by Cara Black
She kicked a pebble in the courtyard. Tried to figure out how this could square things for her with Madame la Proc. Found a quiet place to make a phone call, then left her a message.
She started walking, feeling a hollowness inside. René would complain that she’d rushed in and alienated the prestigious institution before they’d paid up, as she now remembered they hadn’t.
She imagined Martine’s reaction—it had been Martine’s sister who’d recommended Aimée for the job. She’d face that wrath later.
At the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain, she noticed the weekly scandal mag Voici—infamous for its dirt on celebrities, royals, and politicians. The huge headline on the cover read: investigation continues in le sénat love-nest murder—inconvenient mistress?
Her blood boiled for poor dead Erich Kayser and this fake search for his killer. How could they plant articles like that? Never mind how—who had this power? Suzanne thought a Serbian thug was after her, but there had to be someone much more powerful behind this—whatever this was. If it even was anything.
She had to settle this once and for all. As long as Melac held down the fort, she could revisit the scene of Erich Kayser’s death, question the frame maker about what she’d seen.
During the humid walk, she reflected on how leads and evidence guided a police investigation. The flics had accountability guidelines to follow, superiors to answer to, reports—oh, those reports, her father had moaned; they tied up your whole day with paper work.
No space for gut feelings, though she knew the best flics followed theirs when they could. Her father had always talked about that sixth sense, intuition honed by experience. He’d never ignored it. Track it down, he’d say, before it tracks you down.
Powerless at the moment, unable to confront and convict her devils, Suzanne was imagining them on the streets. How could Aimée blame her? The same thing had happened to her just the previous Saturday. She’d glanced at a boulangerie window and seen reflected in the glass familiar tobacco-stained fingers holding a Gauloise. Morbier. There was his jacket lapel with the ever-present food stain, the drooping pouches underneath his eyes. The spot by his ear he always missed shaving. She’d turned to grip his elbow, overwhelmed by her anger and betrayal. “How could you lie to me?”
“Do we know each other, mademoiselle?” The older man had exhaled a plume of smoke from a newly lit Gauloise, on his face, a puzzled half smile.
She let go. Stepped back, embarrassed. Not Morbier at all. “Forgive me. It’s just that I thought you were . . .”
“Someone else,” he said, eyeing her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t.” His eyes were sad. “It’s never good to argue and not make up before bed. I know, mademoiselle. There’s someone I’d give anything to say I’m sorry to, but it’s too late.”
Too late.
He’d stood puffing his cigarette, a stone in the river of life flowing around him on the pavement. Then he’d disappeared, leaving her with only the ghost of his sadness.
She was a fine one to talk. She could confront her phantom but wouldn’t. Suzanne couldn’t.
Yet doubt dogged her steps across the square in front of Saint-Sulpice. The coward in her asked what she could hope to find out. Why not leave it alone?
This plan . . . was it wise? But the disguise she’d changed into was very different from how she looked in the police artist’s sketch. Walking down the narrow rue Servandoni, she shuddered remembering how Erich Kayser had sprawled on the street. The pool of blood spreading, veining through the cracks. She thought about what the officer at the commisariat had said about the “big boys” who were handling the investigation.
They were still on the lookout for her.
The frame maker’s shop doors were open in the late-afternoon heat. She crossed the threshold, stepping on the doormat, which resulted in the tinkle of a doorbell. The woman, wearing a blue smock and with wood shavings in her hair, turned to look at Aimée. She had been speaking to a man Aimée recognized.
Loïc Bellan.
Aimée froze.
The last person she wanted to see. One who could recognize her despite her disguise.
“Oui?” the woman asked.
But Aimée had taken off at a run, keeping to the lengthening shadows of the buildings.
She jumped on the number 63 bus before it closed its doors in front of Café de la Mairie. Head down, she worked her way to the back of the crowded bus, checked her phone. Stole a peek out the window. No Loïc Bellan.
