Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

by Cara Black

  What was Martine getting at?

  “Knowing what they look for in adoption court, I’d say you’ve got a good start. René could help—”

  “What?” Aimée caught the bottle before she dropped it.

  “Don’t tell me adopting this baby hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  “What’s crossing my mind is what Nelie may have found in the Alstrom file, how MondeFocus is involved, and where she might be.”

  “Phhft,” Martine said. “Everyone hates oil companies. You’ve got an in—hacking or whatever it is you two do on the computer—and . . .”

  “Tunnel into Alstrom?” Aimée finished. “Easier said than done.”

  They were working for Regnault, Alstrom’s publicity firm. There was a definite conflict of interest, as René had quickly pointed out. She reached in her back pocket for another stop-smoking patch, handed one to Martine, and stuck one above her hip.

  “This should get you through the christening.”

  Aimée saw a gift certificate inside Martine’s pocket.

  “What’s this?” She looked at the name. Jacadi, a baby store carrying top-of-the-line frivolous baby clothes.

  Martine shrugged. “I’m always going to a christening these days, have to keep them handy! What’s with your grunge outfit . . . infiltrating the Sorbonne?”

  “Close.”

  And then it hit her—Martine was going to the oil conference. “Can you e-mail me your notes on Alstrom’s participation in the oil conference?”

  “I’m lead article editor, I write the overview, gluing everything together for L’Express. We’re doing a four-page supplement in this week’s issue.”

  Impressive. Martine had risen above straight investigative journalism.

  “A young Turk’s covering Alstrom, doing the nitty-gritty.”

  Aimée stood and they walked into the next cavernous room. “You’ve got the perfect reason to request his notes. To verify sources, legality, et cetera.”

  “It’s better if I introduce you. He’s a dish.”

  Martine never stopped trying to set her up.

  “Pass.”

  Martine pulled out a parchment-paper envelope that contained an engraved invitation and dangled it in front of Aimée.

  “The Institut du Monde Arabe reception for the Fourth International Oil Conference?” Aimée said. “How’d you get that?”

  “Press corps,” Martine said. “Come with me. You’ll get more out of him that way.”

  She had a point.

  “It’s formal, Aimée. Bring a bottle of Dom Pérignon, too,” she said, a shrewd twinkle in her eye. “The slush they serve’s undrinkable.”

  Martine always had deluxe ideas concerning payback.

  “Right now I’d appreciate an entrée into MondeFocus.”

  “Not again. I’ve only got my old press pass . . .”

  “Brilliant idea, Martine.”

  AIMÉE LEANED ON Pont de la Tournelle’s stone wall, scraping Martine’s name off her old press card with her nail file. She used manicure scissors to snip her name from a business card and glued it and her photo from her Metro pass on top of Martine’s. She sealed the result with wide, clear tape. Not bad. A quick flash of credentials and with luck it would work.

  She crossed the bridge and reached Ile Saint-Louis. She gazed to the right at Quai de Béthune which Marie Curie and Baudelaire had once called home and where President Pompidou’s widow still lived, and hoped the sky didn’t open up.

  At the MondeFocus address on the Quai d’Orléans, she pressed the buzzer. The door clicked open. Inside the dark port cochère entryway, another door opened. A dark-curly-haired woman wearing a blue smock stuck her head out the loge door.

  “MondeFocus office, please.”

  “Don’t think they’re open.”

  Had the MondeFocus, wary after the demonstration, instructed the concierge to vet visitors?

  “I’m with the press,” Aimée said. “They must have forgotten to inform you.”

  The woman looked over Aimée’s jeans, shapeless trench coat. Shrugged.

  “Bon. Third floor left rear.”

  The door slammed shut.

  ON THE THIRD floor, a woman wearing pink capris and a striped man’s shirt opened the door. She paused in her conversation, a cell phone held to her ear, scanning Aimée up and down. “Oui?”

  Aimée smiled and flashed the press card and a folded copy of Bretagne Libre. “I’m working on an article. May I talk with you?”

