’re perceptive.”
“It’s Yves, Laure.”
“You’ve got more trouble with men than—”
“I ID’d him in the morgue this morning,” Aimée interrupted.
“Yves, the on-again, off-again? Wait, start from the beginning.”
And she did.
“I’m sorry,” Laure finally said.
“Right now, I’m near the Commissariat,” Aimée s
aid. “And if you can approve my request for Yves’s belongings with that flic voodoo you do, I can pick them up in a few minutes.”
“A homicide gets routed to the Brigade, you know that.”
“They’re a little busy right now.”
“I heard.”
“Maybe Yves’s briefcase or his laptop’s still sitting in the Commissariat.”
“I’m good. But not that good.”
“You won’t know till you try.”
“If, and I said if, I can access the homicide report, I’d have to do some fancy footwork and e-mail it to you later. There’s no other way, or they’ll know.”
“And Yves’s belongings?” Aimée said.
“I’ve never tried that,” she said. “Depends if someone has entered them in the system.”
“Isn’t that what you do?”
“More or less. Accessing files, inputting from the hard copy. They love me, everyone hates doing this.”
“You thrive on challenges, Laure.”
“No chance you know the case number?”
“I’ve got the receipt . . . somewhere.” She rooted in her wallet, found it. “Form 405, citation request #092.”
“At least someone’s doing their job,” Laure said a moment later. “It’s been routed by a Commander Maillol to the Brigade for morning pickup tomorrow. It’s all still here. But right away I can see you won’t get approval. They never relinquish belongings to non-family. Even to fiancées. . . . Why didn’t you tell me?”
Aimée chewed her lip. “Looking back, it feels unreal. Yves back in Paris to stay and . . . telling me he wanted . . . then. . . .”
She couldn’t finish.
“You’re approved. Hurry up before Maillol realizes how accommodating he’s been.”
“And the report?”
“If I can access it, I’ll e-mail it tonight or tomorrow. But don’t hold your breath; it’s probably in the Brigade’s hands.”
“Thanks, Laure.”
“Take care, Aimée. Listen, I never did this and I can’t ever try it again, comprends?”
* * *
LANGOIS WAITED OUTSIDE while Aimée entered the Commissariat for the third time in twelve hours. She strode up to the receptionist, now a male officer. Good, the night shift wouldn’t recognize her. His eyes drifted up from his computer. “Lost your keys, Mademoiselle?”
“Non, why?”
“That’s the usual problem with your type this time of night.”
Her type? She thrust the receipt across the counter. “I’m here to claim these belongings. My taxi’s waiting.”
“And in a hurry, too. Let me check the status of this request. Strange. This ignores the usual procedure.”
She hoped her luck held and Maillol wouldn’t walk in. She chewed her lip.
“Then with all that’s going on . . .” He shrugged.
“Sorry, officer, but if you could . . .”
The desk officer whistled. “Applied for and approved the same day. You must rate.”
A new respect shone in his eyes. Probably figured her for a judge’s daughter. The old-boy network opened many doors.
“Where do I go?”
“Downstairs. Window 14. But I don’t know if anyone’s there. We’re stretched thin tonight.”
The Commissariat had once been a lingerie factory. Vestiges of the wooden support beams were visible at the subterranean level. The flaking plaster smelled moldy. The place needed a good airing.
After several minutes of repeated knocking, a yawning flic appeared. “Come back tomorrow. Notice our new hours. We’re closed.”
True enough. A hand-lettered sign read 9 A.M.– 8 P.M.
“But I’m catching a midnight flight at Roissy Charles de Gaulle,” she said, glancing at her Tintin watch. “Please, my taxi’s waiting, I’m going to the funeral.” She rubbed her eyes. “Those are my fiancé’s things, his parents begged me, I have to bring the little there is left.”
“I told you,” he said, “look at the sign. Besides, it’s not my department; I’m in Lost and Found.”
“Not so different, is it? Look, here’s the citation number, can’t you just check?”
He scratched his head. Numbered wire baskets filled the shelves behind him.
“His mother’s had a nervous breakdown, I can’t go the funeral empty-handed . . . please. Otherwise she’ll never forgive me.”
He reached through the space under the window for the form. “No promises. They’ve got their own system; it’s like reading hieroglyphics.”
She heard him muttering as he walked away with the form. Please find it, she prayed. She doubted she could get away with this tomorrow.
She tapped her feet on the worn linoleum. She heard more muttering from the back and his halting footsteps. The linen dress clung between her damp shoulder blades.
Three minutes later, he returned with a creased Printemps shopping bag. “Sign here.”
She grabbed the pen and scribbled her name.
