Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

by Cara Black

  Another dead end. She thought hard.

  “Tell me about the La Hague group.”

  “Why?”

  She took a guess. “What if the father’s one of them?”

  “That protest took place two weeks ago. Nelie said the whole thing was bungled. Amateurs.” He looked down. “Like me.”

  Something Krzysztof had said stuck in her mind.

  “Hold on . . . you said the father might seek custody if Nelie didn’t shut up. Shut up about what?”

  “All I know is that Orla and Nelie were digging into reports that falsified pollution counts. They thought there had been funny business juggling the statistics,” he said.

  “Was her uncle helping her?”

  Krzysztof shrugged. “Nelie told a MondeFocus activist there was a doctor’s report she had to find that would sew everything up.”

  “Did you get any details concerning this doctor’s report?”

  He shook his head.

  She thought about Stella’s father, whoever he was, infiltrating MondeFocus and sabotaging the demonstrations.

  “The video will show that I’m telling the truth,” Krzysztof said, hope in his voice.

  She hoped he was right.

  THE TAXI LEFT them south of the Gare d’Austerlitz in a warren of small streets. An old metal streetlight illuminated peeling posters on the walls of Les Frigos, the refurbished refrigerator warehouses.

  There was no answer to her knocks on Claude’s door. No light in his window. She checked the box for deliveries labeled NEDEROVIQUE PRODUCTIONS. No videotape.

  One step forward and three steps back.

  She heard the roar of a motorcycle, the scrape of the gates to the deserted warehouse courtyard opening. The headlights of a vintage motorcycle with a sidecar bobbed over the uneven cobblestones. The engine switched off.

  Claude took off his helmet, then shook out his hair, looking more bad boy than ever in torn denims and a motorcycle jacket. Bad boys with bad toys. But the expression on his face, raw and vulnerable at the same time, made her think of his warm hands and the way he’d curled up, spoonlike, against her.

  He nodded to Krzysztof, then pulled her close by the tail of her tuxedo jacket. Gave her a searching kiss. And for a moment all she knew was his stubbled cheek, his sandalwood scent. “Partying without me, Aimée?”

  “Long story, I just got your message,” she said.

  “Too late,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The flics took the video, the copy, and they even ‘requisitioned’ my tapes.”

  Outraged, Aimée said, “That’s illegal. That’s a violation of procedure.”

  “Try telling them that,” he said. “They said I’d get them back ‘in due course.’ Or if I lodged a complaint, I could spend an evening with them explaining why I hadn’t brought them to the Commissariat in the first place.”

  “But if the police watch the tapes, they’ll see the proof that I was set up,” Krzysztof said, his voice rising in excitement. “The video must show the woman slipping the backpack onto my shoulder. You were there, Claude, you saw it.”

  Claude told him, “Humidity ruined a lot of the tape.”

  “But you said you found something,” Aimée reminded him.

  “I found Gaelle being beaten, oui,” he said. “Orla was shouting; I caught that on the video.”

  “I heard her, for a moment,” Krzysztof said. “Just before Gaelle stepped into the square.”

  Claude glanced at his watch. “Word has come down. The Direction Territoire de l’Interior is closing the net around all of you. It’s just a matter of time until they tighten it.” He opened a compartment in the motorcycle sidecar and pulled out a helmet. “Krzysztof, the network has arranged a safe house in the Bobigny suburbs for you. But I’m not supposed to tell you where it is.”

  Aimée saw indecision on Krzysztof’s face.

  “I can’t leave. If we don’t do something, the oil agreement will be signed tomorrow,” he said. “And then we’re back to square one. Nowhere.”

  “If you want to be safe, you have to go deep undercover, Krzysztof. We have to leave now. You can figure something out once you’re in hiding where they can’t find you. You’ll come up with a plan.”

  The indecision faded from Krzysztof’s face.

  Aimée had to do something before they left. The warehouse courtyard was quiet, the only sound that of the occasional car passing outside on the street. The gleams of the sodium streetlight pooled on the cobbles. An idea formed in her head. Hadn’t Morbier said, ‘First you have to catch the wolf?’

