by Cara Black
Aimée noted the interlacing footprints. Any evidence there might have been was now compromised.
“Take her downstairs,” the officer said, an edge to his voice.
“I know my rights.”
The officer waved her away.
From the edge of the roof, Aimée saw flakes swirling in flashlight beams and snow-carpeted rooftops stretching toward distant Gare du Nord. Across the courtyard, several lit windows appeared amid the yawning dark ones. Strains of bossa nova fluttered on the wind. That party in the adjoining building was still going on.
Down in the apartment, Laure crouched as a group of men with snow-dusted shoulders huddled about her, an anguished look on her pale face as the gloved technicians pressed double-sided adhesive tape over her fingers and palms. The wind blowing from the window snatched away their conversation but she overheard “Custody . . . at the Commissariat. . . .”
“Bibiche!”
Aimée froze. Laure’s hair was matted and wet, a large knot welled on her temple, the white of one eye was discolored with blood. “Poor Jacques . . . who’ll tell his ex-wife?” she asked as she tried to stand and slipped on the wet floor.
An officer steadied her. “Sorry, Laure, you know I have to do this and report anything you say,” he said.
“Report what she says?” Aimée repeated, raising her voice to be heard over the wind. “Laure needs medical attention.”
The flic turned to Aimée, irritated. “Who gave you permission to talk, Mademoiselle?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Then you should know better,” he said, nodding his head at the man beside him. “Run this woman’s ID. Why hasn’t someone bagged her hands for gunshot residue?”
Edith Mésard, La Proc, the investigating magistrate, entered wearing a black cocktail dress under a fur stole. She stamped the snow from her heels. Procedure dictated that in dicey situations she arrive at the same time as the Brigade Criminelle. “Désolé, Madame La Proc,” the flic said.
Aimée stepped forward.
Recognition dawned in Edith Mésard’s eyes. “Mademoiselle Leduc.” She sniffed, then frowned. “Light a match to your breath and the building would go up in flames.”
Before Aimée could respond, La Proc cleared her throat. “Give me the details, Inspector. How does it come about that a flic shoots another flic on a slippery zinc-tiled roof in a snowstorm? Convince me.”
“We found her weapon on the roof.”
“Was it next to her?”
“The officer in question lay on the scaffolding below,” he said, abashed. “Her gun lay next to Jacques . . . the victim.”
“Merde!” La Proc said under her breath, pulling out tennis shoes from her Vuitton bag.
“What? Are you accusing Laure of shooting her partner?” Aimée said. “That’s absurd.”
“Or maybe you shot him, Mademoiselle?” said the inspector.
Panic coursed through her.
“Take her statement at the Commissariat!” Edith Mésard said, before climbing out the window.
The flic shoved Aimée forward and down the stairs.
The few bystanders in the narrow street—an old woman, her bathrobe flapping under her overcoat; a man with tired eyes in a blue-green bus driver’s uniform—were illuminated by the blue rays of the revolving SAMU ambulance light. Morbier stood by an old parked Mercedes, its roof flattened under the weight of the snow. A tow-truck driver had hitched Jacques’s green Citroën to his truck.
“They’ve got it all wrong, Morbier,” Aimée called out.
“Move along, Mademoiselle,” said the flic, pushing her toward the blue-and-white police van.
“Just a moment, Officer,” Morbier said.
The officer raised his eyebrows, eyeing first Morbier and then Aimée’s black leather pants, down jacket, and spiky hair.
Morbier flashed his ID. “Give me a moment.”
“Bien sûr, Commissaire,” the flic said, taken aback.
“What mess have you gotten yourself into this time, Leduc?” Morbier asked, his breath misting in the freezing air.
“You got that right, Morbier. A terrible mess.” She gave him a brief account.
Morbier listened, pulling out a Montecristo cigarillo, cupping his hands, and lighting it with a wooden match. He puffed, sending acrid whiffs into Aimée’s face, and tossed the match into the snow, where it went thupt. When she finished he shook his head and looked away, silently.
