Murder in the Latin Quarter

by Cara Black

  “Then who killed Benoît?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “I made copies of Benoît’s report, Castaing.” A lie, but it would give her leverage. He couldn’t know the truth.

  Instead of the fear she expected, Jérôme waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “And, when the World Bank aid comes through, you’ll find it too expensive or drum up some other excuses to keep your old system running. You’ll pocket their money too and keep selling poisoned water.”

  “You’ve got no concrete evidence against my firm,” he replied.

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and riffled through the business cards. “Let’s see, I’ll make a quick call to the minister. We attended the lycée together.”

  The old-boy network. A favor called in, a promise made, scratching each other’s backs behind closed doors. The big players who occupied high positions in the ministries raked in profits from the Third World without ever leaving their elegant offices. What could she do?

  “You forgot the tissue samples, Castaing.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late.”

  Did that mean he’d found them?

  “The Paris Club’s already in session,” Castaing continued. “The economic meeting’s under way.”

  He meant the World Bank and IMF representatives, dubbed by the media the “Paris Club,” the group that had been mentioned in the article Martine had showed her. The men who dictated Third World economic policy, the loans given and the loans forgiven.

  She couldn’t give up. She’d bluff, use Martine’s connection to the press.

  She said, “Libération will jump at the chance to publish an exposé detailing your connection with the World Bank, the bribes you pay, the laundering of funds.”

  “What in hell do you mean?”

  “Father Privert’s foundation maintains the front you need for humanitarian credentials while it launders your firm’s prof-its,” she said. “Ironic, non? Screwing Haiti and looking good; like father, like son. Josephe’s knight in armor, tarnished by corruption.”

  The business card shook in his hand. “Don’t slander the work of the foundation. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “You mean, keep the truth from Josephe.”

  “After all these years, my family’s part of Haiti,” he said. “Bound to it. I help Father Privert’s foundation out of goodwill.”

  She’d had enough. “Nice try, Castaing, but you’d say any-thing,” Aimée said.

  He frowned and pulled a photo from his wallet. “That’s my sister. My Haitian sister.”

  Aimée gaped at the laminated black-and-white photo. It showed a man in a tropical shirt, next to a woman holding a toddler’s hand, palm trees in the background.

  She stepped back. Her brain couldn’t take this in. The low throb in her temple, a concussion? Everything turned upside down, her stomach wrenched.

  “But I have one too,” Aimée said.

  “What do you mean?” Jérôme said.

  She stared at the smiling man with his arm around a black woman. The sun glinted on what looked like a well and drilling equipment.

  It wasn’t her father.

  “The woman and the baby?”

  Castaing’s features tightened. “His mistress, their child. My half-sister.” He spit out the next words. “Both murdered by the tonton macoutes to take revenge on my father. But that’s history.”

  She turned the snapshot over. Gasped. “Me, Edwige, and Mireille” was written in faint pencil.

  Mireille couldn’t have two fathers. Some kind of mistake?

  It couldn’t be true. She didn’t want to believe that Mireille had fed her a story, lied to her.

  Was there really a connection between Mireille and Jérôme?

  Castaing continued. “Father never let me forget my sister. In his drunken rants, he never shut up about them. Every night, on and on, about the tonton macoutes, the loss of his eye, their death. My childhood was haunted.”

  Hurt layered his voice. She wondered if his father had cared for them more than his own son.

  “They’d met here at Brasserie Balzar. Et voilà . . . satisfied?” Behind the abrasive tone, she detected embarrassment or shame in his voice.

  “And, to protect them, your father told Edwige to say her daughter had been fathered by a Frenchman she’d met in Paris,” she said. “So they’d think she was just another coco. But the tonton macoutes took them anyway.”

  Castaing’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

  Maybe Mireille had been lied to and believed the lie.

  Her phone trilled. Professeur Zarek with a report on Mireille’s condition? She didn’t recognize the caller ID. She hit MUTE.

  “What do you think, Detective?” Castaing said.