  “Un moment.” She motioned Aimée toward a worn blue-velvet window seat. Silver rivulets of rain ran outside the window, condensation fogging the corners and a draft hit Aimée’s back. Her face looked familiar but Aimée couldn’t place her.

  The office was not a hive of activity. No one sat behind the desk or worked at the computer that rested atop a narrow slat over sawhorses. An Andy Warhol silk screen of Yves Saint Laurent hung on the wall; an orange modular couch stood in the interior of the salon. It looked like a makeshift office had been set up in this woman’s apartment. Warm, close air filled the room. Aimée took off her coat and scanned a pile of brochures. The World Wildlife Movement’s story about rhino abduction competed with pamphlets about other causes piled up on the parquet floor.

  And then she saw the vinyl record jackets in the corner and recognized the woman. Brigitte Fache, a seventies pop icon who’d had a handful of record hits. She came from an aristo background and was still well connected with the gauche caviar, society liberals. She was older and her eyes were devoid of her signature black eye liner. The gauche caviar had been lampooned in the daily Le Canard enchaîné for lending a sympathetic ear and sending hefty checks to Brigitte’s pet causes until she had founded MondeFocus and gained credibility and grudging acceptance in the ecological movement.

  Brigitte resumed arguing into the cell phone. “They had no search warrant . . . what do you mean, who? I call that more than intrusion—it’s breaking and entering,” she said. “Not just harassment, it’s illegal.” She listened, then laughed, a short sardonic laugh. “So who raided our office, Brigadier, if you didn’t, eh? The sandman?”

  She held the phone away from her ear, rolling her eyes at Aimée, who heard indecipherable words tumbling over the line. Brigitte exuded an air of entitlement. “We’ve organized a dozen rallies for which we’ve always obtained permits, put in place a first aid corps and a contingent of legal aid, but of course, that’s standard for a demonstration. Now, this candlelight march! We never sanction weapons. You’ve made a mistake.”

  She listened to an explanation, then Brigitte’s palm slapped the metal file cabinet. “Proof? You call that proof, Brigadier?”

  But her brow knit in worry. Outside the window, needles of rain beat down on the rising Seine.

  “Krzysztof Linski’s not in our organization,” she assured the caller.

  Her blunt-cut, unmanicured nails drummed the cabinet. The woman was lying, Aimée sensed it. But now she was forewarned; she wouldn’t mention Krzysztof as a contact.

  Barefoot, Brigitte padded into the other room. By the time she returned, wearing a wool trouser suit, with a cigarette and without the cell phone, Aimée had her makeshift card ready.

  “Aimée Leduc, freelancer, referred by Léon Tailet of Bretagne Libre.” She stood and handed Brigitte the card.

  “How is Léon?”

  Thank God she’d prepared and actually spoken to him on the phone.

  “Rheumatism bothering him. As usual. You know, the damp in Brittany. But it didn’t stop him last week from attending the demonstration.”

  Brigitte nodded, set the card on the desk, and rummaged through a worn black Day-Timer. Good thing she had a lot more on her mind than delving further into Aimée’s credentials.

  “What do you want?”

  “Tell me about Krzysztof Linski.”

  “No comment.”

  “Were you at last night’s march?”

  Brigitte shook her head. “I couldn’t be there. I had
to march in a protest at La Défense.”

  Too bad.

  “A young woman’s body was recovered from the Seine. She and Nelie Landrou were in your organization—”

  “Who’s this article for?” Brigitte interrupted.

  “Whoever will print it; the truth must come out. I’ve got contacts at L’Humanité,” Aimée hastened to add. It was a Communist rag, but that should appeal to Brigitte.

  Brigitte’s phone rang. She glanced at her watch. “Merde, the meeting started five minutes ago,” she said, grabbing her bag and keys. “Sorry.“

  Aimée couldn’t let her make her escape without getting any information. “A meeting concerning . . . ?”

  “Alstrom’s filing a suit against us. They’re asking for an injunction and that’s just for starters.” Brigitte shook her head.

  “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  Strange that an oil company would file suit against Monde-Focus and seek an injunction. Had things changed so much that an oil conglomerate could silence protests against it?

