Murder in the Palais Royal

by Cara Black

“He’s under deep sedation, Mademoiselle. Standard practice during surgery and the intubation procedure.”

  She nodded. The terms, lodged in the recess of her mind from her stint at pre-med, sounded familiar.

  “His numbers look good, Mademoiselle.”

  That standard phrase, used by physicians, guarded and neutral. Her hand flew to her mouth. The École des Médecins professors had advised using that term for anything from routine to terminal.

  “And if his numbers drop?”

  The surgeon pulled his chin, his eyes tired.

  “Please, Doctor. I’m on his medical card, but no one’s told me anything.”

  “I apologize. We have a full ward, as you can see.”

  She steeled herself to listen. “Tell me.”

  “The bullet entered the chest cavity by the nipple and bounced off a rib, puncturing the right lung,” he said. “A through-and-through, resulting in a ‘dropped lung.’ But a good clean exit wound.”

  From bad to worse.

  “Will he live?”

  She grew aware of the aroma of coffee, as the curtains parted further. She looked up to see a man, tall, mid-thirties, wearing a brown jacket with a lived-in look from which a loose button hung. The odor of cigarette smoke clung to his clothes. He was hollow-eyed, with an up-all-night drag to his gait. He verged on attractive, she thought, given sleep and a shower. He stared at her.

  The doctor beckoned to Aimée. “Mademoiselle, please step outside.”

  “Not just yet, Doctor.” The man flashed his badge. “Melac, with Brigade Criminelle. I need to question your patient.”

  “He’s recently come out of surgery and is still sedated.”

  “It’s imperative. I only need to ask him one question.”

  The surgeon studied the monitors. “Can’t this wait?”

  “Give me just a minute.”

  “The breathing tube stays in until he’s stable. He won’t be able to speak.”

  “But he can signal, can’t he?” Melac said.

  “I could lighten the sedation,” the surgeon conceded. “But I warn you, patients often panic when they find themselves in pain and with a tube down their throat. His lung collapsed, but we’ve sealed the puncture. So far, he shows no artery or nerve damage. But we don’t know.”

  Aimée stared at Melac.

  The surgeon gestured to a nurse, who checked the IV. “Lower the drip a milliliter per second.” He turned to Melac and Aimée. “We had difficulty locating the pediatric instruments required by his small chest size. I warn you, the moment he exhibits stress, I’ll re-up the medication.”

  Aimée stood. “I’m Aimée Leduc, René’s partner. Concerning the shooting, Detective. . . .”

  “Inspector Melac,” he said. “You’re a hard woman to find.”

  “Did you check the waiting room?” she asked. “I’ve been there since the hospital called me. Do you think René knows who shot him?”

  Melac’s face was impassive. “Last night at ten o’clock—”

  “He was shot at ten?” she interrupted. “Where was he?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.”

  The sheets stirred. “He’s coming around, Inspector. A minute only,” the doctor said. “Monsieur Friant, you’re in the hospital. The detective wants to ask you one question. But you cannot speak: you have a breathing tube in your throat. Try to raise your left hand, if you can, to respond. Can you hear me, Monsieur?”

  René’s eyelids quivered.

  “René, you had me worried, partner,” Aimée said, forcing a smile and squeezing his hand.

  One green eye opened, then the other. His dilated pupils were as big as centime pieces.

  Melac leaned in from the other side of the bed.

  “Monsieur Friant, I need your help. Witnesses allege your partner shot you. But we need your positive identification,” he said.

  Open-mouthed, Aimée stared at the detective.

  “Monsieur Friant, did this woman, Aimée Leduc, make an attempt on your life?”

  She didn’t want to believe what she was hearing.

  “Did she shoot you, Monsieur Friant?” he asked.

  Aimée’s heart jumped.

  A look of bewilderment and pain contorted René’s features. His left arm shot out toward Aimée.

  Melac’s gaze darted from René’s face to Aimée’s with a probing look that raked her skin.

  Did René actually think she’d shot him?

  René scratched at the tube, trying to pull it out. Panic showed on his face. A sputter of a cough, a choking sound came from the tube.