  “Castaing, I think your sister is alive.”

  “What . . . risen from the dead?” He shook his head, bewildered.

  “Non. . . .”

  “I get it now,” he said, his lips twisting in a sick smile. “Her wandering spirit, the black vodou . . . all that crap!” He grabbed the sleeve of her too-tight jacket. “Liar!”

  Seething, he shoved her against the stone wall of the crypt and started up the steps.

  She stumbled. Her head hit the pillar, jarring her senses. And for a moment all she could see were pinpricks of light. She hunched over, burying her head in her arms, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass.

  Two minutes, five minutes, she didn’t know how long it was before she could stand, the nausea gone, her vision clear.

  Castaing wouldn’t get far. She’d make sure Morbier saw to that.

  A knot of men stood near the entrance. Castaing’s reinforce-ments? She lowered her head, mingling with museum patrons walking up the stairs. Her heart pounding, she made it out the door. Near the turret to the right of the entrance, she stepped into a dark covered arcade. Roosting pigeons cooed on the moss-speckled water spouts. She leaned against the damp stone catch-ing her breath. The phone vibrated in her pocket again.

  “Allo?”

  “Mademoiselle Leduc, it’s Villiers.”

  “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “Forgive me for responding so late, but I’m on a concert tour, in Lyon, and just checked my messages,” Villiers said. “You’re interested in hiring our string quartet for your party. What date do you have in mind?”

  The cellist from the baroque music concert. In the back-ground, a kettledrum crashed, a bowed instrument twanged.

  “Merci, Monsieur Villiers.” Time to marshal her thoughts and get information. Villiers could place Benoît in the Cluny and tell her if he’d had a companion. “You come recom-mended by Professeur Benoît.”

  “Who, Madamoiselle?”

  “He met you at last Monday night’s concert at the Cluny.”

  “I don’t understand. From your message, I understood you had heard our quartet.”

  “The professor raved about you,” she said. “You remember him, of course, a visiting professor at ENS. Dark-complected, a large Haitian man.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “But I never spoke with him,” Villiers said.

  But he did recall him from the concert. Excited now, she went on. But you spoke to his companion, I think?”

  “Companion?”

  If only she could place Castaing at the concert with Benoît before his murder. “A tall, thin man with glasses.”

  “You’ve confused me with someone else, Mademoiselle.” Villiers’s helpful tone had evaporated. “I’m a musician, not a social director.”

  “But I’m sure—”

  “His companion was a woman,” Villiers interrupted. “And I never spoke with her either,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m needed.”

  Startled, she gripped the phone. “Her hair color, Monsieur?”

  “You ask strange questions.”

  “Please, can’t you remember?”

  Another pause.

  “Blond, I think
.”

  Not fifteen minutes ago she’d seen Josephe’s blond pony-tail. Had Josephe attended the concert and lied?

  “Now that you ask,” Villiers continued, “I remember wonder-ing why a deaf woman would come to a concert. It seemed sad.”

  Aimée gripped her phone tighter. “How’s that?”

  “Her hearing aid fell to the floor. People helped her look for it, but no one found it.”

  Blond hair, hearing aid. “You’re right, there’s been a mis-take. Merci.” She’d made the mistake.

  She left the courtyard, passing the flics’ cars, heading toward bustling Boulevard Saint Germain, intending to hail a taxi to the rue Buffon laboratory.

  A car door opened. Morbier stepped out. “Don’t tell me, Leduc,” he said, gesturing to her outfit. “You’re working under-cover as a hooker.”

  “How did you guess?”

  She tried to ignore the looks of the patrons dining at the outdoor bistro. “Castaing just left the Cluny. You need to question him.”

  “It’s been taken care of, Leduc.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s under surveillance. See?” She turned and watched Castaing get into a waiting black Mercedes. “The minute he steps out of line—”

  “With his connections, he’ll wriggle out of it,” she interrupted. “I guess beating people up doesn’t matter.”

