Queen of the Hide Out

by Alice Quinn

  I didn’t say anything. I just kept staring at the laptop.

  “Do you maybe want to see what’s on it?”

  I nodded vigorously. If there hadn’t been the table and cat between us, I’d have kissed her! Maybe even a Frenchie!

  She pushed the computer over to my side, and I stuck my key (memory stick!) into the port. Lani leaned in as much as she could to sneak a peek. The old lady stayed where she was. She couldn’t see a thing, but she was listening.

  A folder popped up. I clicked “Open” from the drop-down menu. That course I’d taken certainly was coming in handy! Inside the folder were several files. The first was a scanned copy of every page of Max’s little black book. The second contained a series of videos. I played the first clip. It wasn’t a good recording. It was fuzzy. The camera was moving a lot. But I could still make it out. I could still see its importance. It had been filmed from a second- or third-story window.

  The scene is of a Parisian metro station exit. It zooms in. Although the camera is shaky, the name of the station is visible: Rome. Aha! I get it!

  It zooms in again on a newspaper stand just next to the station. The daily newspaper, Le Monde, with the date: May 2, 2002. A well-built man comes up the steps, leaving the station. He walks to the stand and looks at the papers. He has an attaché case in his hand.

  It was him! Schwartzy! But younger. Now Borelli would have to believe me.

  A taxi is double-parked nearby. A man gets out. Another shaky zoom. Close-up of the guy. A young, gorgeous guy. His face. I know him! All French people know who he is! Leroy Jean, the politician. L.J. See that? He wasn’t well known back then. He shakes Schwartzy’s hand, and Schwartzy hands over the case to him. The whole exchange takes around two seconds. Leroy gets back into the taxi as Schwartzy vanishes into the bowels of the Paris metro system.

  The camera then goes funny and zooms out to the cameraman’s wrist, showing the exact time . . . on Max Pinson’s Rolex. I recognized the sleeves of his cashmere/alpaca jacket. It reads 1:35. Aha! 13:35 on the twenty-four-hour clock!

  80

  Everything was on there. The film matched the numbers and dates written down in the notebook. So that was the whole story.

  This clip was just one among many. I quickly flicked through them at random. Different metro stations, dates, and times . . . all the same people and the same attaché case.

  As I was watching, I couldn’t help but wonder why Max had filmed all these. I had known Max only a little, but I could tell he’d been the sort of person to back everything up. He’d have insisted on filming these transfers himself. It was visual, undeniable proof. Extra security.

  Max had been a bit of a bright spark.

  One of the clips didn’t appear to be like the rest. It was a video from Skype. A whole conversation had been recorded with the same guy . . . our very own Leroy! He’d aged in this particular clip. A lot! It had been recorded around two weeks earlier. He was speaking from his iPhone and jogging down a street. He came across as nervous, almost as if he was being hunted down. He was threatening Max. You could see Max at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Max was obviously the one doing the recording. The minister’s behavior was odd, to say the very least.

  “You’re not going to win this one, Maximillian. I don’t owe you a thing. It’s done!” cried Leroy. I couldn’t believe I had a tape of such a famous politician in my possession.

  “Not for me it isn’t,” replied Max. “I still have more in me. It’s not like I’m asking you for a great deal. Shit! You’re so petty! So stingy! When I think of everything I’ve done for you!”

  “You know my position. I don’t want to have to send our friend over to visit you, OK? I think he’s the only one who’d be able to knock any sense into you.”

  “It’s gone as far as that, has it? Are you threatening me, my dearest? Send him over. Just do it. We’ll have a drinkypoo together. We’ll drink to your amazing rise to power, shall we?”

  That was where the film stopped. Lani and I stared at each other, eyebrows raised. She was clearly hoping I’d give her a massive “whhhoooooppppp” for joy! But it didn’t come out. I took out my key stick and gave the lady back her computer.

  “We’ll be in Lyon soon!” she said. “And that’s where I think I’m getting off.” She seemed a little lost.

  “We are too. Don’t worry,” I said to reassure her.