Why didn’t he say anything? “Morbier, help me convince them. . . .”
“Might as well teach rocks to swim, Leduc. There’s procedure. You know that. Do the drill. You’re a suspect, shut your mouth.”
“Shut my mouth?”
“Until you give your statement,” he said. “Be smart.”
She controlled her horror. Of course, he was right. She’d explain, diagram her route, show that Laure couldn’t have killed Jacques.
“Laure wouldn’t shoot her partner after practically the whole police force had seen them together in the café!”
Morbier flicked his ashes, they caught in the wind. “And witnessed their fight and your meddling,” he said.
She’d forgotten about that public scene.
“You’ve got clout, Morbier,” she said. “Use it.”
For once, she hoped he’d listen to her.
The flic grabbed Aimée’s elbow in an iron grip. “I’m sorry, Commissaire, the van’s waiting.”
“What a night for this to happen!” Morbier expelled his breath with a noise she recognized for what it was, resignation underlaid with the steel note of authority. A mode he’d perfected. Voices drifted from above them. Lights glowed from the building’s roof.
Aimée noticed a black-leather-coated man, a pack on his back, standing in a doorway. He watched them intently, listening, as if gauging the situation. Could he have witnessed the shooting?
A battered Renault Twingo skidded to a halt beside the white morgue van. Several men jumped out, cameras in hand or on straps slung over their chests.
“The press! Excuse us, Commissaire; allez-y, Mademoiselle.”
The flic bundled Aimée away before she could point out the possible witness to Morbier. He shoved her into the police van, handcuffed her wrists to the bar behind her like a criminal. She slipped on the floor, which had been salted to slow a prisoner’s traction if he aimed to bolt. She felt each cobblestone as her spine jounced against the hard seat and the van headed, siren blaring, into the night.
Monday Night
AT THE BARK OF A GUN above him, Lucien Sarti had jumped and ducked into a blackened stone doorway. A reflex. Knots clenched his stomach; he wanted to melt into the stone.
He worried about crossfire. Relentless sleet pelted the buildings. Peering up the curving street, he saw no one else on the glistening icy surface. Then clumps of snow fell from a scaffolding above and crumbled on the cobblestones. He saw movement, heard thuds.
Lucien moved back deeper into the doorway, pulled his black leather coat tighter, waited. He brushed the snow from his curling black hair. Given his history, the best thing would be to leave. Run, get away. But his big chance lay a stone’s throw off, just around the corner.
His luck!
The warren of nineteenth-century soot-stained buildings and twisted mounting streets reminded him of rue du Castagno in Bastia’s old port. But instead of sun-baked stone, the sirocco whipping from Africa, and old women knitting on their stoops, the steep stairs ahead held clusters of new snow, gusts of wind, and prostitutes who’d stepped into the shadows.
He waited until he saw flickers of light and heard the wail like a cat in heat and then sirens. As he was about to run across the street, the door behind him was opened by an old man leading a Westie on a leash.
Think fast, he told himself.
“Pardon, I forgot the door code,” he said to the old man. “My friends live on the second floor.”
The old man nodded, a muffler wrapped high around his neck, and Luc
ien edged his way inside. He waited on the dank building’s pitted stone staircase until the thumps in his heart subsided, until he heard cars pulling up and voices outside. He figured it would be easier now to blend into a crowd and cross the courtyard.
Since birth he had been taught to keep his mouth shut: aqua in boca. His grand-mère would indicate the need for silence by sliding her finger across her lips. He knew better than to get involved. He threaded his way past the police van to the gate and paused, listening. Snatches of conversation drifted on the sleeting wind. “Shooting on the rooftop” was all he could understand. No way could he get involved.
This city was filled with contradictions, unlike his native Corsica, where it was simple: all outsiders were viewed as a threat.
Satisfied that no one had noticed him in the flurry of activity, Lucien made his way across the snowdrifts in the courtyard to a jewel-like townhouse.
He opened the front door and mounted the staircase, passing several landings until an open door revealed a well-dressed crowd in the foyer. A party? He should have worn his new shirt. Conari had just told him to stop by for a brief meeting.
