“Come this way,” the woman said and led her inside toward the side door.
More yellow roses climbed trellises in the manicured garden. A Renault pulled in at the small side drive. The chauffeur, blue cap cocked back on his head, stepped out scratching his temple. The backseat was empty.
“Where’s de Froissart?” Aimée asked.
The chauffeur looked askance at the maid, who shrugged.
“Who wants to know?” he said.
“Aimée Leduc,” she said.
“You can prove that, I suppose?” He pulled the cap down over his forehead and leaned against the car.
She handed him her card.
“Get in,” he said, buttoning up his jacket and opening the Renault’s back door.
“Wait a minute,” she said, suspicious. “Le Ministre de Froissart agreed to meet me here.”
“Plans change,” he said, holding the door open for her. “Life offers chances for flexibility. One must take advantage.”
She didn’t like the turn of events or his attitude. But she got in, secure in the knowledge that her Beretta was strapped to her shoulder.
He sped out of the courtyard into sparse traffic. They passed the small darkened shops: a coiffeur, a Turc-Grec kabob restaurant, and a shuttered agence immobilier advertising apartments along tree-lined Place de Guignier.
Soon the chauffeur merged into teeming rue des Pyrenees. He wove the Renault, downshifting among small trucks and latenight taxis.
“Where are we going?”
“The minister will inform me soon,” he said, casting a glance in the rear-view mirror at her. His car phone trilled. “That should be him.”
She studied the black-coated throng crossing the street. A rain shower sprinkled the windshield and stopped before the chauffeur could switch on his wipers.
De Froissart dictated the rules and remained in the shadows. She didn’t like that.
The chauffeur murmured, then hung up the phone. He turned on rue des Couronnes. Aimée had forgotten the panoramic view afforded from the heights of Belleville on a damp April night. In the distance the lighted Eiffel Tower poked a few centimeters above the building horizon. Diminished and distant, just the way she felt at the whim of Philippe de Froissart’s agenda.
“We’ll meet the minister shortly,” he said.
The Renault glided down the steep, narrow streets of Belleville.
A larger car with smoked windows pulled alongside, then took the lead. She noticed the government plates. The car turned onto quai Jenmapes, which fronted dark Canal Saint Martin.
This cat-and-mouse game made her uneasy. Why couldn’t Philippe just meet her? The chauffeur braked, jolting her forward. Frightened, she threw her hands out to avoid smashing into the seat.
Suddenly a heavy-set man opened her door. He cast a glance over the area, then jerked his thumb toward the canal. His manner, neither polite nor comforting, gave her little choice but to comply.
He returned to the other car, leaned against the Renault’s hood, and studied his fingernails. The car that brought her took off toward Republique.
A raw wind sliced through Aimée’s raincoat as she walked down the embankment. She pulled it around her leather-clad legs. She was cold, damp, and fed up with Philippe’s close-mouthed attitude—his mistress had been blown up, his wife and Aimée chased by big ugly thugs through the Métro, and that was just the top of the list. She needed him to illuminate what the hell was going on and where Anaïs was.
Algae smells, mingled with the odor of refuse, wafted from the canal. Raindrops pebbled the water’s surface, then stopped. Quaiside lights reflected the metal of the locks on the narrow waterway.
Aimée wished she could change what happened, rewind life—take it apart frame by frame as if editing a film, and stop Sylvie from entering that Mercedes. She also wished she was stretched in front of a roaring fire with Yves. But she wouldn’t hold her breath on that one. Yves couldn’t be counted on to be there, and besides, her fireplace had been bricked in after the war. So she had to get on with investigating.
Shadows from the skeletal trees not yet dressed for spring waved above her. She crunched over the gravel toward a figure seated on a bench.
Philippe sat, his eyes bloodshot, staring at the water.
“Why all the secrecy, Philippe?”
“Aimée, take my word,” he said. “Things are better this way.”
“Where’s Anaïs?”
“I’ve taken care of things,” Philippe said.
“You seem very take-charge, Philippe” she said, sitting down next to him. “So take me with you—what the hell’s going on?”
“She’s safe,” he said, standing up. He nodded to the chauffeur by the car. Immediately the engine started and the wheels moved, spraying gravel. “You don’t need to worry.”
Men who condescended bothered her. A lot. She stood up and moved near him.
“Anaïs hired me to find Sylvie’s killer,” she said. “I took the job.”
Aimée saw Philippe’s half smile in the dim lights.
“Only Anaïs would do that, but it’s so typical of her,” he said. “And I love her for it.”
Maybe it was how the shadows angled his face or how he leaned forward expectantly, but for a fleeting instant she saw Philippe’s vulnerability. She saw how it could appeal to women. Some women—not her.
“Sylvie was trying to protect you, wasn’t she, Philippe?” Aimée continued, not waiting for an answer. “She used another identity, Eugénie, didn’t she?”
His face darkened. “I’m late for ministry negotiations.”
“Philippe, I’m not bothered by the fact that you don’t acknowledge me rescuing Anaïs,” she said. “I’m bothered by how you avoid telling me who got to Sylvie and why.”
He walked away from her, his raincoat flapping in the wind.
She followed him.
Acacia wisps from the budding trees fluttered past in the wind. Philippe paused by the canal edge, staring at the eddying surface scum, dotted by furry blossoms and leaves.
She got closer, stared into his face.
“Did Sylvie get involved with the Maghrébins? Were you embarrassed your name would come up?”
“Now I remember—you were a flic’s kid, a pain in the ass,” he said, shaking his head. “You haven’t changed.”
And you’re still a rich kid, she thought, with socialist leanings and a ministry job. Didn’t he have a vineyard?
“I know people,” he said. He looked at his watch, an expensive sports type, then gave her a meaningful look. “Leave this to me.”
“Do you think calling the interministériel hot line and pulling in favors will work?” Aimée asked, kicking a loose stone into the murky water. “You act as if this was some piece of legislation or trade bill.” The stone skipped wavelets midcanal, then sank.
“You don’t understand how things work do you, Aimée?” Philippe asked, turning away, his tone even more condescending.
“Have you ever seen a car explode, Philippe?” she asked, trying to stay calm. She didn’t wait for an answer but turned to him. “Have you felt clumps of tissue rain down on you, slipped on the bloody pavement, seen an arm fried crisp when it…” she stopped.
He bent his head and had the grace to look ashamed.
She hated bringing all this up, seeing those awful images again in her mind. But she had to prod him, make him tell her why.
Silence, except for the slow gurgling of water.
“So I knew,” Aimée said, letting her sentence dangle.
“Eh, knew what?” he said, looking up. In the brisk night air, he removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed his thumbs together. “Look, before you speculate, you should know that Sylvie and I parted months ago,” he said. He waved his hands dismissively. “Anaïs knew everything was over.”