  I actually did feel like getting off. Getting off and heading home so I could put an end to this case once and for all. I certainly had a whole load of new evidence on my key. This shit must prove . . . Well, it must prove something. But I still didn’t have enough clues here to point to the actual killer.

  What could we tell from these clips exactly? All we knew was that some sort of trafficking or dirty deal had been going on for years . . . and that one of France’s most famous politicians was benefiting from it. Maybe he’d built his career on whatever was happening in the clips. Fine. So what if he had?

  We also had evidence that only a few days before the murder, Max had been threatened by Leroy, who had said he was going to send someone over to shut him up. That didn’t look good. He mentioned a friend. It must have been Schwartzy.

  And that’s exactly who was sent over. I’d seen him! So he wasn’t a French FBI guy! He was a hitman! And he must have decided that life would be a lot simpler if the girl who’d caught him in the act conveniently vanished. He didn’t want me blabbing away. Sometime later, when he realized he couldn’t find the black notebook and thought that maybe I’d taken it, he’d found himself with two valid reasons to get hold of me. I needed to be gotten rid of—there was a lot I could tell the cops, and clearly a lot of shit his boss could go down for.

  “Do you still have your phone?” I asked Lani.

  She handed it to me. I sat and thought for a good long while. I needed time to decide our next step. Would it be better to continue on to Amsterdam and live in a little house with my babies and cash in on the diamond (which of course could lead to even more bull in our lives), or head back home to make sure my name was cleared, then go up to Amsterdam to see Gaston for a nice vacation? My survival instinct took over again. It was strong! Sort yourself out now!

  This thought was probably what made me take out the piece of paper with Borelli’s number on it and text the following to him:

  Its Maldonne. I hv intrestng docs 4 U.

  I received a reply in less than a second:

  What the hell is this nonsense? Write in plain French! You’ve no idea what a mess you’ve made! Where are you, Maldonne?

  He was back to his usual old self then, I could see that much. I called him, and he picked up on the first ring.

  “It’s me, Maldonne. I have some documents you might be interested in. I’ll tell you where I am if you can guarantee that it’ll only be you who comes to collect me. I’m not handing myself in, by the way. I’m participating in the case. I’m bringing in some evidence to prove who’s involved in this whole crap-heap.”

  81

  I knew I didn’t really have actual proof. I just had leads with lots of heavy assumptions. But I was counting on Borelli to finish adding it all up. At least I was in a better position than I had been when we’d boarded this train. These clips had to work for me!

  “Make sure you bring a big car. There are five of us and a cat. I don’t have any money to get us back ourselves. You’ll have to come to us.”

  “Where are you guys?”

  “We’re in Lyon. I’ll give you a meetup point later. Tell me when you get here.”

  “Lyon! Oh, you’re going to owe me for this! Lyon!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s so going to be worth your while. There are Legions of Honor on the horizon for the two of us, believe me! I know I certainly deserve one.”

  As I hung up, I could feel the old woman’s eyes on me again. Piercing. It was as if she’d understood everything that had been going on, the whole twisted, topsy-turvy nightmare of it all. Move on, Golden Gi
rl. You’ll never understand how I work or my sitch. Even I don’t understand it half the time.

  I got my little soldiers ready to step off. Pastis knew we were about to make a move and jumped onto my shoulder. Sabrina had a mad fit of jealousy. She wanted Pastis to sit on her shoulder. The twinnybobs thought it was hilarious to see their sister’s tantrum and started jumping up and down. She was screaming. Inconsolable. I’d never seen her be as naughty as this before.

  “I promise that when you’re older and you’re the mommy, your cat will climb up onto you! At the moment, you’re too little, you see? He can’t hold onto your shoulder. Pastis knows what he’s doing! He’s very clever, Sabrina!”

  I put the babies’ coats on, trying to pretend that Sabrina wasn’t deafening the whole coach with her megameltdown. The old woman was rooting through the luggage rack above her trying to pull down her own jacket. So, she was going to Lyon after all. I thought she was maybe a bit gaga.