As a woman leaned toward an arriving couple to greet them, a scent of roses wafted from her. Familiar. Snowflakes danced outside the foyer window, catching the light and framing her tan, smooth back. Only one woman he’d ever known would wear something like that in this weather. But it couldn’t be. And then he lost her in the crowd of newcomers.
“Lucien, so glad you’re here.” A voice, loud and welcoming, came from his host, broad-shouldered Félix Conari, who filled the doorway. Long charcoal gray hair curled behind his ears. His skin was Côte d’Azur bronzed, the all-year bronze of the wealthy. “Do come in; it’s wonderful you made it.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Conari, my pleasure.” Lucien’s hand picked at his coat pocket, a nervous habit.
“Welcome to our annual client party.” Félix winked. “Impress with success, you know.”
Lucien didn’t, but he nodded.
Félix put an arm around him and escorted him inside the large apartment’s reception rooms, which were high ceilinged and adorned by carved moldings, parquet flooring, and marble fireplaces. Lucien managed a smile, hoping his eyes didn’t reveal his surprise. A mix of flat-chested, hollow-cheeked miniskirted models, advertising médiathèques, clad in head-to-toe black, and bourgeois matrons clad in Chanel hovered by the table, which was spread with hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.
Right behind them a man entered and handed his overcoat to a waiter. “The police are blocking the backstreets; someone’s been murdered on a roof,” he announced with irritation. “It’s a mess. I couldn’t find a parking place!”
Someone murdered? Lucien concealed his shaking hands by putting them in his pockets. With his background, he had to steer clear of this.
“Nom de Dieu!” said Félix as a momentary hush filled the salon. “At least it seems under control.” Félix guided Lucien toward the long white-linen-covered table. “Taste the foie gras and let’s catch up in the study.”
“Merci,” Lucien said, conscious of Félix’s practiced finesse as he was marshaled, with a well-loaded Limoges plate, to the study.
A fire crackled, illuminating minimalist furniture at odds with the ornate ceiling, wood-paneled walls, and curved windows. Old world meets avant-garde.
A man came out of the door of an adjoining bathroom, toweling his wet hair.
“Had to splash myself awake,” he said, smiling.
“You’re still working?” Félix pulled Lucien toward the man, who looked to be in his thirties. He wore a rumpled black suit and scuffed Adidas sneakers. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “Meet Yann, an associate. He does the brain work, I am just the brawn,” Conari joked.
Yann grinned. ”Not always.” He shook Lucien’s hand. “A pleasure.”
Lucien felt a moist but strong grip. Then Yann shut down a laptop sitting on the desk. “I promised Félix to mingle and try to improve my social skills. Excuse me.”
Lucien practiced his smile again. “You’re so kind to invite me, Monsieur Conari.”
“Call me Félix.”
Lucien had sent Conari several tapes of his music. But Félix’s invitation to come to his home to discuss them had surprised him. Lucien had no rent money in his pockets. A sleeping bag in the pantry of Anna’s Corsican Communist resto, where he worked for food, was his bedroom now. He prayed this meeting would lead somewhere.
Lucien’s cousin’s great-aunt had married a distant relation of Félix Conari’s. Félix wasn’t even Corsican, but in Corsica family meant everything. Clan ties and family connections from the thirteenth century still governed the island. The code was strong. The basics still operated in Paris.
“Have your drink while you listen to my proposal.” Félix gestured Lucien to a curved blond wood sculptural chair. “I’d like you to let me represent you and to introduce your work to the head of SOUNDWERX.”
SOUNDWERX. The European recording giant! Lucien blinked in surprise.
“You have a unique sound, haute cool,” Félix told him. “I want to help you.”
It was an offer Lucien hadn’t even dreamed of. He was almost afraid to believe it was real.
“You possess the gift, hard to define. As though you concoct words from the air and the stars sing. I’m saying it badly.” A brief sadness crossed the face of this man in a designer suit. “My sister had it, too. She was so gifted, but she passed away.” He looked down, rearranged some papers on his desk. “I couldn’t help her, but I hope you will give me the chance to advance your career.”