  “Krzysztof, may I see that Halkyut card?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll call Gabriel, and you’ll talk to him. Say you want to meet him in thirty minutes or you’ll give his phone number to the flics. Tell him, in return, you’ll show him—non, you’ll give him—Alstrom’s disc.”

  “What do you mean?” Krzysztof asked.

  “You know more about this than I do. All those oil statistics . . .”

  “Of course,” Krzysztof said. “The cover-ups on the Brent Spar oil platform, the falsified percentages with respect to the deep drilling.”

  “Right. Tell him that, in exchange, you want Nelie too,” she said. “That will flush him out. Even if he doesn’t buy it, he’ll have to meet you if only to try to corner you.”

  “Corner me?”

  “He won’t. I’ll make sure of that. If he brings Nelie, you’ll tell him the disc is somewhere else.”

  Claude frowned. “A disc means nothing. The originals are in the computer. They know that.”

  “If Halkyut’s working for Alstrom,” she said, buttoning the jacket, “then it might work. All their techs would need to do is insert the disc in Alstrom’s system, find the matching file, and erase it. Trash it. Then phfft, it will be all gone. No record will exist any longer on their hard drive either.”

  Except that René and Saj had a copy at their office. At least, she hoped they did. But there was no need to tell Halkyut about that.

  Krzysztof nodded. He handed Aimée the card. “If they’re holding Nelie, it would explain why she hasn’t contacted me.”

  If they had a chance of luring Gabriel into their trap, she’d call Morbier and have him waiting.

  “Is it that easy to erase the information?” Claude asked.

  That’s how she paid her rent. “I should know, it’s my bread and butter.”

  Claude stared at her. “As a reporter?”

  She had a big mouth. But it was too late.

  “Actually, I do computer security, Claude,” she confessed. “I’m sorry to have lied, but I needed a cover.”

  She searched his dark eyes, detecting a flutter of hurt. She didn’t want it to end with this man. She hadn’t met anyone like him before.

  “I’m trying to help Nelie, but I can’t explain any more,” she said, attempting to recover. “It’s a lot to ask, but can you just trust me?”

  “And if I do?” he asked.

  She leaned against his leather jacket, felt the warmth from his body. “Wait and see.”

  “Do you have a better idea, Claude?” Krzysztof interrupted. He didn’t wait for Claude’s answer. “Give me your phone, Aimée.”

  She wrote down an address on a scrap of paper and showed it to him. “Give Gabriel this information.”

  They would arrange to meet him on the corner by the boiler room of her old lycée. The safest place, just across the Seine. And she knew the door code.

  She punched in Gabriel’s number, which started with 06, indicating it was a cell phone, and thrust the phone at Krzysztof. She leaned close so she could hear.

  “Oui?” a deep voice answered.

  “Bring Nelie to rue du Petit Musc at Quai des Celestins,” Krzysztof said, reading from the paper Aimée had given him. “Wait on the corner.”

  There was a pause. They could hear loud talking and music in the background.

  “Who is this?”

&n
bsp; “The Alstrom reports make interesting reading,” Krzysztof improvised. “Especially in the right hands. I’ll exchange them for Nelie.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “From la rouquine,” said Krzysztof.

  “She’s a naughty girl.”

  “Thirty minutes. Bring Nelie,” Krzysztof said.

  “Why should I?”

  But Aimée could hear curiosity in his voice.

  “Otherwise I’ll give the flics your number,” said Krzysztof. “They can trace a cell phone in thirty minutes. Or less.” He hung up.

  “I think we’ve got him,” Aimée said. She searched her pockets for some money. Paying Jules and the taxi had tapped her out. She turned to Claude. “Mind giving us a ride?”

  He switched on the ignition and started up the bike.

  “I’ll open the gate and meet you outside,” she said.

  She hurried to the street, taking out her cell phone and dialing, while Claude turned the bike around.

  “Morbier,” his tired voice answered at the other end of the line.

  “I’m baiting the wolf, Morbier,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “The wolf responsible for blowing holes in the Seine?” He sounded more awake now. “Disrupting river traffic for hours?”