  Finally, Pastis agreed to let Sabrina carry him. Thank God! She flipped him onto his back like a pancake. It was meant to be a nifty move on her part, but she couldn’t get him into the position she wanted. He was swinging all over, hanging down, stretched out like a furry piece of gum. But at least Sabrina was in a good mood again, which was all that really mattered at that point. She snorted and smiled like a little cherub.

  After the train pulled to a stop and the automatic doors opened, she hopped onto the platform with Pastis dangling from her arms. Lani and I followed her with the stroller, the twins, and all our bags, jackets, coats, and bits and pieces.

  The old lady got off after us and flashed me a wide grin. She tapped herself on the forehead and said, “Oh! Where has my mind gone? Why did I get off? I’m going to Paris. I’m so silly. Can you believe it? I think I must have gotten overwhelmed with all the comings and goings. Oh, my daughter would have had one of her terrible mood swings if I . . .”

  She abruptly turned, dragging her little case behind her, and hopped back onto the train. There goes another loono!

  We moved off the platform and made our way through the milling crowds. I knew we’d have to wait at least five or six hours in the freezing cold in Lyon for Borelli to get there. I also knew he’d come for us. He’d given me his word.

  We left the station and went for a stroll around the city. We picked up some baguettes and all had a good lunch; then we perused a shopping mall. The kids loved loitering around the stores. We found a huge bookstore and all sat on the floor to read the comics.

  By nine o’clock, there’d still been no sign of Borelli. We were all absolutely exhausted, so we returned to the station and sat in a nearby café to rest up. We put Pastis in the basket under the stroller. I wrapped one of the twin’s little blankets around him, and because the café we were in was so cozy, he quickly fell asleep.

  The waiters gave us funny looks when I explained that we weren’t going to eat anything, that we just wanted drinks. I glanced around and saw that everyone else was having dinner, but it wasn’t the goddamn law to have to order food! We didn’t have enough money to eat. Plus, the baguettes had kept us going. Pastis was probably feeling half-starved by this point, but he hadn’t complained yet.

  The head waiter wasn’t happy, but we must have looked such a mess that he felt sorry for us and decided to let us stay at the table. It was a pretty big table. He could have made a lot more money from it than from me and my troopers. The kiddies had hot milk, I took a coffee, and Lani ordered tea.

  Borelli called me an hour later to let me know he was in Lyon. I told him to come and collect us at the station in front of the newsstand.

  I left Lani and the kids where they were and crept to the station on my own. I hid behind the ticket desks. I wanted to see if Borelli would come on his own or with a backup team before showing my face.

  It looked good.

  The first thing I saw was his leather bomber jacket. It was from a fair distance, but I knew it was him. He is so 1980s. He has some Cagney & Lacey about him. He’d come alone. He walked past me, and I snuck up behind him.

  “Boo!”

  He twitched a little, not really all that scared, but he shouted at me, anyway. “You’ve got mental-health issues, Maldonne! Remember yourself!”

  “Come off it! I was only messing!”

  He was fuming.

  I said, “When you see what I’ve got, you won’t be as mad at me.”

  “Let’s hope so, because nobody knows I’ve come here. This is a solo mission. If what you’ve got stands up, then all’s well that ends well. If it’s a pile of bull, I’ll be taking you in . . . and that’ll be the end of it.”

  Then he threw himself against me and slipped a pair of handcuffs around my wrists.

  I was speechless at first, then I got the giggles. When I realized he was serious, I started to bitch him out. Everyone was watching us, and I felt a (very rare) sense of shame. I was so embarrassed that people were judging me, thinking I was a low-life criminal! Some bystanders were actually laughing at me. I didn’t know why. I don’t think they even knew why. Maybe they thought it was some kind of prank.

  I regained control of my emotions and went on the attack.

  “You’re out of your mind! Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m very well, thanks.”

  I took a deep breath. “Listen, Borelli, I’m offering you a deal here. Do you have something on my little Filipino friend?”

