“No, you’re usually right about people, Francie,” Merle said. She looked at Pascal. “She is. She’s uncanny that way.”
Francie always thought she could read people. Then these last couple months had made her question that. How had she not seen Greg Leonard for the lying creep he was? How had she not seen how fragile Claudia Pugh was? Or Alice— what was happening there?
She pushed back her hair. “Walker Crum is mad, and upset, like we are. Did you hear? The Aussie—Eli— is dead.”
Pascal nodded solemnly as Merle gasped. “Oh, crap.”
“I was at the lawyer’s. Yvon called somebody, some commander in charge of — what do you call them — stupefying drugs? Maybe the same guy Walker called, I don’t know. They said the cop also got wounded. He might lose his foot.”
Pascal frowned. “I will make some inquiries. Make sure poor Milo gets the best care.”
Lying in bed that night Francie counted her days left in Paris. Just two full days, then home. At least she would have Dylan Hardy on the flight, that made it less bittersweet, the re-entry into her messed up life after an unsuccessful attempt at exoneration of Reece Pugh. Two days to pull out the stops, find and interrogate Sami Amoud, to kick Yvon Caillaud into action, to see Reece one last time. She owed that to Claudia, to check on her son at the least.
Ah, Dylan. He’d made this trip worthwhile. Somehow she’d connected with her younger self, reevaluated the errors of her flirtatious youth, and moved past them. But she hadn’t been completely honest with Dylan. She picked up her phone and clicked his number.
“Hey,” he said drowsily.
“Were you asleep? I’m sorry.”
“No. Just lying here thinking about you.”
She smiled. “Me too.” She cleared her throat nervously, a tic she hated in herself. “So there’s something I haven’t told you. The reason I came to Paris. The reason I had to take some time off from the firm.”
“Sounds ominous. You can tell me anything, Bennett.”
And she did feel that way. He would accept her, warts and all. She took a breath to calm the flutter in her chest. “So here it is. One of the junior associates accused me of sexual harassment. Said I told him he had to give me some sexual favors if he wanted a promotion.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Unfortunately not. And since I wrote the harassment guidelines and procedures myself, tightening them up after all the crap we’ve seen everywhere recently, I had to make myself scarce until the investigation is over.”
“I see. Well, Paris is a great place to lay low.”
“I guess I should be grateful to old Greg Leonard, for giving me some time off. Otherwise I wouldn’t have seen you again.”
“I’m certainly grateful. Wait— Greg Leonard? He went to our law school, that guy?”
“He did. Do you know him?”
“I think he interviewed with us. When would that have been?”
“Two or three years ago, I think.”
“Right. It’s coming back. One of the other alums came to me and told me we didn’t want Leonard. There was some backstory there. I can’t remember exactly, something in his past.”
“Really? That might be helpful actually.”
“I’ll call my partner. He’ll remember. He was adamant against Leonard.”
“Thanks, Dylan.”
“I’ll call you right back.” He hung up.
It was only late afternoon back on the East Coast. His partners were still hard at work. Francie rolled onto her side, hand over her phone, and closed her eyes. She heard Dylan’s big laugh again, the soft, low warmth of it. Then a scene from law school flooded back into her mind.
She recoiled for a moment at the memory. She’d given it a glancing view to her blog readers but there was more that she usually kept hidden in a dark corner of her mind.
She didn’t even remember the guy’s name, just his football-player shoulders and thick neck. She’d flirted with him, teased him actually, about being a jock in law school. He took it well, it seemed, and laughed at himself. She did it with anybody who gave her a little attention, to show them she was the boss in any relationship. Wasn’t that what teasing was for? It seemed so to her then. A little put-down with a smile and a laugh.
Then it all turned. He pushed her into that closet and had his hands all over her. He whispered some dirty stuff in her ear. She remembered pushing him off her, cursing at him. Before she was saved by a passing stranger whose name she was never bold enough to find.