  “Those with the most expensive lawyers win. We’re attempting to negotiate to prevent their enjoining our campaign.” Brigitte opened the door to the cold hall.

  “How well did you know Orla Thiers?”

  Brigitte looked down and when she did meet Aimée’s eyes, a sadness filled them. She started to speak then caught herself and sighed. “I’ll have more to say later.”

  “Wasn’t she involved in the roadblock near the nuclear facility at La Hague? I’d like to speak with her friend, Nelie.”

  “Nelie . . . the hanger-on? I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  Odd. It sounded as if Brigitte didn’t know that Nelie had had the baby.

  “How does Krzysztof Linski fit in?”

  Brigitte’s eyes blazed back in fighting form. “He’s not part of our organization anymore.”

  “But I thought . . .”

  “He got us into this mess. He was a right-wing plant. That’s all I have to say.” Brigitte’s keys jangled in her hand. “Look, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Aimée pressed on. “Who else can I talk to in your organization, please?”

  “Can’t this wait?”

  “In news, nothing waits or you won’t have a story.”

  Aimée saw videotapes stacked on a cabinet arranged by title and date of demonstration. Surely the demonstration against the oil agreement would have been taped like the others. “Who filmed the march last night? Please, it would help so much to convey the mood of the event. Will you give me the name of the videographer?”

  “Sure,” Brigitte said. “I’ll tell you on the way out.”

  OUT ON QUAI D’ORLÉANS, Aimée ducked, but not in time to avoid receiving the Peugeot’s diesel exhaust in her face as Brigitte gunned the motor and sped off. Notre Dame lay shrouded in mist on her right, and rain pelted the stone ramp angling into the Seine. She pulled her hood over her head, glad she at least had obtained a lead from Brigitte. Then she stumbled into a rut filled with water and her pants got sopping wet up to her knees. En route to the documentary filmmaker’s studio, she’d make a stop and buy an umbrella.

  SOUTH OF GARE D’AUSTERLITZ, once an industrial area, cobblestone-surfaced rue Giffard still held traces of small workshops. Near Les Frigos, the old refrigerator warehouses that had served the train yards, two-story buildings housed artists, musicians and—judging by the graffiti—an anarchist or two. She read CLAUDE NEDEROVIQUE—DOCUMENTARY FILM PRODUCTION by the digicode at his door.

  The grillwork gate stood ajar. Aimée pushed it open and entered a narrow courtyard roofed by grime-encrusted glass resembling a train station. Rain pounded relentlessly overhead.

  She shook and folded her umbrella, remembering the radio alert she had overhead: traffic advisory warnings and closures of lanes bordering the Seine due to record rainfall.

  She knocked. Her trousers and sodden leather boots were soaked through. No answer. She knocked again. Chills shot up her legs. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire, dry clothes, and . . .

  The door swung open. “Took you long enough!”

  All she could see was a man’s head in shadow, haloed by the bright lights of the studio behind him. Guitar licks of the Clash met her ears. “Claude Nederovique?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  He wore torn denims and motorcycle boots. Wavy brown hair hung over one eye and the collar of his black leather jacket. She tried not to shiver, aware of the surprise on his face as he stepped back into the light. His dark eyes studied her. A bad boy, just her type.

  Merde! The one time she forgot to retouch her mascara. Or reapply lipstick.

  “Brigitte at MondeFocus gave me your address.”

  “Excuse my rudeness,” he said, his voice low. “I’m expecting the AGFA film shipment. They’re late. As usual.”

  “Do you have a moment?” She’d seize this opportunity before his delivery arrived. “I’m writing an exposé of violence at the MondeFocus anti–oil agreement vigil. Brigitte said you shot some great videotape.”

  Stretching the truth never hurt.

  Silence except for the rain. She tried again. “I realize it’s a bad time,” she apologized.

  “You’re shaking,” he said, taking her arm. “Why your pants are soaked! Come in.”

  The studio was lined with a bank of high-tech equipment: videotape recorders, monitors, camcorders. In contrast, old film-splicing machines and reel-to-reel spools sat atop high cabinets. An inner door led to a small room bathed in red light, emitting the acrid smell of film developer.

