Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

“But the number is blocked. No telling who it’s from.”

  “Right.” He thumbed something on her phone. “Do you mind if I—?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s an app we use. It reads the blocked number.” He fiddled with her phone for a few minutes. “Okay, so this is the number. Do you recognize it?”

  “You’re fast.” She glanced at her phone. “No. I don’t know who it is. Do you have a reverse directory thing?”

  He swung to his computer and quickly navigated to a phone number look-up, typing in the number. “No fixed place. That usually means Skype or Google phone, a prepaid cell. A burner maybe.”

  “So that’s that.” Francie sighed. “Well— “

  He had taken out his own cellphone and had it to his ear. He touched his lips with a finger. “Allo? Jean-Marie est là?”

  He listened for a moment and said, “English? Ah, bon. Yes, I speak English.” He now had a dishy French accent.

  “Some weed then? A bag. Oh, just one is all I can buy. Reece sent me.” He nodded at Francie. “Four o’clock. Behind l’Orangerie. Bon. Brilliant. Okay. Ça va.”

  Walker was grinning. Francie took back her phone. “What the— how did you do that?”

  “A trick the local gendarmes told me. All the kids call up and ask for Jean-Marie. It’s a code word for weed. You know, Mary Jane.”

  “Wow. Okay. So now what?”

  “I’ll call one of my gendarme contacts. They’ll meet the dealers.”

  “So that’s it?” She blinked her eyes. “How does this help Reece then? The dealers are going to squawk about him?”

  “We can hope.” He looked at her. “But seriously? Probably not. He’s not their supplier now. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was their competition and they put him in the wringer. The gendarmes will lean on whoever is there with the goods. That’s the best they can do.”

  “Who was on the line?”

  “Sounded like a man.”

  “Any accent?”

  “Aussie or Cockney. Irish maybe. Not too consistent though. Maybe a put-on job.”

  “One of the stoner girls was Australian. The other was British. Either one could have a boyfriend dealer, I guess. Or is good with voices.” She put her phone in her purse and stood up. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Crum.”

  He sat upright and raised a finger. “I thought of something else.” He waved her back in her seat. “You want to know all the charges, right? Or do you know them?”

  “Not exactly. Sure, that would be helpful.”

  Back on the desk phone the FBI agent read a business card and dialed a number. “Allo, bonjour,” he said. “Can you talk?” He nodded at Francie. “Just a quick look-up in the records, if you can. An American, Reece Pugh. P-U-G-H. Arrested in December.”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “This will take a little while. Can you wait?” Ten minutes passed. Francie still had a half-hour to find the bistro where she was meeting Merle. She hoped this didn’t take too much longer.

  Crum grimaced his apology and read paperwork on his desk. Finally whoever it was came back on the line. “Yes? Great.” He grabbed a pen and began scribbling on a sheet of notebook paper. “Right. So cannabis, cocaine, amphetamines, and oxy. That’s it? No side charges? Thanks. Let’s get that glass of wine soon, d’accord?”

  He hung up and looked at Francie. “It’s not as bad as I thought. Cannabis, a little cocaine, some pills but not a huge amount. The street value is important because that’s how they decide sentencing and so on. No resisting arrest or anything like that.”

  “What about the heroin?” Francie asked.

  He frowned at his list. “She didn’t mention that.”

  “Seriously?” She reached out for the paper and he slid it over. No heroin was listed. Had she dreamed that? No.

  “Does heroin disappear from crime scenes, or maybe from evidence lockers?”

  Agent Crum raised his eyebrows. “Anything is possible.”

  “Can I keep this?” She tapped on the list he’d written out.

  He tore it out of the notebook. “Good luck.”

  Twenty-Five

  The bistro where Francie was to meet Merle sat on the far side of the Place de la Concorde, on the wide, leafy, gorgeous boulevard that was the Avenue de Champs-Élysées. Far down the boulevard sat the Arc de Triomphe, the huge central feature in the layout of Paris. Which triumph were they celebrating, Francie wondered. Napoleon? A World War? She’d have to look it up.