Lucien nodded, excited. So Félix understood his music and admired it, even if he wasn’t Corsican. He explained, “My grandfather, father, and uncle sang polyphony, the seconda, bass, and terza, ninth-century poems in a cappella. At home, our saying is ‘Three singers in harmony make an angel’s voice.’” His heart raced; it always did when he spoke about his music. “Music filled our house. I build on the traditional foundation; I use it as a base and I go on to explore. I want to open our culture to the world.”
The door opened, letting in the snare drum of a bossa nova and the murmurs of the crowd. Lucien turned. The woman he’d seen in the doorway entered the room. She’d thrown her head back, laughing. That long neck, curved, so familiar. Could it be? She wore a clinging coppery red dress; her straight black hair hit the middle of her bare back. She turned, her face caught in the light, and he recognized Marie-Dominique, his first woman. She still wore the scent of roses.
He froze. Four years . . .
“Aah, Lucien, meet my wife,” Félix said. “Forgive me for not introducing you.
Marie-Dominique, Félix’s wife?
He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Marie-Dominique’s gaze caught his as she inhaled briefly.
“Lucien,” she breathed out. “I’m happy to meet you.”
The world stopped. In Lucien’s mind the cicadas were buzzing, their loud cacophony a wall of sound in the dry heat.
The leaning pines sheltered by granite formations, the parched oleander, and withered, browning myrtle were all around them on the hill where he’d last seen her.
“Hasn’t Félix shown you around? You look lost,” she said.
Lost in the past, he thought. And pining for a future they’d never had.
“How long have you lived in Paris?” What he meant was how long had she been this sophisticated Parisienne, married to a wealthy man.
She looked down, curling a black strand of her hair around her finger. Just as he remembered her doing when she was thinking.
“Long enough,” she said.
“Marie-Dominique,” Félix said putting his arm around her, “find Lucien a seat at the table next to us. Persuade him to play something after dinner.”
Lucien knew he should thank Félix for his hospitality and leave before he made the biggest mistake of his life. But Marie-Dominique’s scent and his memori
es paralyzed him.
Amusement glimmered in Félix’s eyes as he said, “Lucien, you’ll let me help you?”
Lucien nodded, tongue-tied.
“As long as you’re not involved in Corsican political causes or these Separatist groups. Are you?” Félix asked.
Should he reveal his past? But how could he tell the truth? He was an unknown; he played in Corsican restaurants to eat. SOUNDWERX would make him.
“Félix, I’m just a musician!”
“Good. Monsieur Kouros of SOUNDWERX wants to meet you. He’s a personal friend, Lucien,” Félix said. “Connections are what count in this world. Forgive me if I assumed too much, but I’ve already given him my word that you’d sign an exclusive contract.”
Lucien’s mouth felt dry. Should he ask to read the contract, he wondered. Seeing Marie-Dominique while listening to Félix’s proposal had his mind reeling.
Félix rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You look unsure. After you meet Kouros you’ll understand.”
Out in the salon, Lucien’s collar felt damp. He’d been perspiring. All about him, couples chatted, and everyone seemed to know one another. His awkwardness increased as he observed the well-dressed strangers surrounding him.
A waiter in a white coat stared at him. He had black eyes and an olive complexion that were at odds with his bleached-blond curly hair. A Corse, like himself, Lucien figured, trying to get by.
Lucien summoned a smile. “What village do you come from?” he asked, the question Corsicans always put to a fellow countryman. It was a way to pinpoint their place on the social map, to discover who their friends were, what power they had access to, or even if they were by chance related. Or, worst scenario, if they were involved in a complex vendetta against his clan, one that might have arisen from the defense of the honor of a twice-removed murdered cousin from the last century. These things had to be explored.
“Monsieur?” The waiter addressed him as if Lucien hadn’t spoken. “Monsieur Conari said to tell you that dinner’s served in the other salon.” Then he edged closer and responded, “I’m from Bastia.”