  “Excuse the mess,” he said, shoving cardboard cartons aside with his boot. “But I’m glad to take a break. I’m editing my Rwanda documentary. The Hutus and the Tutsis: genocide, ghost villages, and no one cares.”

  Pain and determination layered his voice. For a moment he looked lost and then he turned away.

  “I’ll make it brief,” she said. She edged toward a strobe light, feeling awkward. “Here’s my card. Again I apologize.”

  He glanced at it. “Pas de problème. I did shoot some video footage that might interest you. Can you give me a minute?”

  She nodded, reaching into her backpack for a notebook.

  He gave her a crooked smile, a nice smile, then took off his jacket and pulled a cell phone from his faded gray corduroy shirt pocket. Suddenly businesslike, he went to the red-lit darkroom to speak into the phone.

  On the studio walls hung black-and-white blowups of barefoot African child soldiers in tattered uniforms, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. None looked more than ten years old. A shantytown—skyscrapers in the distance—a cluster of huts with cardboard and metal siding, dogs, garbage strewn on the dirt street. She looked closer, horrified to see that the dogs were sniffing at bodies. A baby, flies on its open mouth, lay next to a metal gasoline jerrican, ESSO printed on it. Her insides wrenched.

  No wonder oil protesters like Krzysztof were passionate. Another photo titled Sorbonne ’68 showed a cloud of tear gas engulfing miniskirted and bell-bottomed students. A 1987 film poster for Guido and the Red Brigade with a shot of the Roman Coliseum was inscribed Claude Nederovique, writer and producer in red letters below. She felt like a voyeur seeing the most brutal side of injustice. Just a shallow urbanite worried more about her lipstick than the suffering of the world.

  “Quite a body of work.” She didn’t know how to express her feelings . . . her horror at these views of evil.

  He pulled up a stool for her in front of another deck of video machines and monitors. He straddled another, turned down the stereo’s volume.

  “Why film, if you don’t mind my asking?” Aimée said.

  He sat back, reflective. “Because I don’t have the words like you journalists do to express this. He gestured to the wall. “Suffering, injustice.” He shrugged. “I’m bankrupt in that department. I envy you lot, if you must know. So I film, searching for the essence—the look, the gesture, a glimpse into a window that speaks volume
s.”

  Some underlying pain drove him. She sensed it. And she felt even guiltier for impersonating a journalist.

  She put that aside; she had to keep her goal in mind. A woman had been murdered, and Nelie was in hiding. And there was Stella.

  He leaned forward, leaving a sandalwood scent in his wake. The warmth in the studio crept up her legs.

  “Et alors, just raw footage, haven’t had time to edit it yet. Bear with me until I find the march.” He inserted a cassette into one of the two videotape recorders, hit Rewind, and switched on the monitor. The whir of winding competed with the spattering of rain against the windows. “Anything or anyone specific you’re looking for?” he asked.

  A dead woman. Talk about rewinding a ghost. A glimpse of the mother with her baby. Something.

  She pulled out the photo she’d taken from Krzysztof’s flat and set it on the smooth aluminum counter. His knuckles clenched so hard they turned white.

  “Do you know them?” she asked. “Friends of yours?”

  “What happened makes me sick,” he said. “I’ve documented this movement from its inception.”

  “Do you know either of these women?”

  He nodded. “Demonstrations, sit-ins. . . . I’m sure I’ve seen them.” He pointed. “Oui, her.”

  Nelie.

  “I’d like to talk with her.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “She borrowed my old Super 8. Promised to give it back a few days ago. But I’m still waiting. Why do you want to interview her?”

  “Were they both at the demonstration?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I think so. Bedlam, chaos—that’s what I saw.”

  “Wasn’t she involved with the roadblock at La Hague?” Aimée hoped this would draw him out.

  Silence, except for the rain beating on the skylight.

  Keyed up, she said. “I know she’s in trouble. Hiding.”

  He studied her, the scent of sandalwood stronger, his teeth just visible between his half-parted lips.

  “Journalists protect their sources, right?”

  “Always.” At least that’s what Martine had told her.

  “I have connections to the network.”