She ignored his sarcasm.
“A very high tin content. Ninety-eight percent. That’s unusual,” she said. “Do you have another copy of this report?”
He handed her one.
She studied it. “Demand a retest. These lab findings are crucial!”
Maître Delambre ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “Look, I’m sorry. The lab performed its function, which is to show the presence, or absence, of GSR. And from these findings, a GSR presence has been clearly demonstrated. As far as the flics are concerned, and I’d have to concur, this indicates she fired the gun that killed her partner. Internal Affairs has an open-and-shut case. I can’t help her.”
Something was very wrong. “That’s not good enough. Nothing makes sense unless she was set up,” Aimée said. “The gunshot residue must have come from another gun, one with high tin content in its ammunition.”
“You raise an interesting point. But it’s moot.”
“Ask yourself this: she could have taken care of her partner much more easily and made it seem like an accident, so who set her up and why?”
“As far as I can see it’s over,” he told her. “She and her partner argued in the presence of a whole barful of witnesses. Internal Affairs gave her the option of working with me, an outside lawyer, an unheard-of courtesy, but in the light of this evidence, they’re taking over. As they should have in the beginning. Someone pulled some strings to get her outside representation but this is now internal police business. Not mine.”
So Morbier had tried to help Laure.
“Please, demand another lab test to be carried out in your presence. Ask questions about the high tin content of the residue. I doubt if anyone’s been convicted on the evidence of gun residue alone. Find out. You don’t want to lose one of your first cases, do you?”
He rocked on the heels of his shiny black shoes.
Aimée persevered. “The ammo from a flic’s weapon is composed of three elements. No tin. Any flic will tell you that. You have to demand another test, compare these results with a bullet fired from a Manhurin.”
“I know she’s your friend but I’m afraid—”
“Delambre, what a coup for you!” she said. “What appeared an open-and-shut case turned upside down by the lawyer who insisted on a thorough ballistics test. You’d make your reputation.”
He blinked. She could tell he hadn’t thought of that.
“You’d show the old-school types a thing or two,” she said. “La Proc’s always looking for new go-getters for her team, believe me.”
She didn’t know that for sure but figured it sounded good.
He was wavering.
“Boris Viard runs the lab. He’s good. Talk to him.” She’d almost convinced Delambre, she smelled it. “What have you got to lose but a case that no one thinks you’ll win anyway? Try Viard.”
“Let me think about it,” he said.
“Did you use the police reports I found?”
“According to the Code Civil they belonged in my client’s dossier,” he said. “Article . . . well, that’s legalese. You’re right. But their appearance caused surprise in several quarters.”
She balled her hands in her pockets feeling the absence of Guy’s ring. “Which ones?”
“Let’s talk over here,” he said, gesturing her behind a pillar.
Drafts whipped past her black stockings. She shivered, wishing the cold from the stone floor didn’t travel up her legs.
Maître Delambre cocked his head. “Internal Affairs expressed halfhearted dismay, but soon shut up.”
“In surprise or dismay?”
He grinned. “Why, since I hadn’t noticed these before, as I informed the inspector, I commended the bureau for its efficiency in updating me.”
Not so green after all.
“Isn’t Ludovic Jubert head of Internal Affairs now?” she said, trying a hunch.
Maître Delambre paused and shook his head. “No, but that name sounds familiar.”
She’d checked several branches in the RG and Ministry directory but none listed officers’ names. She’d run into a dead end at every turn.
“I’m convinced another gun was fired that night.”
A black-robed magistrate clapped Delambre on the shoulder as he walked past.
“We have a witness,” she told the lawyer.
“Then this witness needs to come forward.” He shook his head. “Still, as the gunshot residue was found on her hands, I don’t know how effective such testimony would be in the Internal Affairs investigation.”
Panic hit her. “The witness is a boy. He’s still in school.”
“Minors can be subpoenaed under the law.”
“Wait,” she said. “He’ll come to you of his own accord.”
“And finding a second gun would help,” Delambre said.
Of course it would. And knowing the identities of the men who had been on the roof, too.
“I’m working on it.”
He bundled the files in his briefcase. “Time for my next trial, excuse me.”
“Please call the lab to request another test. All it would take is a phone call.”
He rubbed his cheek and winced. “I’ve stuck my neck out far enough already.” He checked his watch. “My next client’s waiting. I’m sorry.”
Disappointed, she fingered the office keys in her pocket and shook her head. “Me, too.”
She’d have to do it all herself.
Late Thursday Afternoon
IF ANOTHER BULLET EXISTED, she had to find it. Back in the office she located her jumpsuit in the armoire and stuffed it into her bag along with a tool kit. By the time she reached the building on rue André Antoine, she’d controlled her apprehension and had a story ready. The photo of her and Cloclo had been taken right outside this building. She had to forget that. There was no sign of Cloclo there now.
“You again,” the concierge said, as she swept the cold hallway. Today she wore a housedress with a blue smock over it, but still had on rain boots. “The apartment’s been sealed by the police. No access is allowed.”
“You’re right,” Aimée said. She showed the concierge a work order she’d typed up. “It’s the skylight this time. Mind letting me get to work? My partner’s out sick and I’ve got three other calls to make.”
A dog barked from the concierge loge. “Let me see that.” She read the work order. “Men came yesterday for this. I had to vacuum the hall again, double my work. You’ve wasted a trip. A mistake.”
The killers back looking for the bullet? Or the true locksmiths? “Louis and Antoine?” she asked the concierge.
“Eh? I’m not on a first-name basis with all the workers who traipse through here, Mademoiselle.”
“A mec with bleached white hair?”
The concierge’s brow furrowed. She shook her head.
“Aaah, then Antoine. A black cap, down jacket, and bad teeth?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Check with your dispatch office but I tell you the work’s been done.”
The dog barked louder, its nails scratching against the closed loge door. “If you don’t mind—”
“Madame, you must have heard the skylight break that night.”
“I’ve had enough questions. Like I told the flics, there was a storm.”
For a nosy concierge she hadn’t noticed much.
“It says right here to fix the rear-hall skylight on the third floor,” Aimée said, holding out the form. “The least you can do is let me check it out.”
The concierge shushed her dog, set the broom against the wall, and put her hands on her ample hips. “Keep your hair on, Mademoiselle, I’m only doing my job.”
“Same here,” Aimée said. “I take it you have no problem with me going up to see if the rear skylight’s secured while you feed your dog, who’s jumping out of his skin with hunger?” Blame it on the dog; that might work.