“True, René, but we’re not there yet.”
Not quite. She took a deep breath, counted to five. They had to get back on track. She drew a quick sketch, replicating the diagram she’d turned over to Bordereau.
“Look at what Yann’s diagram showed. Supposedly, the bombs were set here, in the Mairie, by Corsican Separatists, where there are Xs on this diagram.”
René’s mouth dropped. “Bombs?”
“Defused before they could go off. My DST contact confirmed it. What if Jacques had an informer who knew about the plan or—”
“Defused when?”
“Sunday night.”
“Jacques was murdered Monday night,” René said. “Nice try.”
Deflated, Aimée stared at the map. Thought hard.
“Correct.” She wouldn’t give up that quickly. “Suppose Jacques knew of a backup terrorist plan and met an informer to try to discover the next target. My DST connection also mentioned a data-encryption leak,” she said. “Suppose there’s a connection.”
“Flics don’t buy suppositions,” René said.
Aimée nodded.
“I fished around for Big Ears and data-encryption leaks and found Frenchelon. Want to help me?”
“Ask Saj,” René said. “Last year, he designed those ‘nasty little ciphers,’ as the Ministry called them, to retool security in the Bankverein Swiss bank scam. Remember?”
Bankverein Swiss had lost millions of francs to hackers but kept it quiet to avoid customer panic. And covered it with their reserves. A mere dent, financial analysts concluded, in the bank’s hefty assets.
She’d call Saj later.
René took the Varnet folder. “Shall I follow up with a visit?”
“Before they change their mind? Good idea. Take this contract form with you and sign them up.” She paused. “What happened with your date?”
He looked away. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Meanwhile, here’s the refund notice from the tax office. Finally!”
“Bravo, René!”
He surprised her all the time. It had taken a year and René’s tenacious determination to wade through paperwork issued by a string of offices to obtain their refund.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Now I have to reach the bureaucrat who dispenses refunds. He’s been out with gallbladder problems. But then we will be able to afford the new laptops we need.”
She stood up and hugged him, caught the pride in his eyes and the pink on his cheeks before he turned away. René blushing?
“Get the refund, partner, and they’re yours. And more. You can impress your girlfriend.”
“Then I better get going,” René said, reaching back for his coat.
“Me, too.”
Out in the hallway she realized she’d forgotten to stop at the accounting firm next door for an envelope that had been left there according to the delivery notice.
“Go ahead, René,” she told him.
“How are you, Diza?” Aimée said to the receptionist. “Got something for me?”
Diza, wearing a tight green wool skirt, fuchsia floral-print silk shirt, and knockoff agnès b. jacket, balanced a tray of espressos from the café below. Though she was in her forties, she dressed young and carried it off. Most of the time.
“On my desk, Mademoiselle Aimée,” she said, grinning. “Coffee time for the boys.”
The “boys” she referred to were none of them under sixty.
Aimée slit open a manila envelope with her name printed on it in block letters. Several grainy black-and-white photos fell out. The kind made at night with a long-distance telephoto lens. They showed two women standing on a street. She looked closer and recognized Cloclo and herself in conversation. Her stomach clenched. Two more photos showed René with a woman with spiky hair. Herself or . . . ?
“Such a nice photo of you and Monsieur René,” Diza said, peering over her shoulder. “You two were having fun. That’s good. Nice to see Monsieur René smiling.”
“Alors, Diza, it’s not me.”
“Looks just like you, Mademoiselle Aimée,” Diza said.
“So she does, Diza,” Aimée said, nonplussed. Spikey hair, heels and alclass="underline" René’s new girlfriend, Magali, resembled her!
“Diza, how did this envelope arrive?”
“By messenger. You know, the ones who ride like madmen on their bikes. One almost ran me over yesterday.”
“Can you describe him?”
Diza grinned. “Let’s see, black cap, down jacket, you know the big kind that puffs out, jeans. Like all of them.”
“Yellow teeth?”
“Come to think of it,” she said, dropping a sugar cube into one of the espressos, “yes.”
The mec from the phone booth who’d chased her through the Marché Saint Pierre! The photos meant, We know who you are and we’re watching you.
Aimée ran down the stairs out onto rain-slicked rue du Louvre. She caught René before he stepped into a waiting taxi at the curb.
“René, look at these photos. We’re being watched.”
René set his briefcase on the taxi seat and thumbed through them, a tight smile on his face.
“I didn’t think stalkers went after men,” he said.
AIMÉE PACED in the cavernous marble-floored Tribunal. It was crowded with scurrying lawyers, their black robes trailing, and with defendants knotted in earnest discussion; the smell of cold stone and wet wool lingered in the corners. She peeked through the oval window of the courtroom’s oak door. Four robed judges sat on a dais—more oak—one leaned back, her eyes closed.
A minute later, Maître Delambre came through the door. His cheek was swollen and his arms loaded with dossiers. He’d survived the dentist’s chair, it seemed.
He pursed his lips when he saw her.
“Those mecs are still following me,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort.
“Better mind your own business, Mademoiselle Leduc. A difficult task for you, I’m sure,” he said, shifting the pile of dossiers to his other arm. “Laure’s case looks open and shut. Guilty.”
“What do you mean? You don’t even have the lab report.”
“It came this morning,” he interrupted her, pulling out a sheet. “The report confirms the preliminary finding of gunshot residue on her hands. None on yours, however.”
It didn’t make sense. How could Laure? Why would she?
“Why the delay?” She thought fast. “Wouldn’t that indicate issues as to inaccuracy or as to procedures? May I see this report?”
He handed it to her. “According to the lab, they’ve experienced an unusually high frequency of cases. A big backlog. But the GSR test results are clear, and damning.”
She scanned the report, shaking her head.
“That’s all?”
“It’s in black and white. What more do you want?”
She looked closer. “It says here the detailed lab analysis will follow. Where is it?”
Maître Delambre expelled a breath of disgust, then rifled in his briefcase. “Hmmm, percentages, element and metal composition. Voilà.”
Aimée studied the paper. Checked the numbers. Her mind reeled. “Gunshot residue’s composed of lead, barium, and antimony.”
“So you’re an expert on this, too,” Maître Delambre said. “Mademoiselle Leduc of the many talents.”
“I own a gun—licensed, of course,” she said. “All bullets contain lead, barium, and antimony.” She pointed to one of the columns of numbers. “Few bullets contain this.”
He leaned over her shoulder. “The expert found a problem?”