  “Now you’ll have time to tell me all about it.” Morbier gestured toward the inside of the car. “After you.”

  Morbier told the driver, “The stable.”

  Her heart dropped. The old-timers called the interrogation rooms in the Prefecture “the stable.” She had to persuade Morbier to let her go. She had to find evidence to prove who had killed Benoît. And now she knew where to look.

  “Morbier, you’ve got to listen. Castaing—”

  “All in good time, Leduc,” he interrupted.

  On a narrow winding street a few blocks away, the car braked to a halt in front of a small bistro.

  “You’re not taking me to the Prefecture?”

  “I missed lunch,” he said. “And Brigade interrogations go better on a full stomach.”

  One didn’t keep the Brigade waiting. A lie? Or the truth? With Morbier, she didn’t always know. The thought of interrogation coupled with food turned her stomach.

  Morbier led her inside a dark hole of a place, low-ceilinged with blackened wood beams and exposed stone walls festooned with old plow wheels. Meat hissed, roasting on a wood-burning grill, candles flickered on wood tables, a narrow staircase descended to a vaulted cavern. Medieval and dim. Morbier had told the truth when he’d called it a stable.

  “Long time, Commissaire,” said a man with a white scar slicing his thick black eyebrow, wearing a none-too-clean apron. Sanglier, wild boar, was advertised on the chalkboard behind them.

  “Business good, Bébert?”

  “Can’t complain, Commissaire,” he said, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

  The odors of rosemary and garlic mingled in the close air; too many people in too small a place. Morbier headed past the five or six tables packed with academic types in corduroy jackets, students, and a few old codgers, knife and fork in hand, bent over heaping plates. People of the quartier. A few knowing glances shot their way.

  Morbier sat across from Aimée at the window table, then nodded at Bébert.

  “We’ll take the prix-fixe menu. And a little quiet.”

  “Bien sûr, Commissaire.” She caught Bébert glancing at her tight tank top.

  Feeling awkward, Aimée leaned forward. “He thinks you’re my sugar daddy!”

  “He’s not the only one.” Morbier’s mouth parted in a thin smile.

  She set the plastic shopping bag with her damp clothes on the stone floor.

  Bébert reappeared with a bread basket and a slab of butter, then retired without a word.

  She leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “Morbier, Benoît discovered that Hydrolis was supplying water in Haiti that was not merely polluted, but toxic—full of mercury and lead. That’s Jérôme Castaing’s firm. As a consultant, Benoît revealed this information in a report that put Hydrolis’s World Bank funding at risk. He wanted to expose Hydrolis. However, the report was never delivered; he was murdered first.”

  Morbier tucked a white napkin in his collar, saying nothing.

  “He was killed for this report,” she said, “but he’d hidden it. Do you understand?”

  “And?”

  Now came her variation on the truth. “After you left my apartment, Mireille appeared, asking for help. Benoît had hid-den the file in a locker. He entrusted her with the key and location. But the traffickers who’d smuggled her into the country were after her for money. She was terrified. Until today, I didn’t know what this key unlocked. After I found Benoît’s file, Castaing’s thugs stole it—”

  “Where’s your proof?” he interrupted.

  “Proof?” She parted her hair with her hands, pointing to the bruised knot on her head. “You sound like Castaing. Talk to his thugs.”

  “Leduc, I questioned those mecs. I got nothing from them.”

  “So hold them on suspicion of robbery.”

  “You got a good look at them,” he said. “Can identify them in a lineup?”

  She shook her head, wincing. “They abducted Léonie Obin, and she’s ill.”

  “Aaah, this mystery woman!”

  She patted her pockets. Empty except for her phone. “Léonie Obin’s a member of the Haitian Trade Delegation. She’s involved somehow with a World Bank proposal for aid to Hydrolis to fund a Haitian water project. Benoît was trying to stop it.”

  Morbier sighed. “Must I repeat that you need proof? And homicide is the Brigade’s domain, remember?”

  “Is the Brigade investigating the suspicious death of Darquin, the old guard from rue Buffon who was shoved under a car across from the Pantheon?”

