René opened the book, and, together, using his pen flashlight, they leafed through the pages.
“Why don’t you try, Paul?”
René passed him a tin of pastel chalks and a sketchpad.
“Horses?”
“Draw the roofline, that’s what’s familiar, non? You could start with the gray . . . try the blue one to shade in the building, smudge it . . . see?”
René wiped his thumb across the line. “Give it depth, suggest . . .”
“Can I use that in the report for my teacher?”
“Why not? And the drawing, too. She’d like that. It shows you are resourceful.”
Paul nodded, his hands busy. Ten cold minutes later, he looked up. “You mean like this?”
René looked. The bold gray lines depicting the building were quite skillful. “You’re a born artist, Paul. Good job!”
A wide smile split Paul’s face. René realized it was the first time he’d seen the boy’s teeth. Didn’t his mother ever praise him?
“I see this every day, like Toulouse-Lautrec saw his horses every day.”
René grinned. “Of course, draw what you know. But you must work at it. He did. Every day.”
Paul nodded.
And then René noticed a half-open plastic bag in which model airplanes were just visible. Expensive ones.
“They’re mine,” Paul said, following his gaze.
“Eh, why do you keep them up here?”
“My friend gave them to me!” Paul’s lip quivered.
René doubted that. “Look, it’s not my business—”
“None of your business. You’re wrong,” Paul interrupted.
“Correct, none of my business. I once stole car magazines. The shop owner caught me. Told me if I ever did that again he’d take me to the Commissariat.” René shifted on the tiled roof. “I know you didn’t steal them but things can be returned in a quiet way with no one the wiser. I mean if your friend had taken them, of course.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“Good friends need help.” René winked, thinking it best to plant the seed and change the subject. “But I still don’t understand how you could have seen those flashes from here,” René said. “You didn’t have binoculars, did you?”
“Of course I could see. They were right there.”
“You must have good eyes. How many?”
“Two flashes.”
René shook his head. “Impossible.”
“There were two men arguing,” Paul said, his voice serious.
“Then another man came, they were nice, and then . . .”
“What?”
Paul looked away. “My maman told me not to talk about it. She said it could get us in trouble. And we have all the trouble we need. She hates the flics.”
So that was it.
“She’s not alone in that, Paul. But I know someone who’s a private detective. She can do things and not get people in trouble.”
“Like what?”
René leaned forward. “I’d have to tell her what you saw. Exactly. But she can make anonymous calls and investigate without anyone knowing. That’s what she does best; she’s a computer detective. No one will know.”
Paul’s mouth dropped.
“A computer detective?”
René nodded, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets. Lights twinkled beyond the dark outlines of the roofs stretching before them.
“No one will know?”
“I promise.”
Tuesday Late Afternoon
AIMÉE’S CONNECTION at the police judiciare, Léo Frot, had moved to the Finance Ministry. And he wouldn’t return her calls. So she had to take a chance and try to access STIC, Système de Traitment de l’Information Fichier Central, the intranet police computer system; she would have to move fast and find Laure’s file.
From her vantage point, a table in the back of a bistro filled with early diners, she observed the crowd. This was a haunt of men and a few women wearing the badge of the DTI, Direction des Transmissions Informatiques, the computer division that was located across the street at 7, rue Nélaton where the DST, Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire was housed. They wore street clothes, no uniforms. A plastic holder was clipped to each jacket bearing an ID card with the blue Ministry crest and the employee’s name. Such a card would be simple to duplicate and would get her past the entry guards. Once inside she’d have to do some “social engineering,” as René called it. Faking it expressed it better. The graveyard shift, when there was minimal staff, would be the best time to try.
She finished the dregs of her espresso, paid, and fetched her coat from the rack. It hung under all the others, as she’d planned, since she’d arrived early. By the time she found it, she had memorized the badge of one Simone Teil, #3867 Dept AL4A, clipped to a black raincoat whose owner sat at a nearby table. She drew a sketch of the badge crest and design on the white paper tablecloth. Now she put that piece of paper in her pocket and left.
Late Tuesday Night
JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, AIMÉE flashed her plastic laminated ID at the pair of guards behind the tan-and-turquoise reception counter at the DTI. There was a faded, scuffed feeling to this seventies-era building. Even the curling emergency-exit plan taped to the wall had seen better days.
Several men passed through the turnstile and signed out. The guard barely glanced at her badge. “Back again, Mademoiselle Teil?” His partner sat with his eyes glued to the video monitors.
Aimée nodded, keeping her head down, the black-brimmed hat and turned-up coat collar on her neck, hiding most of her face as she scanned the log. Simone Teil’s angular signature was distinctive and easy to copy. She signed in. “My report’s due in the morning.” She sighed. “You know how that goes!”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?” the guard said, his eyes darting over her.
Little did he know.
“Merci.” She shouldered her bag, edged toward the turnstile, and inserted her card. The machine beeped and the metal bars locked, barring her entry. Her hands trembled.
She took the card and made a show of rubbing it. “The magnetic tape’s worn. Can you let me in?”
“Worn? But those are the new cards, issued last week!” the guard said.
Great. And her luck to get a talkative guard.
“Go figure,” she said. “Must have gotten scratched in my purse.”
“Odd. They designed them to avoid that.”
“Why don’t you pass me in?”
“Your card should work.”
“Of course, it should! I’ll get it taken care of tomorrow. But just this once?”
He hesitated, looked at his watch. “I’m off in a few minutes.”
She rubbed her head. ”The chief himself called me and insisted I come back.”
“Time to tally the end-of-shift report, Fabius,” said the guard by the video monitors.
He shrugged and took a card from his pocket. She edged into the turnstile.
“You’re sure it doesn’t work?” Fabius asked. “I just checked the card assignments.”
“Eh?”
“Swipe it once more.”
Think fast.
My nail file,” she said, pretending to swipe her card. “That’s “what scratched it up!”
The turnstiles clicked. Thank God he was going off duty. Somehow she’d figure a way to get out. But poor Simone Teil would get a questionnaire next time.