  The sidewalk tables were all full, surrounded by wrought iron fence work and lined with boxwood. The day had warmed and everyone wanted a piece of sunshine. But Francie turned toward the elegant Belle Époque ice cream parlor, pushing through brass-trimmed doors to find a red velvet interior complete with glittering chandeliers, grand mirrors, and a dusty bar. No soda fountain these days. Merle was waving from a booth set into one wall, having secured herself a small bit of sunshine from the window that overlooked a patch of grass and a nearby stone building.

  “Sorry, nothing available outside,” she said as Francie slid into the booth. “But I adore this old interior. So Gay ‘90s, isn’t it?”

  “Swingin’,” Francie replied, taking in the garish decor. It was so— gold. “I wonder why they keep it. Doesn’t seem too popular.” The bistro was nearly deserted inside, with just another couple and the Bennett sisters.

  “It’s historic,” Merle cried. “It’s like you could see characters from La Bohème in here. If they weren’t too sick to eat ice cream.”

  After they ordered from a stiff, bored young waiter, Merle asked Francie about her meeting at the embassy. Francie explained about the drug buy the FBI agent had set up.

  “The Orangerie? I know where that is,” Merle whispered. “We can go watch!”

  Francie frowned. “They might recognize me.”

  “Oh. Right.” Merle pulled out her phone. “I’ll just tell Pascal about it though. Okay?” She punched in his number, left a voicemail about the details, and hung up.

  “Then the other thing is,” Francie said, “that the heroin is no longer listed in evidence.”

  “What?”

  “It’s vanished. No listing of the heroin possession charge either. That sounds a little convenient for whoever works in the evidence locker.”

  “I’ll say.” Merle smiled at the two glasses of wine that arrived, taking a sip of rosé. “So maybe Pascal is right. That department is corrupt. Did I tell you that?” Francie shook her head. “He told me that Reece’s arresting officer has been close to— that’s all he could say— close to a corrupt officer, one who got caught. Selling drugs or something. I did Google it the other day. The case he was talking about was a cop who had been stealing drugs from arrests and selling them on the street in cahoots with some gang leader. It was actually pretty easy to bust him, once they got wind of it. Not the brightest.”

  “But how do they get wind of it?” Francie asked. “Can a private citizen call in a tip?”

  “Not sure why they’d believe an anonymous tip or whatever. I’ll have to ask Pascal.”

  They ate their salads in silence. As their plates were removed and their bowls of ice cream ordered, Francie got out her phone. “I have to call Reece’s mom. I sent her a couple emails about what’s going on but I never heard back from her.”

  “I thought she demanded daily updates.”

  “She did for awhile. Maybe she’s not as hot to get Reece out anymore. I know how she feels. I’ve sort of cooled on the whole idea myself.” Francie punched in the number. “I made my reservation for Wednesday. For my flight home.”

  Merle put on her sad face again. “Double phooey.”

  The phone rang and eventually a machine picked up. It was Claudia Pugh’s home phone. Francie left a message, asking her to call. Then she hung up and called Claudia’s cell phone. After a number of rings a woman answered in a faraway voice.

  “Claudia? It’s Francie Bennett. In Paris.”

  “Oh. Yes. Fra
ncie.” She cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m here.”

  She sounded funny. “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course. What’s happening? Have you got Reece out yet?”

  Francie frowned. She’d already told Claudia that was unlikely. Was the woman trying to guilt her? “Like I said, that’s probably not going to happen. The French authorities consider him a flight risk, with or without his passport. But I did talk to the American Embassy. They’re doing what they can. They’ve been helpful.”

  “Tell her about the sting operation,” Merle whispered. Francie shook her head.

  “You understand?” Francie asked Claudia.

  “Yes. I— okay,” Claudia said weakly.

  “You sound— Are you at home?”

  “No, I’m— “ Her voice broke. “I’ve been admitted for observation. To the hospital.”

  “Oh, dear. What’s wrong?”

  “I tried to kill myself. But I didn’t have enough pills.” She laughed a harsh chuckle. “If only Reece were here I could get more pills.”