Only Ari, the news peddler who sold to the café patrons en terrace. An institution in the quartier; she remembered him from her student days.
If only her heart didn’t jump in her chest. If only the waves of nausea would go away. If only all this would go away.
“Look how tense you are, Aimée.” Melac was winding up his babyproofing. He set down his screwdriver. “What are you afraid of?”
“Not now, Melac,” she said, hot and tired, a thrumming tingle in her spine. She checked her phone. No messages.
“Is it Morbier?”
She was a wanted murder suspect. But she couldn’t tell Melac that. Inside she wondered if she was like Suzanne. Damaged.
“You feel so guilty, you’re torturing yourself. Why not just go see him?”
Her fingers trembled. “Leave it alone, Melac.”
Melac wouldn’t let it go. “You still have a chance to make it right with Morbier.”
“Quit the crusade.” Any minute she’d kick him and his tools down the stairs.
“I’m not thinking of myself.” Melac reached for her arm. Held it. “It’s you. Morbier can’t protect you anymore.”
“Since when has he done that? I don’t need protection.”
“How little you know,” said Melac. “He’s protected you in his own way for the last ten years, fudged the law for you when you’ve overstepped and made waves with the flics. He’s protected you from the Hand, even when you dug too deep and made it dangerous for you both. And he’s guarded you from fallout from your mother’s terrorist activities. Those champagne socialists would drag you into her wake. Think about it.”
She did. More and more these days. She chewed her lip.
“On some level, what happened with Morbier traumatized you. Shootings always do. I went through training, and they still got to me. Plus you’re afraid his contacts will retaliate.”
“Not will,” she said. “They’ve put me on the poison list already. I expected that.”
Melac looked around—Chloé’s scattered toys, her blanket on the recamier. “But you’re terrified for what you love most, right? Your bébé.”
Her insides twisted.
If they got to her, what would happen to Chloé?
They wouldn’t. Morbier wouldn’t let them. Would he?
But he lay dying. Had lied for years, sabotaged her . . . She’d thought his affection for Chloé was real.
“The fear’s getting to you,” said Melac. “I see it. Go deal with him, with the phantom in your head. Let him say what he has to say. But then tell him everything—the regret, the guilt, the betrayal of your trust. Give him hell. It might be your only chance to say what you need to say.”
Let him know how deeply he’d hurt her?
“You’re right. I do feel all that.” It bubbled up despite herself. “He ticked me off big-time. The damn salaud.”
Melac gave her a wry smile. “Good start. Doubt he’ll be too surprised.”
Anger flooded her veins. Her temple throbbed. Part of her wanted to confront Morbier, but a big part knew she’d break down. Fall apart. She was helpless to undo what she’d done. What he’d done. The past.
“He’s holding on for you, Aimée. To see you, to talk to you.”
She’d made him the villain, yet nothing was that simple. Or that black and white. It was all a muddy grey. She pushed it all down—sh
e still couldn’t deal with it. Too painful. It would wrench her apart.
Melac had picked up a photo of her and Benoît that Babette had shot the week before when they’d taken the girls to the park. “Who’s he?”
Startled at the question, she blinked. “Benoît? He’s good for me.” It was the first thing that came out of her mouth.
“Sounds like a vitamin.”
“He cooks, loves babies, treats Chloé like—”
“His own?” Melac’s eyes darkened. Jealous. “She’s my daughter. My name’s on her birth certificate.”
That had been a bitter contest of wills, but in the end, she’d agreed.
“Then act like it, Melac. Don’t just stroll in when it suits you.”
“I’m trying to.” He gripped her hand. “Why don’t you try trusting me, Aimée? Tomorrow we’ll make a whole day of it.”
He stood so close, his vetiver scent surrounding her, and she wanted—stop. Get a grip. She shook loose, and her gaze caught on an expensive tool set.
“Fancy,” she said. “Doing some remodeling?”