  Her heart lurched. How could she confess that she’d been responsible?

  “About time you found Krzysztof,” he said.

  “Wrong. I’m after a mec named Gabriel,” she said. “But there’s one condition.”

  “Always a condition with you.”

  “Bon, if you’re not interested . . .”

  “Difficult.” Morbier sighed. “The terrorist brigade is involved, so there’s not much I can do.”

  “What you do is take this Gabriel in. He works for Halkyut. Question him about the bomb he placed in the Hôtel Lambert kitchen.”

  “Why do I think you’re hiding something?”

  “You’ve got a suspicious mind, Morbier. You have to learn to trust.”

  “Every time I do. . . .” Another sigh.“ You’ve infiltrated MondeFocus, right?”

  She turned to make sure she was alone. She saw Krzysztof putting on a helmet and climbing into the motorcycle sidecar.

  “Halkyut’s the culprit.”

  “Eh?” Morbier was silent for a few moments. “No one can touch them with a barge pole.”

  “If they plant bombs, you can.”

  Claude’s motorcycle engine sputtered and roared. She had to hurry.

  “Afraid to take on the big guys, Morbier? You’d let them get away with this?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m only sure of death and taxes. As for the rest, I hedge my bets.”

  Even if Gabriel had Nelie, she doubted he would bring her with him. But with any luck, he’d come. He’d be curious. And if Morbier cooperated and netted him, Gabriel would provide them with the link to Halkyut itself.

  “How reassuring!” Morbier said. “Now I feel better. And you want me to stick my neck out?”

  “Don’t blow my cover. Bring just a few men. Say you’ve got a witness to his bomb purchase, and that this witness also places him in the Hôtel Lambert’s kitchen. Keep it intimate and question him in the back room. I’m sure you’ve done that before.”

  “Do you have such a witness?”

  “Only on condition that he gets immunity for his testimony.”

  “Not if he’s an ax murderer.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Let’s get going,” Krzysztof shouted from the gate.

  She kept the phone between her shoulder and her ear and leaned against a wall. “Wait a minute, there’s a rock in my boot.”

  If Krzysztof knew the flics would be waiting, he’d flee. She wouldn’t even have time to tell him she’d gotten him immunity. She whispered into the cell phone crooked next to her ear, “Is Nicolas still working the cameras at France2?”

  Nicolas had been on staff there since her father’s time.

  “You want a camera crew, Leduc? Forget it.”

  “Non, Morbier. Ask him to pore over footage of Monday night’s MondeFocus march to l’Institut du Monde Arabe. The outtakes, raw footage, the whole thing.”

  Claude revved the engine; the noise echoed in the narrow street. “Aimée, you ready?” he asked.

  She made a show of shaking her boot and putting it back on.

  “France2 sent the tapes to the terrorist brigade,” he said. “Sounds like a motorcycle there with you. You a biker now?”

  “They can’t have sent all the raw footage, Morbier,” she said. “I saw a video made by a documentary filmmaker, but it’s not enough.”

  “Eh, who’s that?”

  “Claude Nederovique. But it’s too blurred. Just ask Nicolas. Deal or not?”

  She put her finger in her other ear to hear better, heard his chair scraping over the floor and a sound like the snapping of fingers. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d stood, grabbed his coat, and signaled to some of his men.

  “Better be worth my while, Leduc. Where?”

  She’d hooked him. She took a deep breath.

  “École Massillon, the corner of Quai des Celestins and rue du Petit Musc.”

  HER TUXEDO TAILS flew behind her as she rode clutching Claude’s waist, her knees clamping his hips. Those wonderful hips.

  Krzysztof sat hunched in the sidecar. The engine revved as they passed shadowy Place Bayre. She caught the whiff of green vegetation, of damp grass, wet from the rain. A now dark Hôtel Lambert went by on her left.

  Every pot has a lid, as her grandmother had phrased it. Meaning life was about finding the right mate. The right fit. She was attracted to bad boys in leather jackets. Ones who had been hurt, who were fierce inside. The ones mothers warned their daughters against. But in her case, there’d been no warning. And for a moment, Aimée wondered what it would be like with Claude, sitting in front of her fireplace, Stella taking her first steps. Together.