  “That’s enough.” The surgeon nodded to the nurse, who was re-adjusting the drip. “Monsieur Friant, you’re going back to sleep.”

  Aimée got to her feet, grabbing her bag from the floor. “What witnesses?” Her throat caught. “Who says I shot my best friend? That’s crazy.”

  “You were seen by Italian soccer fans partying in the office next door,” Melac said. “They interrupted the shooting and saw you flee the scene.”

  She stiffened. “If I shoot, I don’t miss. All you know is that a woman who looked like me broke into our office. Maybe she shot René. I didn’t.” She’d found her tongue.

  René’s eyes had closed. The ventilator whooshed, breathing for him.

  “We discovered a Beretta and a cartridge casing in your desk drawer.”

  “She used a Beretta?”

  “And left it for us to find. Do you have a license for the Beretta?” Melac checked for dirt under his fingernails.

  “For my Beretta, of course.” Somewhere. Where had she put it?

  “Otherwise, that’s two counts against you.”

  “Last time I checked, seventy-eight Berettas were registered in Paris. Who says it’s mine? And why would I come here if I had shot René?”

  “We see it from time to time. Maybe remorse.” He shrugged. “Or a way to cover up.”

  “Impossible. Last night I had someone over for dinner. Ask him. We were together until the hospital called.”

  “But your partner pointed at you when I asked if you had shot him,” Melac said.

  The surgeon gestured toward the hallway. “Outside. You’re disturbing the conscious patients.”

  She looked at René, his bandages, the lines hooked from his wrist to the IV drip. A deep pain welled inside her.

  “Patients panic coming out of deep sedation; they feel suffocated and exhibit a gag reflex,” the surgeon said. “They often try to pull the tube out, as Monsieur Friant attempted. I warned you. His gesture is inconclusive. We keep patients under and immobile to monitor closely for possible complications. And considering the low bone density and narrow chest cavity common in dwarves his size, we have to be cautious. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  The glass door shut behind him.

  A pair of handcuffs appeared in Melac’s hand. He gestured to the EXIT sign.

  This wasn’t happening. “You’re arresting me?”

  “Consider this a request to assist in our inquiries.” Melac consulted an old pocket watch on a chain. “If you’ll accompany me, Mademoiselle Leduc?”

  How could she leave, with René in ICU?

  “I’m on my second shift, and my patience is wearing thin,” Melac said.

  She hesitated. “You’ll keep a guard here?”

  “Hospital security’s been alerted, Mademoiselle,” Melac said. “My car’s downstairs. By the way, officers found packed suitcases in your apartment hallway and your dog with your nice concierge.” Melac motioned to the Air France folder sticking out of her bag. “Looks like you’re planning on going somewhere, non?”

  “New York. No law against that.”

  Her flight left in two hours. A local detective was meeting her at JFK with a car. He’d said he had a lead to her brother.

  Impossible to go now. “It looks like I’m canceling my trip.”

  “I’d say so.” Melac unlocked the handcuffs and took a step toward her.

  She swallowed. �
��That’s unnecessary.”

  “Procedure, Mademoiselle.”

  Tuesday Morning

  AIMÉE’S HEELS TAPPED on the worn wood floor as she sat behind bars in the Brigade Criminelle’s unheated holding area. Melac had yet to question her or take her statement. Her mind burned with questions about René’s prognosis, who might have shot him, and why Melac thought she had done it. René had been confused and disoriented by medication, hooked to a machine with a painful tube breathing for him. When he reached out, had he been trying to pull her closer, to tell her something?

  The handcuffs chafed her wrists. She tried rubbing her hands, sticky from the gunshot-residue tests, then grimaced at the spots made by the double-sided carbon adhesive on her silk blouse; no amount of dry cleaning would remove them. And the procedure had taken up valuable time that she would have spent finding the shooter.

  Further down the wooden bench in the holding area, a man in handcuffs, wearing tight jeans, ran his tongue over his lips as he’d done for the last ten minutes. His eyes rested on her cleavage.