  Francie covered her eyes. “Oh, Claudia. I’m so sorry.”

  “I had a lot of vodka. Vodka is pretty cheap, did you know? You can get a really big bottle of it for ten dollars.” Francie bit her lip, unsure what to say. Claudia continued, as if telling her tale was therapeutic. “My ex, Harlan, remember him? The asshole?” Francie murmured a yes. “Harlan has been on quite a tear lately, about the house, and stuff he wanted to keep that I sold— like I was going to give it back to him suddenly? Like his stereo, you know? I mean, who cares? About Reece too. He’s back to being done with him, I’m afraid, Francie. There’s no more money coming.” She began to sob.

  Francie put her hand over the phone and whispered to Merle: “She tried to overdose with pills and vodka.” Merle gasped.

  “Listen, Claudia, you take care of you. I will do what I can for Reece. I promise. I’ll do everything I can. Reece will get released. He’ll see you soon.”

  A promise she’d never be able to keep, she realized, but sometimes a woman needed something to cling to.

  Claudia was still crying.

  “Harlan is a bastard, Claudia. He never deserved you. You have your whole life to look forward to— without him. You’ll find someone else. You were absolutely right in divorcing the creep. Don’t let him get to you. You’re better than that. You’re strong and resourceful. Don’t let him into your head. Will you promise me that?”

  She blubbered something then said goodbye. Francie punched the phone and nearly threw it down on the table. “Son of a bitch.”

  “The husband? What’d he do?”

  “He’s a bully with a temper. I don’t know what he did exactly but he rants. He’s a menace. He pushed her over the edge, I guess.”

  “Poor thing.”

  Francie felt so angry, at the whole situation— the Pughs, their problems, the French justice system. Her own inability to get anything done here. She and Merle walked back to the apartment but Francie was immune to the charms of Paris. Her mind raced with scenarios: find the heroin— and the heroin dealer, find Sami Amoud and make him talk, get a new lawyer for Reece. But how to get any of this done? She felt helpless.

  At least she could postpone her return home. At the apartment she changed her ticket to the weekend. She had to get home soon. She was contemplating what was going on at Ward + Bailee when her cell phone rang. It was Alice.

  “Hey, friend,” Francie said. “How are you?”

  Alice sighed. “I miss you. Everyone does.” She gave a bitter chuckle. “Except Greg of course.”

  “What’s happening? Have you heard anything from the Executive Committee?”

  “Oh, ah, they’ve met. But nobody’s talking. Strange, huh?”

  For notorious gossips, yes. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay.” Alice’s voice was very small.

  “Are you sure? Can I help?”

  There was a long pause and it sounded like Alice was crying.

  “Alice? Talk to me. What’s happening?”

  Another pause, then a whispered ‘shit.’

  After word of Claudia Pugh’s suicide attempt Francie’s mind jumped to horrible places. “You’re scaring me, Alice. Tell me what’s going on. I can help you if you let me.”

  “There’s a guy. . ..” Her voice trailed off.

  “Where? At the office?”

  “Yeah. He keeps, you know, bugging me.”

  “Bugging you. To do what? Go out with him?”

  “Something like that. You know I don’t like everybody here. Some I really don’t like. I don’t get along with everyone. Some hate my hair and my clothes and can’t quit talking about them. Others seem to like them too much.”

  “Listen, Alice. You go talk to Brenda. Immediately. Today. Tell her who is bugging you, and what it’s about. This can’t go on. Tell her everything.”

  “She’s so busy. I don’t think she likes me either.”

  “She likes you. That’s just her public face. Talk to her. Do you want me to call her for you?”

  “No.” She sniffed then sighed. “I’ll do it.”

  “Promise?” Alice promised. She’d talk to Brenda today. Francie gave her another pep talk and hung up.

  Poor Alice. She needed to stand up for herself better. Who was bugging her, she wondered, and what did that mean exactly? The possibilities were endless.

  Francie stood up from the small kitchen table and stretched. She had to move, to do something. She checked her watch. It was nearly four o’clock, the time when the drug sting would go down. She stuck her head into the living room where Merle was on her laptop.