Memory was fluid, wasn’t it? You remember things the way you want to, to preserve your ego, to hide your shame. In reality she was shocked but meek, letting him touch her. Letting him kiss her at least once, before she pushed him away. Had Dylan seen her with the linebacker? She was too ashamed to tell him about it, fearful that she had led the jerk on somehow.
The shame of it still stung. She’d been so out-of-control back then, chatting up anybody who gave her the time of day. But now she saw it differently. She hadn’t asked to be attacked like that. If he interpreted things wrongly, that wasn’t on her. She didn’t do anything wrong except not hit the jerk. The victim blames herself.
Get over it, Francine. She always found it easier to be upfront and in-your-face than thoughtful and kind and supportive. But had she really? She wasn’t always honest with herself. She was the flamboyant sister, the one with the most attention. She craved it, fourth in line behind some of the wittiest, kindest, most brilliant women she’d ever know. But now her attention-seeking just seemed childish.
She also hadn’t told Dylan about the jock because she was afraid he would get in a fight and nobody should ruin Dylan’s lovely face. In a way the secret had come between them. As if she wanted him to know, to fight for her, to bleed for her honor, but she couldn’t face the fact that she’d brought on the attack with her reckless flirting.
Some tears leaked out of her eyes then and fell on the pillow. Oh, Dylan, what a mess I’ve made of things.
She was dozing off when her phone buzzed.
“Dylan?”
“Well, that was a story. I had to hear it through to the end. Anthony Garcia, that’s my partner, is still pissed as hell.”
“Just give me the juicy stuff.”
“Okay, when Greg was in college he was involved in a fraternity prank. It was a real doozy, I guess, involving the sorority next door. He was drunk, of course. He and a couple of his pals broke down the door of the sorority house, ran through the house naked, and grabbed some girls out of bed. Anthony’s daughter was one of them. She was traumatized, he says, dropped out of college, and spent a year in therapy.”
“Then what?”
“That’s it. I know, it doesn’t really have the feel of sexual harassment. More like balls-out streaking with intent to scare the ladies. The way Anthony tells it sounds much worse.”
“Did he get arrested?”
“Misdemeanors. Drunk and disorderly, indecent exposure, lewd conduct. Most of it got wiped by a sympathetic judge. Another reason for Anthony’s rage.”
“Okay, thanks.” She was too sleepy to think of how this new information would help her harassment case. “Hey, Dylan? Can we have dinner again tomorrow? I’ve been looking everywhere for those pink cherry trees that bloom in Paris in springtime and I can’t seem to find them.”
“You might have missed them, honey. But sure, we’ll have dinner and go on a pink tree search.”
“‘Night. Kisses.”
She closed her eyes again, mildly embarrassed that she signed off like that. But he called her ‘honey’! Nobody called her honey in a non-patronizing way— unless they were sexually harassing her. Wait, Tom Ramey used to but that was years ago. Ages and ages ago.
“Good night, honey,” she whispered to her pillow.
Twenty-Nine
Pascal arrived early the next morning at the headquarters of the Police Nationale in the center of Paris. He disliked administrative work in general but there had been the
suggestion by his superiors that if he was interested in a promotion he should present himself well, and often, to HQ. So when Merle had decided a sojourn in Paris was necessary for her new work for her sister, he signed himself up for several committees in his division of Wine Fraud.
The work was every bit as dead boring as he imagined. But he had a new mission, thanks to Merle’s sister Francie. The corruption that had marred the reputation of the Police Nationale bothered him. The problems of the Brigade des Stupéfiants were a quiet undercurrent, hurting morale throughout the force. Pascal wondered if making an issue of Milo Soyer and his superiors in narcotics, called ‘les Stups,’ would burnish or hurt his own chances for promotion. He quick-stepped up the stairs to his office and decided he didn’t care.