  She stood to catch the duty officer’s attention. Young, smelling of pine cologne, his was not a face she recognized. “Can I give my statement to Melac now?”

  He scanned the roster. “Melac’s off duty.”

  He hadn’t told her. “Et alors, what’s going on? Who’s responsible for the investigation now?”

  “Would you know if I told you?” he said.

  This could take all morning. Her father, a former flic, had always moaned that transferring case files to the new shift took forever. Often investigators were called out on a new case and the backlog waited. But time was what she didn’t have.

  “I want to see Commissaire Morbier,” she said.

  “So do a lot of people.”

  His pine cologne got to her. No doubt it had been on special at the local Monoprix.

  “I’ve known him all my life.”

  The flic eyed her silk blouse, pencil skirt and leopard print heels, and the mascara smudged around her eyes.

  “And you’d like a café crème and Le Figaro to read while you wait.” There was a grin on his face. “A brioche to go with that, perhaps?”

  “Please, let him know his goddaughter’s here,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. She hoped to God that Morbier was working today. “Try Commissaire Morbier’s cell phone for me, please: 06 88 32 49.”

  “You’re making that up,” he said.

  “Only one way to find out. I’d do it, but. . . .” She jangled her handcuffs. “You took my purse.”

  “And if I do?”

  She could see the wheels turning in his head.

  “My eternal thanks and I’ll put in a good word for you,” she said, summoning a smile, “mentioning your efficiency.”

  He dialed the number on the black rotary phone. She was unable to overhear the conversation. Then he looked at her, surprised. “Wonders never cease,” he said. “Follow that officer.”

  * * *

  DETERMINED TO IGNORE the fatigue weighing down her shoulders, Aimée accompanied a female officer, who knocked on the third floor Groupe R office.

  “Entrez.”

  Morbier stood hanging a white silk scarf on the coat rack. Instead of his usual worn corduroy jacket and mismatched socks, he wore a tuxedo, formal evening shirt, dangling bow tie, and cufflinks. And spit-shined black-tasseled loafers.

  Aimée’s jaw dropped.

  But Morbier’s drooping basset-hound eyes, dark hair—now more salt than pepper—the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, were the same.

  He caught her expression. “Just call me a dancing fool.”

  “Who is she, Morbier?”

  “I was at a colleague’s retirement party, Leduc.” Morbier tapped ash from his cigarette in the full ashtray on his desk.

  “Tough night, Leduc?”

  “You could say that. Tougher for René. He was shot.”

  Morbier’s hand paused in midair. Dust motes floated in the desk lamp’s rays trained on his glasses and folders.

  “Ask the officer to remove the cuffs and I’ll tell you about it.”

  Morbier sat, sighing, and nodded to the officer. Then he pulled off his black-tasseled loafers, wincing.

  The officer unlocked the cuffs. Aimée rubbed her sore wrists. Little red indentations marred her skin.

  “Two espress, officer, s’il vous plaît,” said Morbier.

  Since when did Morbier say “please”?

  “What happened this time, Leduc?”

  He unbuttoned the shirt collar, stretched his neck. Then held up his hand. “Non, don’t tell me. That’s the Brigade’s turf, not mine. Not for a long time now. You know that, Leduc. I hoped this was a social call.”

  “Melac suspects me of the shooting.” She paused and took a breath.

  “Did you shoot René?”

  She shook her head.

  “Start at the beginning, Leduc,” he said, his face expressionless.

  So she did.

  “So René was shot at your office with your gun?” Morbier flicked a kitchen match against the edge of his desk; the match flared, and he lit an unfiltered Gauloise. His eyes narrowed. “And you want my help?”

  Where was that coffee? Her heavy eyelids drooped.

  “You gave me that Beretta, Morbier. Remember?”

  He shifted in his chair. “And I hope you licensed it.”

  “But it could belong to anyone. None of this makes sense.” She rubbed her eyes. “Would I shoot René with my Beretta, then walk in here and tell you about it?”

  “Stranger things happen.”

  “Who the hell shot René, and why does everyone think it’s me?” She tried to slow down, control the rising panic in her voice. “I want to give my statement and move on to more important things. Like finding who did this.”