  “Hey, want to go to the Orangerie?”

  Twenty-Six

  Merle snapped her laptop shut. “You changed your mind? Excellent.”

  They walked down to the Rue de Rivoli and waited five minutes before an unoccupied taxi came by. They gave the driver directions to take the quickest way to the Musée de l’Orangerie, the full name of the old royal greenhouse now a modern art museum, in the Tuileries gardens at the opposite end from the Louvre. The driver crossed Île Saint-Louis and went up the other side of the Seine. Traffic was thick, stop-and-go.

  “We’re not going to be there in time,” Merle whispered, tapping her watch.

  Francie shrugged. At least they were out, charging toward adventure. “Maybe one of them will be late.”

  “Are you still worried whoever it is will recognize you?”

  “A little. You may have to go take a close peek.”

  It was ten after four by the time they paid the driver and jumped out onto the broad sidewalk at the far end of the museum. They paused, staring at the huge building.

  “Where do you think it will happen?” Merle asked.

  They faced the front entrance, on the narrow end, with its carved pillars. All sides of the museum seemed to be open to the public, without any cover for a clandestine meet-up. They walked quickly to the south side with its enormous windows facing the river. These greenhouse windows were once used to keep orange trees alive all winter. A row of small trees lined the walkway but they could see no one there.

  “Let’s go around the other way,” Francie said, tugging Merle as she backtracked past the entrance and around to the Tuileries side of the long building. They skirted a triangle of sad-looking lawn, walking toward the other end of the museum. As they turned at the tip of the triangle they heard the shots.

  Two pops, unmistakable. Merle stopped, grabbing Francie. “Oh God.”

  From the far end of the building shouting was heard. As they stood, frozen, a siren in the distance began to wail. Francie moved a little closer, her sister holding her back.

  “The cops must have shot him,” Merle whispered. “Or vice versa.”

  Over the next few minutes gendarmes ran to the scene, followed by an ambulance and more police vehicles which drove up on the gravel walkways of the Tuileries, sending pedestrians scurrying. The doo-wop of sirens filled the air, and
the flashing lights flared brightly off the museum windows.

  A crowd began to gather. Merle and Francie joined in, inching closer, craning their necks. They moved left, to see better, and there it was: a pair of feet in worn white athletic shoes, presumably attached to a body. Medical personnel appeared to be working on the person. Police stood guard, holding back the crowd. Which policeman had been involved in the shooting was undetermined. Presumably he was not in uniform. Francie scanned the group of men near the shooting victim.

  But the main question was: Why had he shot the dealer? Was it a set-up to catch the narcotics cop? Did the cop also get shot?

  They waited until the victim was loaded into an ambulance and whisked away. “Come on,” Merle said. “It’s over.”

  “For that guy,” Francie said. “But what happened?”

  They would have to wait until Pascal came home, late, to get details of the drug sting gone wrong. It was nearly nine o’clock and the sisters had gorged themselves on cheese, bread, and olives, and decided that was enough dinner for tonight. They sipped rosé and waited for Pascal. The sound of his boots on the stairs perked them up.

  Merle opened the door before he could get out his key. “Get in here,” she cried, kissing him quickly on both cheeks. “We’re dying of curiosity.”

  She poured him a glass of wine and pulled him into the living room. Sitting on the sofa next to him Merle urged him on. “So? What happened at the Orangerie?”

  He looked at each of them. “Have you heard then?”

  “About the shooting? Yes.” Merle was hesitant to tell him they were on the scene.

  “Who was it?” Francie asked. “Who got shot?”

  “Ah, well,” Pascal began, shrugging. “A sad business. The dealer seems to have pulled a gun on the officer. They struggled with it, and the dealer was shot. He hangs on in the hospital but it is not good.”

  “Do you know who the officer is, Pascal?” Francie asked.

  “By chance, I do. It is the same one who arrested Monsieur Pugh. Name of Milo Soyer. He is very busy.”

  “What? The one under the cloud? That’s convenient,” Merle said.