Messages had been placed under the stones: “For Maman, I never had the chance to say goodbye and tell you how I love you. I pray you are in the stars shining above.”
Her own mother, an American radical activist, had left them when she was eight, without saying goodbye. The pain never went away, but she’d tried to move on. Sadness vied with her apprehension that René would be too late.
Her cell phone vibrated.
“René?”
“What have you done now? There are flics crawling everywhere; foot patrols, cars. They’re stopping taxis.”
“Well—”
“Non. Don’t tell me. Where are you?”
She looked through the bushes. “I can see your car. Park on quay Branly facing the monument. Open the trunk like you’re looking for something. Be sure you get your brake lights even with the chestnut tree, the big one. See it?”
René’s Citroën edged along the street and parked by the tree. He got out, wearing a painter’s smock, and unlocked his trunk. Under the street lamps, his resemblance to Toulouse-Lautrec was uncanny. He pulled out a tool set and placed it on the glistening pavement. A blue-and-white police car prowling the quay paused. She crouched, gripping the branches, her heart pounding. Then it drove on.
Her heels sank into the dirt as she made her way from the memorial to the quay. René pulled out a blanket, shook it, folded it laboriously to shield Aimée from the view of another cruising flic car. She held her breath until it passed and then ran, keeping low, and barreled into the trunk.
“Hope you cleaned up your tracks,” René muttered, putting his toolbox back, then shutting the trunk. He’d spread blankets over the tire jack, yet it dug into her spine. Still it beat riding in a flic’s car in handcuffs.
All the way back, wedged in René’s trunk, her mind spun. Had she remembered everything? Kept her head covered and down when she was within the security camera’s range? Wiped all her prints off the keyboard, the bathroom faucet, and door handles? Worn gloves in the elevator and not touched the stair railing? Yes . . . her heart skipped. The Marie Lu foil biscuit packet. Gérard had finished the biscuits, wadded the wrapping, and thrown it in the trash bin by his terminal.
With Gérard’s help they’d soon discover the files she’d copied, but she’d stolen nothing, destroyed nothing. Like a courteous hacker, she’d cracked the system but wreaked no havoc. All she’d done was level the playing field in Laure’s investigation. At least for now. If she gave the files she’d copied to Maître Delambre, how could the flics complain? The information was already in their files. They’d be caught concealing evidence from the defense.
Maybe she could shake Jubert from his lair. Now at least she knew what he looked like, albeit as a young man, and she’d found out that at one time he’d worked in the Ministry of Interior. If Gérard had steered her right, even on rue des Saussaies. A place she doubted she could crack with dynamite.
BACK AT her apartment, she banked the fire in her salon while René hung up his painting smock. Crackling flames cast shadows onto the tall ceiling. Miles Davis was curled on the rug. At least the contractor had given her a working fireplace. The kitchen and bathrooms, their gaping-open walls revealing ancient electrical wiring, were another story.
“You first, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec,” she said. “What have you found out?”
He stuck his short arms into a wool cardigan, buttoned it, and joined her, cross-legged, on a sheepskin rug on the parquet floor. She passed him a hot buttered rum, and he closed his eyes and inhaled. The fire’s warmth heated a small area, never penetrating to the cold corners.
“Much warmer than the roof. That’s where I was when you called. Pretty quick, eh!”
From the eighteenth! René was a speed demon behind the wheel. “You, on a roof?”
“You’re not the only one, you know,” he said. “A fantastic view despite the ice. Right across from the building where Jacques bought it.”
She swallowed the wrong way. Choked. He amazed her all the time.
“Eh, Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec, what did your eyewitness see?”
“Paul’s nine years old, shoplifts, and promised his mother not to tell about the two flashes he saw on the roof.”
“Two shots? Hold on, then the ballistics report should indicate two bullets. Un moment.” She pulled out the disc from her shirt, pulled the laptop from her desk, and booted up. “Let’s see, the ballistics report should clarify it.”
René’s jaw dropped. “This information . . . did you . . .?”
“I thought you didn’t want to know,” she said, inserting the disc. “That intranet system gave me a headache. But as you always say, no system’s impenetrable. And I had a little help. Until the mec ate my biscuits and woke up.”
“You’ve done it now, Aimée,” René said. “They won’t stop till they find you. Breaking into—”
“They don’t know who I am.” She kept telling herself that, praying that her fingerprints wouldn’t be found. And that she’d never run into Gérard on the street. But even if she did, how would he recognize her?
“Look at this.” She clicked on Laure’s dossier. The screen filled with the files, arranged by unit. “Strikes me as funny that only one of these was furnished to her lawyer.”
“Check the entry date and time,” René said, rubbing his arms. “More might have been entered after her lawyer received his information.”
She checked. “These were entered several hours before I met Maître Delambre. What’s going on?”
“A police cover-up?” René said.
She opened the ballistics file and read it. “One bullet was recovered from the corpse. From Laure’s Manhurin,” she summarized.
Great.
But if Paul had seen another flash . . .
“You’re sure he really saw something, René?”
“Paul has an eye for detail,” René said. “I don’t think he’d make it up. He has no reason to.”
It was the only hope she had. “Say there were two guns. If Paul saw two flashes—”
“And heard only one shot,” René interrupted.
She stared at René. “I’d say the other gun had a silencer.”
René rubbed his wide forehead. “That’s what it means?”
“Stands to reason.”
“How would the bad guys know Laure was down below?”
“Good question.” She watched the fire, trying to make sense of what Paul had observed.
“If they planned to shoot Jacques and he boasted he had backup—” she ventured.
“Would he do that?” René interrupted. “Show his ace in the hole like that?”
“True,” she said and thought. “Think of it from their point of view. What if, from the roof, they saw Laure accompany Jacques across the courtyard. Let’s assume they took advantage of an opportunity to implicate Laure by using her gun and leaving gunshot residue on her hands.”
“Maybe,” René said. “That’s plausible. But why kill Jacques in the first place?”
“I’m working on that. Blackmail? Bribery?” She shook her head and stared at the fire. Did Zette’s gambling machines fit in this?
“What about other witnesses?” René asked.
“The partygoers saw nothing. Félix Conari, the host, and Yann Marant, his systems analyst, mentioned a musician, Lucien Sarti. So far, I haven’t been able to find him. That old lady, Zoe Tardou, on the top floor across the way acted secretive but she’s an odd bird.” Such a strange woman. She filed away the thought that she should question Madame Tardou again.
“Did Paul see anything else?” she asked.
René shook his head.
They didn’t have much.
“We have to get Paul to give a statement to Laure’s attorney.”