  “As I said, I can’t help you.”

  “Then who can?”

  The aroma of freshly brewed espress filled Morbier’s office. The female officer set a tray down on his desk.

  “Merci.”

  Aimée looked around her. Hanging on his coat rack, the white scarf was out of place beside his mouse-brown raincoat and worn blue wool duffel coat. A few framed photos hung on Morbier’s walls; his desk was littered with files and stray papers. There was not much here, but it all spoke of Morbier.

  She dropped two brown sugar cubes in the demitasse and stirred.

  “How is René?” Morbier took a sip and set his demitasse down.

  “His right lung was punctured. I still can’t believe anyone would shoot him.”

  She noticed the black-framed photo on the wall: Morbier at the Elysée Palace with the president. “Since when do you hobnob with Chirac?”

  “It’s me and twenty others in the photo, Leduc. Another retirement reception. That’s all I go to these days. Retirement functions. Mine too, soon.”

  He’d said that for years. But he kept his mouth closed about his work on the Brigade Criminelle’s third floor in Groupe R, which had been upped to a few days a week. She observed the age spots on his hands, the wrinkled neck below his jowls, the weariness in his expression. Yet he’d come to work still wearing his tuxedo. His loyalty to the job came first, she’d give him that.

  And she’d use it.

  The steaming espress, bitter and strong, sent a jolt to her head.

  “You haven’t answered me, Morbier. I want you to get Melac off my back and steer this investigation the right way.”

  “You know it’s not in my hands.”

  “A word in the right ear, Morbier, that’s all I ask.” She gave him the biggest smile she could muster. “Melac’s off duty. They bagged my hands for GSR, but it’s been two hours and no one’s taken my statement. They haven’t processed any admits all morning.” She leaned forward. “Who’d want to hurt René? Can’t you request that this investigation be placed in the right hands? Who’s the golden boy detective right now?”

  “You really want to know, Leduc?”r />
  “I want the pro. The best. René deserves it.”

  “And you don’t, of course,” Morbier said.

  “Why are they wasting time, Morbier? I’ve got an alibi.”

  “No doubt you rubbed someone the wrong way, Leduc. And if you don’t behave, they’ll keep you longer.”

  “Like twenty-four hours in garde à vue? You’re my godfather, Morbier. Would you let them?”

  “Melac’s the best, Leduc.”

  “What?” A sinking feeling came over her.

  “Forget Melac’s attitude,” Morbier said. “He’s the one I’d want if I were a suspect.”

  “A suspect? But I had a man over for dinner last night. He can confirm it. I couldn’t have shot René.”

  “You cooked?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Until the GSR reports come back negative and your alibi’s confirmed, you’re Melac’s point of attack.”

  “Meanwhile, evidence will be lost or contaminated,” she said. “Melac’s not like you. And you call him the best?”

  The air in the office was thick with cigarette smoke. Only the distant ringing of telephones in the outer offices broke the silence.

  “We’re all different, Leduc. Look below the surface,” Morbier finally said. “Besides, it’s a new world now. Computers, forensics, this DNA. And the young ones who know how to use these things. They call me a dinosaur.”

  She did too, but not to his face. Yet no computer could replace Morbier’s brain as it catalogued names and facts and put them together. And he never forgot a thing.

  “What’s this job gotten me, Leduc, but a life sentence?”

  He had no family except for a grandson in Morocco who he’d lost custody of. His job was his life. His only life.

  The red lights of Morbier’s phone console lit up like cherries, all in a row. He lifted the receiver. “Oui? They’ve been asking about her? Bon, she’s ready.”

  Morbier hung up. “They’re ready to take your statement.” He sighed. “I’ve bailed you out one too many times. It’s not my job any more; I’ve ruffled too many feathers.”

  “Has that ever stopped you?”

  With Morbier, it always came down to a deal. What could she offer?

  “You want me to cooperate, Morbier?” she said. “I will.”

  “That’s a first.” He lit another Gauloise. The smoke spiraled in a gray trail to the ceiling. His eyes narrowed. “You promise?”