by Cara Black
Bellan paused. “Aimée, consider going on a vacation.”
“Think I’ve earned it?”
“It’s a good time to be out of sight.”
“I’m not afraid of the military, or the flics,” she said with more bravado than she felt.
“That paparazzo’s quite taken with you. He wanted an exclusive. I’m afraid . . . You know how they are. He’s discovered your identity.”
Her stomach skidded. No peace.
“Vacation sounds like a good idea, Bellan,” she said. “My daughter’s never seen the Mediterranean. Time she did.”
Loïc grinned. “Never too young for sun and sand.” After a moment, he added, “My son loves apples. We’re going to Normandy.”
“Got a picture?”
Aimée stared at the smiling, almond-eyed little boy wearing a backpack, his hand gripping Bellan’s.
“Looks like a boy who’s easy to love,” she said.
“You got that right. It took me a while, but he’s made me realize what’s important.”
Realize what’s important.
Monday Morning
Martine had ordered a taxi monospace—a minivan—to take them to Orly Airport for their flight to Sicily. She claimed that with Chloé’s car seat, stroller, and accoutrements they needed a cab that big. She’d neglected to mention her Louis Vuitton luggage set.
Martine worried about missing the plane, about meeting up with Gianni at the airport in Sicily, a million little things. She insisted they arrive early.
On quai d’Anjou, René kissed Chloé, then strapped her into the car seat in the waiting taxi. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
Thank God. The business would be taken care of in her absence. Melac would dog-sit Miles Davis. Suzanne had been released from the police hospital and reunited with her children.
All bases covered.
They crossed the Pont de la Tournelle, the khaki-grey Seine flowing below.
Aimée had handled everything, hadn’t she? So why did she have this niggling scratch in her heart?
Chloé gurgled and tightened her fist on her doudou, her scruffy stuffed bunny.
“Martine, I’ve got a stop to make,” Aimée said.
“Quoi?” Martine looked up in alarm. “We’ll miss the plane.”
Aimée glanced at the time. Shot her best friend a pleading look. “We’re three hours early, Martine.”
•••
With Chloé in her arms, Aimée walked into la Maison de Santé du Gardien de la Paix.
Her damp collar stuck to her neck, her fingers trembled, but this time she didn’t turn around.
She saddled Chloé on her hip, passing through the dark-walled lobby. When she came to the hospital room door, she rapped with her knuckles, then opened it.
Crocus-and-jasmine-filled vases standing by rows of get-well cards. Photos of his grandson and Chloé were propped by his bed.
Morbier’s short-sleeved hospital gown revealed tubes running from his arms, just-visible chest patches connected to an EKG machine that beeped. His eyes were the same. He looked like the Morbier she’d always known. Except that his hair had gone stone white.
“About time, Leduc,” he said, as if they’d spoken the day before.
“I like your hair,” she said. “Très distingué.”
She’d never seen his lip tremble before. But then he’d always had a mustache before.
She put Chloé into Morbier’s open arms. Then leaned down and kissed his brow.
“So what do you have to tell me?”
Acknowledgments
I have so many people to thank for their time, extraordinary help and generosity: Jean Satzer, cat maman and reader extraordinaire; Libby Fischer Hellmann, accomplice in all things crime and writing; Kevin Curtis, Chief of Investigations with UNICEF, former ICTY Investigations Team Leader; Nicolas Sébire, Investigation Specialist, Investigations Unit, UNICEF, former ICTY investigator; Catherine Driguet, former Brigade Criminelle and ICTY investigator who lived parts of this story; merci mille fois.
In Paris: huge mercis to Françoise Deygout; Gilles Fouquet; Jean-Claude Mules, former Brigade Criminelle; above and beyond to Arnaud Baleste, former Brigade Criminelle; Patrick Bourbotte, Brigade Criminelle who shared his first case; Marie-Pierre in le Tribunal; indefatigable Ingrid au Clair; dear Naftali Skrobek, ancien Résistant who never lets me forget, and Lidia; Dr. Alan and Marie-Paul Marty; much appreciation to Doctor Christian de Brier and Blandine de Brier Manoncourt and family, who shared their quartier and much more; Jean-Luc Boyer, Chirine Ghiafiar and family, who helped in so many ways and introduced me to the real Bartok.
Deep gratitude to generous Karen Fawcett (and her concierge) for all those afternoons on rue Joseph Bara. Toujours merci to Anne Françoise Delbègue and Cathy Etile and to Benoît Pastisson. Gilles Thomas for all things underground and Carla Chemouni Bach, l’entrée to École des Beaux-Arts and more.
Nothing would happen without James N. Frey, or Katherine Fausset, or my patient, brilliant editor, Juliet Grames, or chére Bronwen Hruska and the entire, incredible SOHO family. And forever thanks to my son, Tate, and Jun.