The director of the Wine Fraud Division was an old friend. Bertrand Mercier was fifteen years older than Pascal. Mercier had been his mentor at the start of his career and only last year had warned him of the reappearance of an old enemy. He felt a mild apprehension bringing Bertrand this new information about another division when he knocked on the director’s door. It could go either way.
“Entrez,” came the quick reply. Pascal checked his watch. It was only 6:30 in the morning. Both of them were early risers.
The director had his reading glasses perched on his nose and a cup of espresso in his hand. He set down the paperwork and smiled at Pascal. “Come in. Sit down, my friend. How are you feeling? Recovered completely?”
Pascal nodded. He didn’t want to discuss his health. “Bon, merci. I’ve come on an odd errand, Bertrand. I have some information about les Stups, and I don’t know what to do with it.” He filled in the director about the heroin that was lost then found, about the call the American from the US embassy made to set up the drug buy, his suspicions about Milo Soyer, and how his partner’s sister was involved. All of it, as succinctly as possible.
Bertrand listened carefully, frowning. “Serious information. But we must tread carefully.”
“My thinking as well.”
“PJ will not like this.” The director frowned. The Police Judiciaire — called PJ by all — was the investigative branch of the Police Nationale. Wine Fraud was part of DGCCRF, a different branch of government that encompassed many things but was most powerful in anti-fraud cases. In English and in French it was a mouthful: Directorate General for Competition Policy, Consumer Affairs and Fraud Control. Pascal, like many of the Wine Fraud officers, had a dual role as both a civil servant and a police investigator.
The director set down his coffee and stood up. “But there is no time like early morning to clean the house, eh?”
Pascal rose. “Perhaps the cleaning should start in the evidence locker?”
The entire basement of PJ, located some six blocks away at the new ’36,’ was only part of the vast amount of evidence investigators held until trials were complete. Older, less sensitive stashes were rumored to be all over the city. A small but dedicated staff manned this high-security locker twenty-four hours a day, because of problems in the past.
The director took the lead, demanding to see the log book for the past few days. The entries weren’t computerized right away, so remained in an old-fashioned register like those used for centuries. The clerk was a sleepy young man who silently pulled out the book for the director. Pascal looked over Bertrand’s shoulder as he flipped back through the pages, looking for particular entries.
“Here,” Pascal said. He pointed to Soyer’s name. The officer had entered a substantial amount of heroin seized during the sting and shooting on Sunday. “See if the case number is the same as Reece Pugh’s.” He handed the director a slip of paper where he’d written down the American’s number.
Bertrand set the numbers next to each other. They matched.
“Allo?” The director called for the clerk to return. “I need to see this evidence.” He pointed at Soyer’s entry.
The clerk straightened. “You need one of the top three for the yellow room. You are aware, monsieur directeur.”
Bertrand nodded grimly and took out his phone. Within moments he had a digital form signed by his superior in the DGCCRF for permission to proceed into the yellow room. “D’accord? It is too early for any of the top three.”
He showed the form on his phone to the clerk, allowed him to scan both their IDs and take time-stamped security photos. The clerk sighed and got out his keys.
They wound their way through the miles of shelves in the dimly-lit basement, following the clerk as he punched in a location on his tablet. It took some time before the exact location was found. The clerk stopped, scratched his head, then pulled open a locker on a high shelf. He reached into it and pulled out a wire basket. They peered inside.
“Is that it?” Pascal asked.
“I think so,” the clerk muttered.
“Is it the correct case number?” the director demanded, irritated.
The clerk double-checked. “Voilà, monsieur.” He passed them the basket. “I must wait for you here. That is procedure.”
The director laid the basket on the floor and he and Pascal squatted down and poked at the contents. Several large plastic bags filled the basket, apparently separated by the type of drug. On the left side was a bag full of pink and blue baggies, tied in knots, the usual dime bag size for street sales.
Pascal looked at Bertrand. “Should we open it?”
He shrugged. “It’s been well-traveled already.”
