And his hip ache had subsided to a dull throb once he’d borrowed the portable heater from Luigi’s travel agency down the hall.
Aimée’s mahogany desk was piled with samples of their new security prospectus. Hadn’t she promised to come in? And why hadn’t she updated him on the museum?
Saj sat monitoring the spyware installed on Coulade’s computer.
“Any activity?”
Saj shook his head. “Not so far. I’m also trawling Coulade’s desktop files. Nothing interesting pops out.”
“What do you make of this, Saj?”
Saj’s sandalwood prayer-bead bracelet clacked as he peered over René’s laptop. “Hmmm … I’m hungry.”
“That’s all you can say, Saj?”
“A recipe.” Saj handed him a battered takeout menu. “Which reminds me, feel like ordering in?” Saj stretched his tanned arms high over his six-foot frame, cracked his neck. His billowing white muslin Indian shirt blocked René’s view. How could he wear almost nothing in January?
René stared at his screen, at the reams of code from Samour’s attachment. A cipher.
“Say that again.”
“We had sushi yesterday,” Saj said. “What about the new South Indian vegan?”
“No, I mean recipe.”
“See those interesting code breaks?” Saj pointed to the flat lines of script.
His curiosity piqued, René highlighted a section of the attachment that he’d already pored over several times. “You mean this?”
“Think of it in 3-D. Add dimension.”
René slotted in a disc. Hit the icon to open the program. “Like this?”
A raised bed of points and concave lines appeared.
Saj shook his head. “Try a line separation.”
Excited, René scrolled down and hit another key.
The script aligned to borders and line breaks.
“Reminds me of my grandmother’s recipe book,” Saj said, pulling up a chair. “Those configuration symbols start each line.”
Symbols. “Meaning what?”
“I’d say they represent numbers, quantity, or measurements, René. Symbols grouped in those kinds of configurations often indicate Roman numerals.” Saj nodded, pulling a scarf around his shoulders. “Or medieval drams and weights, I’d guess here.”
“Say fourteenth century?”
“Why not?”
René grabbed the takeout menu. “Order anything you want, Saj. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
Sunday, 10:00 A.M.
“OFFICER PRÉVOST, s’il vous plaît,” Aimée said to the blue-uniformed flic on duty. The commissariat on rue Louis Blanc had been designed by Gustave Eiffel, and its corners needed dusting.
“Mademoiselle Leduc?” said the fresh-faced recruit who’d missed a spot shaving his chin. He opened a file and slid a typed procès-verbal form across the high counter. “Routine, please sign and date your statement, s’il vous plaît.”
“But we had an appointment,” she said. She’d counted on worming the surveillance info out of Prévost. He’d promised her.
“You’re late. He left for a meeting.”
Merde!
Aimée scanned the typed up statement, noting the case number and file with a pen on her palm. Reading her statement, her mind went back to the snow dusting the plastic on Pascal’s unseeing eyes, the chunks of his flesh gnawed by rats. Her attack last night.
“Prévost?” an officer was saying on the phone from the other end of the reception counter. Her ears perked up. “He’s on call today. Out to early lunch.”
Meeting, my foot, she thought. He’d avoided her.
She scribbled her name. Pushed the statement back to the officer. Smiled.
“I’m starving.” She rubbed her stomach. “Know a good place around here?”
The flic paused in thought. A challenge for him, she could tell, a new graduate from the police academy who’d been transferred to Paris and no doubt ate in the police canteen in the basement.
He shrugged.
“But flics know the best places to eat,” she said, pushing it.
“Some of the older ones talk about a cassoulet place on Quai de Valmy. But I don’t know.”
She winked. “Merci.”
Several blocks down rue Louis Blanc she saw the red awning of a bistro, Chez Pépé, cuisine de Bourgogne. Definitely a place for cassoulet. She hoped to God that Prévost ate here. Not a moment later she recognized his sparse hair, that raincoat ducking out the door. She revved into second gear and, her luck still holding, found a narrow space to wedge her scooter into, next to the zebra crosswalk.
To find Prévost and a parking place—the gods were smiling on her. She set her helmet in the carrier, edged sideways between the cars to the sidewalk, and stepped into melted slush up to her ankle. Another pair of boots, vintage Fendis, ruined.
Prévost stood in Chez Pépé’s doorway, speaking on his cell phone and gesturing with his free hand. Before she reached him, he clicked his phone shut and went back inside.
A moment later Prévost shot out the doorway again, keys in hand. He unlocked the door of an unmarked Peugeot, started the engine.
The gods had stopped smiling.
She ran back to her scooter, wedged it out, and prayed Prévost hadn’t made the traffic light. She gunned the scooter down the quai until she saw the Peugeot ahead. A bus cut in front of her. By the time she reached the next intersection, the Peugeot had pulled ahead. She punched the handlebars in frustration. As the light turned green, she popped into first gear and caught up with Prévost.
The threatening clouds chose this moment to open up. Rain pelted the canal’s surface. Blinking rain away, she followed Prévost for fifteen wet minutes until he parked on narrow rue du Pont au Choux.
Next to the maroon storefront of Tartaix Métaux Outillage, the commercial metal shop, Prévost pushed open a wormholed faded-green door. She parked her scooter on the pavement, propped it up on the kickstand. Rain dripped from her shoulders. She shivered and ran across the street.
But the door shut behind him. Did he live here?
Instead of waiting in the deserted street for Prévost to emerge, she entered Tartaix Métaux’s glass-paned doors. The shop’s interior appeared unchanged from how she remembered it from childhood visits with her grandfather: the floor-to-ceiling drawers, long wooden counters reminding her of a bistro, a sales wicket resembling the old Métro ticket booths piled with catalogs.
“We’re closed, Mademoiselle.”
She noted the blue-coated assistants stocking items from stepladders. “But I didn’t see a sign, Monsieur.”
“We’re doing inventory,” said a man, wiping his hands on a rag. “Come back tomorrow.”
A side door opened, bringing with it a wet rush of air. Prévost stood under the dripping eaves, huddled with an Asian man.
Her grandfather had known the owner; they’d been old drinking buddies. She could use that.
“Does Monsieur Colles still work in the back?” She flashed a smile and her card.
“Some problem, Mademoiselle?” The stooped, graying man eyed her.
“Not at all, Monsieur,” she said, peering over the workman’s shoulder. From Prévost’s gestures, rigid body stance, and raised voice, she figured they were arguing. The Asian man stepped back, shaking his head. He wore a rain-spattered blue workcoat, and round, silver-framed glasses that gave him an academic air.
A brief glimpse before the courtyard door slammed shut.
“Routine, Monsieur,” Aimée said, emitting a bored sigh. “An insurance scam hit several firms on the street. My firm’s making inquiries.”