“Those?” Melac shook his head. “I just borrowed them from Paul to finish babyproofing.”
Her ears perked up. “As in Suzanne and Paul?”
“I’m staying at his place. Paul asked me to flat-sit and feed the dog.”
“They’re both out of town?” she asked warily.
“Paul’s in Nantes for the week. And sad news, Suzanne’s in the clinker.”
She froze. “Jail?”
“Close enough. The police hospital in the Indre.”
“In the hospital? Mon Dieu, was she hurt in action?” She remembered the voice mail Suzanne had left her.
“Mental stress, battle fatigue. They’re calling it sick leave.”
She’d heard of this locked rehab facility for police who’d lost it. Rarely did any patients make it back to their positions.
“That’s horrific . . .” she said. “I don’t understand how they could send Suzanne there.”
“Didn’t she confide in you?”
Aimée ground her teeth. “Why? We weren’t close. Matter of fact, once I thought you two were having an affair, remember?”
Melac nodded. “How could I forget?”
“But this doesn’t make sense—she’s an elite operative. How can they lock her up?”
Melac shrugged. “Paul called yesterday and asked me to dog-sit. His parents have had the children all week, but Suzanne was supposed to be coming back from a trip yesterday, and their regular dog-sitter was going out of town. He said Suzanne cracked—she was supposed to have another year on her secondment, but she requested reassignment home. PTSD. Seems she hasn’t been the same since what happened in Bosnia.”
“But PTSD requires therapy,” she said, shocked, “not being locked up and deserted by her family.” Her heart bled for Suzanne. Harsh institutional treatment didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
“She saw things on her missions,” said Melac. “Terrible things. And it made her a little crazy—she started breaking rules, taking risks that hurt the team. Paul told me she’d raked up sensitive files her boss told her to leave alone. She’d gotten obsessed with this one fugitive.”
No wonder Suzanne hadn’t revealed anything to Melac. Trying to air out the cupboard, she’d gotten her fingers slammed in the door. Suspected and watched, she didn’t trust him or any of them. Now Aimée couldn’t either.
Suzanne had trusted only her. Aimée was outside the system of regulations and reports and all the bureaucracy. Suzanne had counted on Aimée to lie, steal. Well, she’d done that, hadn’t she? Found no ghost.
Now they’d shut Suzanne up and land-mined Aimée’s attempts to investigate.
Isabelle, Erich . . . “They got to him,” Suzanne had said. Who were they?
Not my problem, she kept telling herself. Not my problem.
But it was. Suzanne might be obsessed but what had happened to her was wrong. Like it or not, Aimée’d gotten involved.
Aimée broke away from Melac and went to check on Chloé, who lay asleep, her white eyelet blanket kicked off and her chubby little foot sticking out from under the cotton sheet. Aimée touched her forehead—cool, no fever.
She opened the window a crack. Outside the sliver of a moon hung over the forest of chimneys on the slate roofs. A cat slunk on a nearby balcony.
After a kiss and a quick inhale of Chloé’s sweet smell, Aimée went into the bathroom. Closed the door, turned on the faucets so Melac wouldn’t hear, and dialed Suzanne’s number on the burner phone.
Aimée splashed water on her face as the phone rang ten times, then hung up. No voice mail.
She perched the phone next to her Dior concealer on the shelf under the mirror and scrubbed her face with black soap. Washed off her makeup. Jumped when the phone vibrated, knocking a lipstick tube off the shelf.
Grabbing a towel, she answered. Let the water run.
“Oui, Suzanne?”
“Who’s this?” said a female voice.
“You first,” said Aimée, wary.
“A comedian, eh?” Pause. “I’m Suzanne’s friend. She wants to meet.”
Aimée’s antenna rose. Who the hell was this? Suzanne had been committed to a rehab hospital. “Where?”
“Tomorrow. The statue of Maréchal Ney in front of Closerie des Lilas. Two p.m.”