  “The Filipino girl? No! Not at all! We don’t have any charges against her. We just want to take her statement, and then she’s free to do whatever the hell she pleases.”

  “So you won’t be taking her to the border?”

  “I know she’s an illegal, but dealing with that doesn’t fall under my jurisdiction. As far as I’m concerned, she has nothing to do with the murder, so that’s that! Are you stalling here? You do know you’re the number one suspect, don’t you?”

  “OK! Stop right there! I didn’t call you up and make you come all this way for this shit. You know that song ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’? Stevie Wonder sings all about how much he cares. That’s why I called you—I care about this case!” My mom must have wanted me to call Borelli, knowing there was a good chance he’d be on my side.

  “Come along, speed things up a bit, Maldonne.”

  “Well, as long as you don’t make any moves on my friend for not having the right papers, she’ll make a statement that the old man was dead before I even showed up at the place.”

  “Is that it? That’s how you think you’re going to get out of being our number one suspect?”

  As he talked, he led me by the elbow, forcing me to walk forwards.

  “No, that’s not all. That’s just to help give you a fresh lead. You need to find out who planted that painting at my place! Say I’m no longer your main suspect. It means someone else must be waiting in the wings to take my place. The real killer, right? So your knowing that it wasn’t me who found the body will give you a chance to reexamine everyone and consider what I’ve brought to the table with an open mind. Capiche?”

  We arrived at his car, and he marched me to the passenger door, opened it, and pushed me gently inside. He hastened to the other side and got behind the wheel. Silence. He didn’t start the engine.

  “So what are you bringing to the table?”

  “I’m going to tell you all about the perfect murder. Come on, I’ve got just enough cash to buy you a coffee before we speed back to Dodge City. Take these gadgets off me, would you? That really wasn’t polite to put me in these, Borelli.”

  He unlocked the cuffs and put them in his glove box. He was sulking. “Jeez, I know I’m an idiot, but I can’t believe I just let you talk me into that.”

  I took him over to the café where we rejoined Lani and my munchkins. I made sure he was formally introduced to Lani.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to reimburse me for my train tickets? I mean, we weren’t able to use them because of all this. That’s a waste of money for me.
Do you have any idea how much they cost? All down the drain and just because I’m trying to help you out. I owe my uncle for them.”

  “Christ. That’s a new one. Tell me your tale already, would you?”

  “No. Not right away. I’ll tell you on the way home. It’ll keep you alert while we’re on the road.”

  82

  As Lani and the babies all slept in the back, I told Borelli everything that had gone on that day and everything I thought had gone on the day of the murder.

  “I’m helping you eliminate a ton of garbage. I’ve checked out all those false leads. Well, not all. Not as many as you, of course, because you were following up on me, and I’ve known all along that I never did anything, so I suppose I have done less work than you and your buddies on this case.”

  “Get on with it, Maldonne.”

  “I examined Lani first, because she got to the stiff before I did, and she also didn’t tell me about a secret phone she had. Then there was Théodore Dumond de la Pinsonnière—I don’t know what I really thought about that one. I didn’t have much on him—just the inheritance—but that’s a decent motive right there. Humbert, the twin brother . . . Well, I never suspected him. OK, I did at one point, but never seriously. I know it doesn’t make for a solid defense, but that guy simply doesn’t look like a murderer. But who does? Let’s move on. Next up was Lani’s father. He admitted to hitting the old boy over the head with four naked girls . . . errr, a statuette/figurine-type thing. I still think it might have been him. That is, if Max died of the head injury before the other guy came in and injected him. What did he die of?”

  “Let’s make things clear here. We received the results of the autopsy. The head injury has been attributed to a fall.”

  That lets Datu off the hook!

  “He died of a drug overdose. It was some drug that someone was trying to pass for heroin. It was a mixture of quinine and ergotamine. Quinine is an alkaloid. It’s been used for hundreds of years and can be traced back to the Incas. When mixed with substances from the ergot family, it looks and acts a lot like heroin. But it kills in seconds.”