“And here.”
That done, he opened the window and pushed the shopping bag across to her. “It arrived two hours ago from the morgue.”
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said.
“I’m bending the rules here. Don’t make this a regular occurrence.”
He needn’t worry. She wouldn’t.
Tuesday Early Evening
WARILY, VATEL WATCHED Florand, the Brigade Criminelle officer sitting at his wooden kitchen table. Medium height, shaved head, and work-out physique. Nothing to make him stand out from any mec on the street. Except for Florand’s eyes, the clouded gray of dirty melting snow. Wolves’ eyes. Like the wolves Vatel had once hunted in the Dersin mountains with his father.
“Coffee?” Vatel asked.
“Non, merci.” Florand pulled out a small notebook. “I didn’t find you at work, so I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.” Vatel coughed. “I’ve got a summer cold, the worst.”
Vatel’s knife was strapped to his calf under his trousers. He kept his face a mask, inwardly berating himself. By reporting the attack, he’d brought on this visit, questions, and the last thing he wanted: attention. In Turkey, he was on the Yellow Crescent’s wanted list.
“Your papers, please.”
Vatel opened his wallet, handed Florand his carte de séjour and carte d’identité.
“Monsieur Vatel, you’ve lived in France a while, yet I notice your accent.”
His papers had held up. But even with his story prepared, perspiration dampened his collar. “French father, Yugoslav mother, born in Trieste.”
Florand slid his papers back over the table. His gaze locked on Vatel’s. “Nice job. But then the Legion works with us on this.”
Startled, Vatel’s hand shook. “I don’t understand.”
“We know you’re ex-Legion. And I want to make it easy, so your past works for you.”
“But—”
Florand gestured around Vatel’s room, pointed to the long-handled copper coffee pot, the Nilufer CD on the table. “You’re Turkish.”
To the French, people from Turkey were Turks.
“A Kurd. Big difference. But I’m a resident and work here now.”
Florand’s face remained without expression. “We’ll talk about that later. Now according to your call at . . .” Florand thumbed back through some pages in his notebook. “. . . 6:48 this morning, you indicated a person had been attacked on rue de Paradis.” He looked up, intelligence behind his gray eyes. “Give me more specifics.”
Smart. Florand had worded his question without revealing the gender of the murder victim or the presence of the street cleaner. Vatel couldn’t reveal that he’d discovered the body without inviting questions as to why he’d run away.
“You see, your colleague,” Florand looked down consulting the notebook, “Nohant. Yes, Monsieur Nohant, observed nothing and couldn’t offer much information other than that you indicated an Arab woman was attacked.”
He han
ded Vatel notepaper and a pencil.
“Why don’t you diagram the scene for me?” He gestured to the paper. “Explain your movements while you do so.”
Vatel willed himself to control the shaking of his hands. In broad strokes, he sketched the rue de Paradis building where he worked security, the door and the street, the arches opposite. If the street cleaner, who they would have questioned, mentioned him running away, and could identify him in his jumpsuit, he was stuck. He should have stayed for the arrival of the police once he’d discovered this body. Not fled like a coward . . . like someone guilty.
“You see, Officer, after my rounds at 6:45, as usual, I checked the galleries, then paused here.” Vatel made an X in the foyer by the door. “We’re instructed to survey the street, to notice if any clochards or homeless have slept in the doorway. Just as a precaution, you understand.”
Florand nodded.
So far, so good—and the truth.
“A few men, maybe two, clustered a few doorways down. Here. The usual types rousted from Square Albert Satragne. They don’t bother anyone. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw movement, bright clothes here.”
He looked up. Florand’s eyes had never left his face. Damp wet circles radiated from his T-shirt sleeves. “Under this arched doorway, I saw a robe, like a chador, black and long; then it was gone. I heard screaming, yes, even through the glass door, then a sound like a garbage can overturned. No . . . first the garbage can, then the scream. That’s right.”
Florand hadn’t said a word. Vatel’s palms were wet.
“A woman’s scream?” Florand asked, breaking his silence.
Vatel blinked. No air stirred in the dense hot room. “I . . . I assumed so.”
“And then?”
“Nohant hadn’t disarmed the alarm system from the upper floor yet. So I couldn’t open the door. I punched in our direct police line and reported an attack. Nohant came downstairs, concerned, and I told him about the woman. Then at seven o’clock my shift ended.”
He waited, knowing if he said another word, it would all come out in a babble of lies. So far he’d told the truth. Never lie if you don’t have to, and if you do, keep it simple. An unwritten Legion motto.
“What about those men in the doorway?”
“Gone.”
“And you, Monsieur, left your work from which exit?”