  Stop. She’d gone soft, just as René had accused. She had more to think of than Stella and this man who’d once been abandoned, too.

  She prayed Morbier would make good on his agreement. That they’d nab Gabriel, link the bombings to Halkyut, and find Nelie.

  The Brigade Fluviale’s Zodiacs were trawling below the Pont de Sully. She shivered, thinking of the silt-laden, churning water below. And of Orla’s waxen face in the morgue.

  Claude slowed and turned into fourteenth-century rue du Petit Musc, the street of the strolling hookers. No working girls had lingered there for a long time but the name clung, though now only media types and the branché crowd could afford it.

  Claude downshifted by École Massillon’s side entrance, the rumbling of his motorcycle engine reverberating off the walls of the blackened stone buildings. Aimée removed her helmet as Krzysztof climbed out of the sidecar.

  “I’m coming, too,” Claude said, taking her arm.

  A dark figure stood in one of the doorways of the narrow street. Another figure sat in a parked car. Big mistake. Morbier’s men were making their presence too obvious.

  “It’s the flics,” Krzysztof said, wild eyed. “Merde! Let’s get out of here.”

  “Flics?” Claude pulled her arm. “Get back on, Aimée.”

  “They’re backup; it’s all right,” she said, looking for Morbier.

  “I get it,” Krzysztof said. “You’re trapping me.”

  “You’ll be given immunity from prosecution. I worked out a deal for you.”

  But Claude gunned the motorcycle engine and Krzysztof jumped on behind him, holding tight as Claude turned the bike around.

  “We can’t stay,” Claude said, his eyes narrowed. “No flics. You don’t understand.” He popped the shift into first gear. “Get on.”

  She couldn’t leave. She had to see this through, alone if need be.

  “It’s all right! Listen to the deal I made.”

  “A deal?” Krzysztof said. “I’ll never risk a deal with the flics.
You’re crazy.” Krzysztof pushed Claude’s arm. “Get us out of here. Now!”

  The motorcycle sped off down the rue du Petit Musc. The red brakelights’ reflection wobbled across the stone walls of buidlings. The motorcycle turned the corner, peeling rubber. Krzysztof and Claude were gone. They had deserted her.

  What had she been thinking, she wondered. She’d been fooling herself, intoxicated by playing house with the baby and sleeping with this gorgeous, sensitive man. She shook herself and called Morbier, afraid now that his men would chase away Gabriel, too, if they hadn’t already done so.

  “Call off your dogs, Morbier. They’re so close I can smell them.”

  “What do you mean, Leduc? We’re on rue de l’Hôtel-de-Ville crossing rue de l’Ave Maria.”

  Four blocks away.

  She heard a car door open, saw a man getting out of the car. Her hands trembled.

  “Get prepared for a reception committee.” She clicked off before she dropped the phone. And stood there alone, with her supposed backup blocks away.

  Her heart skipped. The only thing she could think of was to press 34B51 on the digicode of the next building.

  The massive carved seventeenth-century door opened. She slipped inside, into former stables that were now a delivery bay for school supplies. A ramp led to the lower playground gate, which could not be glimpsed from the street. She tugged at the door and it clicked shut behind her.

  A few years ago the junkies had discovered this enclave but she didn’t see any discarded needles among the tufts of overgrown grass. She followed the border of the enclosed playground to a back door where she counted on finding a key. From time immemorial, janitors had left one here for deliverymen, always in the same place. She slid her fingers over the wall, located the loose stone, and pried it out. In the dirt-encrusted space she found the janitor’s key where he’d always kept it. She and Martine had used it on occasion when they’d been late to class.

  She unlocked the door and put the key back. Inside the school, she ran down a narrow low-ceilinged hall lined with bulletin boards laden with notices of class schedules and after-school club meetings. The smell of paper, the dull luster of the linoleum floor—nothing had changed since her day. No doubt the cracked ceilings upstairs still leaked puddles onto the marble floors.