Pascal pulled open the large bag and chose a small baggie at random. It was blue. He pinched the zipper opening and brought it to his nose. No discernible odor. He licked the tip of one finger and tapped it against the white powder in the bag. Delicately he touched his tongue with his fingertip.
“Well?” Bertrand said, eyebrows up.
“Tasty. Exactly like sugar.”
The uproar that followed that simple gesture lasted well into the afternoon. Superintendents were called, then they called their commissioners. Then Bertrand Mercier demanded someone outside of the Brigade des Stupéfiants and the group grew larger and more raucous, while still inside the yellow room. Pascal held the basket of narcotics close to his chest, directed by Bertrand to not give it to anyone.
Finally a state prosecutor was summoned and the entire scenario was explained once again by Bertrand, with flourishes by several superintendents and bureaucrats, of whom there has never been a shortage in France. Finally the prosecutor spent fifteen minutes on the telephone with someone, a uniformed pair of gendarmes arrived, and the three of them took away the evidence basket.
Pascal and Bertrand regrouped at a bistro halfway back to their building.
“Do you trust her? The prosecutor,” asked Pascal.
Bertrand looked thoughtful but nodded. “I have known her to be trustworthy. At some point we must trust, must we not?”
They sipped beer, ate a hearty late lunch, and congratulated themselves on a morning well-spent.
Francie’s morning was not so satisfactory. She found herself alone in the apartment with only cold coffee as company. Merle and Pascal had apparently risen early and gone on their appointed rounds, while she had no particular mission today besides the nebulous ‘find Sami Amoud.’ The stink of failure clung to her and she wallowed in it for awhile. When the call came at noon she was still in her pajamas.
“Alice! Thank god, I’ve been worrying about you.” Francie flopped onto the sofa.
“Francie. It’s Brenda. Alice gave me her phone last night.”
“Oh. Hi. Why did she give you her phone? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She came to me a few days ago with an incredible story. I didn’t know if I believed it. You know Alice, she’s a bit of a— well, she’s dizzy, isn’t she.”
Francie frowned. “Not really.”
“You’re right, of course. We all have this view of her because of her purple hair and strange clothes. But impressions are often wrong.”
Where was this going? “What’s up, Brenda?”
The older woman sighed. “Well, Alice has been getting harassed at the firm. She told me as much but with all her crying and carrying on, I didn’t know what to think. And with your case ongoing and her closeness with you. . .” She sighed again. “But it’s true. I took her phone last night, read through all her old texts from this person, listened to his voicemails— she doesn’t answer his calls of course. Then he began to text her last night. Really vile stuff, threatening and sexual at the same time. Seeing those texts in real time, wondering what the hell he was thinking and then, bingo, there’s exactly what he’s thinking? Disgusting.”
“But who is it, Brenda? Who is doing this to Alice?” My Alice, she wanted to say, angry all over again.
“Get this. It’s Greg Leonard.”
“No.” Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she thanked whoever was up in heaven, looking down on her.
“The one and only. And he didn’t really start into her until you were out of the office, Francie. He had flirted with Alice, asked her out, that sort of thing. But he kept it together until you were gone.”
“Wow. So that’s why he accused me of sexual harassment? So he could get close to Alice?” The balls on that man.
“So it appears. There will be some more investigation.”
“Brenda, do you know a lawyer named Anthony Garcia? He works over in White Plains?”
“Maybe. What firm?”
“I can’t remember. I can find out if you can’t locate him. But he went to the same law school as me and my sisters, and the same as Greg Leonard. He has a story to tell about some behavior of Greg’s back in college. I don’t know if it’s relevant, but as we say, it will give you a window into his character.”
“I’m afraid the curtains have been torn down on that window already. These texts are really horrible. I guess he figured Alice was never going out with him so he just let all his venom out.”
“Kind of a woman-hater, Brenda.”
“So I see. Well, the bottom line is— please come back, Francie. Your leave of absence is officially over.”
Blame it on Paris Page 21