The line went dead. Aimée rang back. Suzanne’s phone had been turned off.
Only one way to find out who it was.
Aimée’s mind raced, placing the meeting spot—border of the sixth arrondissement, at the far end of the narrow green that continued from the Jardin du Luxembourg, by Port-Royal on the RER B line.
“Aimée, it’s Martine.” Melac’s voice came from the hall.
“Here?” She toweled her face dry, slapped on Clarins moisturizer, rubbing it in with swift oval strokes. Smudged her damp eyes with kohl, swooped down for her fallen lipstick tube, made a quick red slash. She gave herself a glance in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. She dabbed Dior concealer but knew only sleep took care of those.
“Going to take her call, or . . . ?”
A call! She stuck the burner in her pocket and opened the door.
He stood with a glass of wine in hand and her landline handset in his other. Definitely at home here.
“Since when do you answer calls on my phone, Melac?”
“Since Martine’s name has been flashing for the past five minutes.”
Abashed, she took it. “Merci.”
Only the dial tone.
About to hit the call back button, she noticed several voice mails. Listened.
A call from her answering service. Olgan, the Croatian professor, fond of café-clop, had left a message.
A tingle ran up her arms. She hadn’t expected to hear from him.
Before she could jot down his number, Martine rang again.
In the now-babyproofed salon, she answered.
“About time, Aimée.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry I forgot your sister’s birthday.”
“What? No, it’s next—”
Her mind had seized upon an idea. “I’ll meet you at Closerie des Lilas.”
“Wait, I’m at . . . You’re up to something, Aimée.”
A plan on the fly, but the best she could come up with.
“Give me twenty minutes, Martine. I promise,” she said loudly for Melac’s benefit.
“Promise what?” Martine was saying, but Aimée hung up.
Melac was standing at the door to the balcony with a glass of wine, which he held out toward her. On the stereo, he’d put on Miles Davis’s haunting theme from Elevator to the Gallows—the new-wave film with a young Jeanne Moreau, her favorite, roaming Pigalle for her lover who’d killed her husband.
“Three?” Melac averted his grey-blue eyes. And for the first time, she sensed there was something wrong—he was worried about something, and all alone. Didn’t he have a wife to comfort him?
“I want to talk, Aimée.”
“Fine.” That sounded abrupt. “You’re right. We need to talk. But . . . I need to think.” Impatient, she wanted to leave and didn’t relish the idea of bundling a sleeping baby in a taxi—but she would if she had to. “Alors, it’s not the best time. Tomorrow?”
“You’re not waking Chloé up,” he said, reading her mind. “Go. I’ll finish up babyproofing, finish the Merlot.”
If he thought he could guilt-trip her, he’d missed the mark.
“Won’t be late,” she said.
She had a plan.
Her scooter, reclaimed from her mechanic, caught with a purr thanks to yet another tune-up. She took off down the quai, crossed Pont de la Tournelle to the Left Bank. Her hair whipped; her cheeks flushed. She loved riding on hot summer nights, past people filling the café terrasses, spilling from the theaters, piling into bistros—the vibrant life of Paris streets. Rue Saint-Jacques gave her a straight shot to the maternity hospital where she’d had Chloé. A right took her onto Boulevard du Montparnasse. She parked in front of the statue of Maréchal Ney, Napoleon’s trusted commander until he turned traitor.
Leafy chestnut trees, backlit by globed streetlights, cast shadows. She keyed off the ignition. Closerie des Lilas, which had once been Hemingway’s writing place on cold mornings, appeared as it always had: the polished mahogany, the low light, the red leather, the brass-and-chrome-mirrored bar. And the WC down the stairs with the pay phone. A working pay phone—so rare those days.
She rang Martine.
“You’re late, Aimée.”
“Order me a—”
“Campari with lime? Done.”
“I’m downstairs.”
“I know. Gianni saw you.”
Aimée sucked in a breath. Gianni? Oh no. What would she say about the trip?
