“His mother drinks, he shoplifts.” René told her.
She shrugged.
“First thing tomorrow, I’ll give the files to the lawyer and I’ll explain what Paul saw,” she said. “This lawyer needs all the help he can get.”
“Will you explain that you entered the DTI and tunneled into the intranet system?” René shook his head.
“Not in so many words,” she said. “But if the lawyer has this information, what can they do? Accuse him of illegally obtaining the documents they were mandated by law to furnish him?”
René’s cell phone beeped in his pocket.
“Oui?” he answered, a smile on his face. He took the call in the kitchen. Miles Davis growled.
“We can’t be jealous, Miles,” Aimée said, ruffling his neck. René demonstrated classic symptoms of a coup de foudre, love at first sight.
“Off to a rave?” she asked, on René’s return.
“The rave sputtered and died.” René pulled on his coat, slipped his fingers into fleece-lined gloves.
She didn’t want to ask him why he was leaving instead of staying to pore over the files with her.
“I’m meeting her for a drink. Guy should be back soon, right?”
Aimée knew if she told him the truth and asked him to stay, he would. But that would be selfish. René deserved to love someone.
She nodded.
“E-mail me the ballistics report. I’d like to check something.”
“Like what?” She stood, excited.
“Just an idea. If there was a second shot, wouldn’t there be a bullet somewhere?”
“You’re a walking genius, René.”
SHE GRIPPED the velvet curtains at her window, watched René emerge from the shadows onto the quay, and enter his Citroën. Below, the Seine flowed black and inklike. An ice-flecked barge glided by, its blue-lighted captain’s cabin and red running lights reflecting on the water.
She put another log on the fire, thinking of Laure’s father policing Zette’s bar and the illegal gaming machines. Why would an old gaming investigation matter now? Did it? Then Jacques had worked with him. Zette had ties to the Commissariat. Was she right in guessing that he was an informer? Tomorrow she’d probe deeper.
Thin beams of moonlight slanted across the parquet floor. Her mind drifted to when she was nine, Paul’s age, and to the policeman’s ball she’d attended with her father. He’d escorted her to the rented hall in the tile manufacturer’s on Canal Saint Martin. Couples glided across the polished wood floor surrounded by tables bearing white tablecloths, silver-plated breadbaskets, and gleaming candles.
“Papa, I want to dance.”
“Ma princesse, this isn’t your ballet class,” he’d said, affectionately. “They’re waltzing.”
“I know.” She’d smoothed down her velvet party dress, several centimeters shorter than when she’d worn it the year before. “Dance with me, Papa?”
Was it Morbier or someone else at the round table who’d nudged him? “Go on, Jean-Claude. Bad manners not to dance with your little princesse.”
“Mais, it’s been years—”
“Please, Papa!”
An odd look had crossed his face. He took her arm, escorted her to the edge of the dance floor, a serious set to his mouth.
“We’ll make a little square, eh? Like this: side, back, side, and front. Follow me.”
Her legs tangled with his right away. He gripped her back.
“Try again.”
More frustration as he stepped on her toe.
“Aimée, let’s give this up.”
Shame bubbled up inside her and her face reddened.
“Papa, you said I can do anything if I try hard enough. Why can’t I dance like a big girl?”
“You know, I haven’t danced with anyone since your mother.”
“Maman?”
She couldn’t read his expression. He never talked about her mother. Refused to.
“Et alors, stand on my feet. Remember, we make a little box, one . . . two . . . three . . . one . . . two . . . three.”
She remembered her father’s black polished shoes, hard under her small feet, how he gripped her and whirled her around the dance floor. And the feeling she’d never forgotten of moving with the music, safe in his arms.
She’d never stop loving him, but she had to know. The hard part was going to be reading his dossier. Would she find evidence of a cover-up, extortion, bribes? She could delete the dossier before reading it and never know.
She joined Miles Davis on the rug by the crackling fire and took a deep breath. Then she scrolled to the file entitled Jean-Claude Leduc and clicked on it. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Empty. The file had been erased.
Tuesday Evening
LUCIEN BOWED TO THE applause of the small crowd. He’d seen Félix deep in conversation with a white-haired man. No Marie-Dominique. He knew she wouldn’t come, but the curve of her tan back, the green flecks in her eyes, invaded his thoughts.
Never get between the fingernail and the flesh, his grand-mère would say when she wanted him to mind his own business. Marie-Dominique had indicated loud and clear that he was an inconvenience in her life.
He fanned himself with a program in the close air, picked up his cetera and case. The next act was a magician who grinned as he set a black velvet box on the stage.
“Marvelous!” Félix said, coming up and clapping him on the back. “You capture a Mediterranean spirit with this Euro-hop rhythm; I couldn’t stop tapping my feet. Neither could Monsieur Kouros.”
Kouros was the short white-haired man wearing thick black-framed glasses. He resembled the Greek millionaire Ari Onassis. Kouros, the head of SOUNDWERX. A giant in the recording industry, despite his unassuming exterior. He was rumored to be hands-on all the way.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Kouros, I’m honored to meet you.”
“We want an exclusive young man,” Kouros said. “Your music defies labels. Everyone, even jazz aficionados, will love it. Montreux, San Marino—I’ll book you in all the music festivals, put you on the circuit.”
SOUNDWERX never followed trends, it created them. Kouros discovered talent and made careers.
“How generous. Thank you, Monsieur.”
“People want this. Ageless yet new, hip and still classical. Your music builds on traditions but it goes beyond borders.”
All he knew was that when he picked up the cetera, harmonized with his recorded tracks, and found the right hip-hop beat, it poured out of him, he couldn’t stop. His fingers found the truth on the strings.
“You’ll get him studio time tomorrow, Félix? Work with the tracks he has, add some new ones?”
Félix beamed. “As soon as we take care of the contract, eh, Lucien? Just your signature and then a CD as soon as we can press it, oui, Monsieur Kouros?”
Félix put his arm around Lucien, squeezed him, as if to say, it’s a done deal. Lucien wished he hadn’t spent all last night thinking of this man’s wife.
“Everyone’s political these days,” Kouros said. His smile was at odds with the steely glint in his eyes. Or was that the glare on his glasses? “It gives an edge to the lyrics, but I must be sure you have no connections with these Separatist extremist groups, eh? These bombings. Terrible.”
Lucien’s knuckles, gripping his cetera, whitened. “My life’s music, Monsieur Kouros.”
“Just needed to clarify, young man.” He reached for Lucien’s other hand, shook it with a strong grip, and folded it in both of his. “This is the way I seal a contract.” He pumped Lucien’s hand harder. “Old style. It works for me.”