He edged closer to her, whispering. “Marie-Dominique, I can’t talk to them right now.”
Her eyes widened. “So you’re still on the wanted list?”
“Show me a way to leave, please,” he said. “Speak with Félix, tell him I’ll sign the contract tomorrow.”
“But what if—”
“No time to explain. Help me.”
“Consistent, if nothing else. You’re running away, Lucien. Again.”
“It’s not like that. Please, help me.”
Marie-Dominique shook her head.
A door flush with the paneling was opened by one of the catering staff who was sweating as he carried a huge copper saucepan.
It must lead to the back stairs.
“Don’t get Félix in trouble.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You’re still involved with the Separatists, aren’t you? Still yearning to ‘liberate’ Corsica.”
As far as he was concerned, if it hadn’t happened in two thousand years, why now? She had him all wrong. Two hundred years ago, Pascal Paoli had taken power and, instead of making himself king as others had done, outlawed slavery, organized elections, and gave women the vote. Novel ideas for his time, for any time. Corsica had been a democracy briefly until Paoli was overthrown and its army destroyed. In 1768, Corsica was sold to the French for a million francs.
True, once he’d believed in a free Corsica and had joined the Armata Corsa. But when he saw the Mafia tactics of the faction-ridden group, he’d wanted nothing more to do with them.
“What you really mean is I don’t belong here,” Lucien said. “Not in your life, not in this chic milieu,” he said, his hurt flaming into anger. He pounded his fist on the door. “But neither do you, Marie-Dominique. You’ve changed but I know you’re still the same inside. I’m going. Tell Félix I’ll contact him later.”
He opened the concealed door, and shut it with a bang.
Tuesday Morning
AIMÉE LEANED AGAINST the slick tiled Metro wall, cell phone to her ear, and clicked off. Hôpital Bichat refused to give her any information about Laure. On top of that, the flic guarding her still hadn’t called. Burnt rubber smells from the squealing train brakes filled the close air. She punched in another number.
“Brigade Criminelle,” a voice said after ten rings.
“Last night, Officer Laure Rousseau was injured and taken to Hôpital Bichat; I’d like to know her status.”
“Let me consult,” said a brisk, no-nonsense voice.
In the background she heard footsteps slapping across the tile.
“Allô? Who’s calling?” asked the voice.
“Aimée Leduc, a private detective.”
“You’ll need to inquire via the proper channels.”
“Aren’t I? I’m concerned. As I told you, she suffered an injury.”
“She’s in garde à vue,” said the voice.
Already? It was not yet eight in the morning.
“Check with her lawyer,” the voice said.
“Who’s that?”
“A Maître Delambre is handling this case. That’s all the information I have.”
It sounded as if Laure had been given outside representation. Unusual in these circumstances. Good or bad? Surely, a good sign, Aimée thought, gaining hope. But how long would they keep Laure in a holding cell? She consulted the directory at the phone booth in the Metro, found the lawyer’s number, and called him.
“Maître Delambre is in court until noon,” said his answering machine.
“Please, have him call me, it’s urgent, concerning Laure Rousseau,” Aimée said and left her number.
Too bad she’d let René Friant, her partner in their agency, take the morning off. She could use his help now.
She pushed open the swinging doors of the Blanche Metro. All the way up the stairs crowded with winter-coated commuters she pictured Laure, disoriented, with her bloodshot eye, hunched over in a cell.
On the wide, shop-lined Boulevard de Clichy by the Moulin Rouge, its garish neon now dark, plumes of bus exhaust spiraled into the air. A straggling demonstration blocked the street as loudspeakers shouted, “Corsica for Corsicans!”
Waiting passengers stood on the pavement with that particu- lar patience of Parisians, the collective shrug of acceptance reserved for slowdowns and strikes. Newspaper banners plastered across the kiosk read STRIKE IN CORSICAN CONTRACT DIS-PUTE. Another said ASSAULT ON ARMORED CURRENCY TRUCK LINKED TO ARMATA CORSA SEPARATISTS.
She saw a peeling poster on a stone wall bearing a call to action and the Armata Corsa Separatist trademark, the tête de Maure, a black face with white bandanna, in the corner.
The strident Separatist movements in Corsica took center stage these days, elbowing out Bretons demanding school instruction in Gaelic and ETA, Basque Nationalists, car bombings.
Right now, Aimée needed to speak with the person in the apartment with geraniums in a window box to discover if he or she had seen anything.
Above her, on rue André Antoine, the overcast Montmartre sky mirrored the blue-gray roof tiles. Like her heart, with Guy gone and Laure the subject of a police investigation.
Leafless plane trees bent in the wind. Steep streets wound up the butte of Montmartre. She stepped over puddles of melted snow. Tonight they would freeze and become slick. Tomorrow there would be articles in the paper about old people who’d fallen and broken their hips.
The gate to the upscale townhouse whose roof she and Sebastian had climbed over stood open for the garbage collectors. She scanned the cobbled courtyard, looking across to the adjoining townhouse roof and skylight. Several floors of iron-shuttered windows faced the enclave.
In this building, she figured most residents flew south for the winter to Nice or Monaco. They could afford to. She found the top-floor site of the geranium window box, a shutterless oval window.
She’d question all the inhabitants of the building, working her way up. In the entry, she hit the first button. There was no answering buzz. She stared at the numbers on the digicode plate.
From her bag she took a slab of plasticine, slapped it over the set of buttons, and peeled it back. Greasy fingermarks showed which five numbers and letters were most used. In less than five minutes, after she’d tried twenty combinations, the door clicked open.
Inside the building she climbed the wide marble steps, trailing her fingers over the wrought-iron railing. On the first floor, a young woman answered the door, a toddler on her hip and another crying in the background. Aimée saw suitcases and a car seat stacked inside the door.
“Oui?” the woman asked.
“Sorry to bother you but I’m a detective,” Aimée said. “I’d like to question you about a homicide that occurred last night across the courtyard on the roof of the building undergoing renovation.”
“What? I know nothing about it.” The toddler pulled the strand of beads around the woman’s neck and she winced. “Non, chéri.”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual at eleven o’clock last night?”
“You’re kidding. My baby’s teething. I can’t keep my eyes open that late,” she said, looking harried.
The toddler clung to his mother’s neck, gnawing at her beads; the other child pounded a metal truck on the floor. “We were asleep. I put the children to bed at eight; half the time I fall asleep with them.”
“There was a party in the building, maybe your husband noticed something.”
“He passes out before I do,” she said. “I’m sorry but I have to get the children ready.”
“Merci,” Aimée said. “Here’s my card just in case.”
“My husband’s picking us up in five minutes. We’re leaving for a month.”