  Morbier’s eyes narrowed below his thick eyebrows.

  “Darquin had arranged to meet me. He’d seen something on rue Buffon and wanted to tell me about it. And Huby, Benoît’s assistant, was shoved from a window so his death would look like suicide—”

  “Serious allegations, Leduc,” Morbier interrupted, “concerning a traffic accident, and a suicide as well. . . .”

  Even in the dense air of this crowded bistro, the meaning of his remarks penetrated her brain. “Morbier, you’ve been called off.”

  His age-spotted hand paused on the water glass he’d just reached for.

  “I’m not a dog, Leduc.”

  “Strings were pulled from above, weren’t they?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “This touches the big boys. Now I get it.”

  “Let’s just say the Ministry and the Prefecture deem the ongoing investigation into Princess Diana’s death a higher priority.”

  “Which ministry, Morbier?”

  “Does it matter?” He sipped his water. “The world’s watching us handle this Diana circus, Leduc. We’ve got to perform, and get it right.”

  “And Benoît’s murder’s an embarrassment during the Paris Club and World Bank meetings,” she said.

  “Leduc, Diana conspiracy theories abound, and MI 5 is right on our heels. The pressure’s intense.”

  The conclusion was foregone; nothing she said would matter. He’d provide no real assistance to nail Castaing. She heard that, in what he didn’t say. She’d need René’s help to find proof of Hydrolis’s dirty practices. But first she had to talk her way out of Morbier’s clutches.

  She took a piece of bread, tore out the soft white center, crumbled it. The thought of eating turned her stomach.

  Bébert hovered with a bottle of Bordeaux in his hand, a white towel over his arm. “Commissaire?”

  Morbier sniffed the inch of wine in his glass, swirled it, took a sip, then nodded. “That’s fine.”

  Bébert poured some into Aimée’s glass.

  “A santé!” Morbier clinked her glass. She took a sip, full-bodied
with a hint of oak and berries. Nice.

  “By the way, Edouard Brasseur didn’t seem pleased that Mireille had run away after the nuns treated her so well at the clinic.”

  She choked, dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “She’s gone?” Panic hit her.

  “Another little detail you neglected to inform me about,” Morbier said. His expression hadn’t changed. “Edouard’s statement makes interesting reading.”

  “His statement?” she said. “I don’t understand. The flics raided his atelier this morning.”

  “I won’t ask how you know, Leduc.”

  No doubt Edouard had put her in his statement. The slime.

  “They had to stage a show to keep Edouard’s cover in place,” Morbier said, taking a long sip.

  Wonders never ceased. She’d never suspected this.

  “The Brigade Criminelle cooperates with Eurodad and similar agencies,” he said.

  “But Eurodad’s based in Brussels. It brings cases before the International Court of Justice,” she said. “What’s the link?”

  “Not my province.” Morbier tore off a piece of bread and chewed it. “Where’s your alleged sister, Leduc?”

  Sister? After Castaing’s revelation, she was no longer sure.

  “Beats me. If Mireille’s not at the convent, then I don’t know.”

  “Why withhold information?” Morbier said. “What can a half-sister who you don’t even know mean to you? All you need to do is tell me where she went.”

  “Mireille’s been framed.”

  “Then she can make a statement. Furnish an alibi, prove her innocence.”

  “I’m worried, Morbier,” she said. “I don’t know any longer whether to believe we’re related.”

  Morbier nodded. His look inviting confidences was the one he used during interrogations when he was playing the good flic. She trusted him no farther than she could spit.

  “Then what are you sticking your neck out for?” Morbier said. “Why do this?”

  She couldn’t answer that. But since birth, Mireille had been a victim of violence, part of the flotsam and jetsam of Haiti’s unrest, inconsequential to men in power like dictators and ministers, men who never dirtied their hands with the les petits gens, the little people. Mireille didn’t deserve it. No one did.

  “Still a Socialist Party member, Morbier?”