“Why?” Suspicion clouded her eyes.
René stepped back. “There’s an important matter. . . .”
A sudden panic showed in her face. “You’re checking up on us, aren’t you? From social services.”
“Not at all,” René said, taken aback.
“I know your kind. Worming your way into our life. You want to take Paul away!”
“Relax, Madame,” he said desperately. “Look at me. I don’t know about social services or anything like that. I do know Paul’s a bright boy. Intelligent, talented, but shy.”
A flicker of shame crossed her face. “Shy, oui. My fault, right? That’s what you’re saying.”
“There’s something we need to discuss. Please, let’s talk inside, not in the hallway.”
“Discuss? My place is a mess.” She hesitated.
“You should see mine,” he told her.
With more prodding, he coaxed her inside. By the time he’d helped her clear the small table of dishes, reached up, and rinsed two glasses clean and set them on the table, his hip throbbed from the cold. There was no heater in the slant-roofed one-room apartment. But it was neat despite the sofa bed, desk, and mismatched period chairs that filled the cramped space.
“Chilly, eh?” he said.
She gestured to the stove and unpacked her string bag.
On his tiptoes he turned the knob of the small gas oven. The blue pilot light flickered, hissed, and caught. He opened the door and a trickle of heat radiated out.
“Establish rapport, appear nonthreatening,” said the last chapter in the detective manual. Anxious to disarm her, René made conversation. “Those stairs are quite a hike,” he said. “I mean for someone like me,” he added, watching her pour wine from an unlabeled bottle. It looked like generic rotgut with viscous sediment in the bottom. “In my former apartment I had quite a climb. Have you lived here long, Madame?”
“Isabelle,” she said. “You can cut the small talk.”
Easy on the page, harder in real life. René realized the detective manual’s advice had limitations.
“Paul’s father left after he was born.” She drained her glass. “We’ve moved around. Always in Montmartre.”
“You’re lucky, great view.” He gestured to the large window with lace curtains.
She rested her elbows on the worn table, seemed to relax. “I don’t know what you want to ‘discuss,’ but I suggest you tell me.”
“It’s better if we all talk together—you, me, and Paul,” he said, trying to stall.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
Might as well get to the point. “Paul told me he saw the shooting the other night on the roof,” René said.
“You’re crazy! Paul makes up stories. He has a vivid imagination.”
“Let’s find out. I’ll ask him again, in your presence. Everything will remain confidential.”
She poured herself another glass and noticed René hadn’t touched his. “Too good to drink with me at my table?”
He preferred wine at meals, not on an empty stomach, but he knew his duty.
“Not at all, Isabelle.” He took a sip. A toasted walnutlike aroma. Not a bad way to warm up. “An aged Merlot?”
She nodded.
“Isabelle, I’m sure you’re concerned.” He handed her a card; thank God, he had one with him. “Paul says there were two gun flashes. If he gives this evidence to her lawyer, an innocent police officer will be cleared.”
“Innocent policeman? You’re joking.”
About to say “policewoman,” René paused. “What do you mean?”
“That one demanded protection money.”
“Jacques Gagnard, the man who was murdered on the rooftop?”
“Look, it’s not my business,” she said. “Forget I said anything.”
“How do you know the flic was bent?” he asked, easing his dangling leg onto a chair rung to relieve his aching hip.
She shrugged. “No big secret if you work the street or have a café with machines.”
Like Zette’s bar on rue Houdon, René thought. Maybe Aimée had hit the mark after all.
“I need more than that. It’s vital; a policewoman is suspected of killing her partner.”
Isabelle’s short laugh took him aback. “Ask me if I’m surprised.”
Her speech had cleared. After the wine she appeared more lucid. Some drinkers were like that. Then, a blackout.
“Your son saw a man murdered. It happened right across from you.”
She drained her glass.
“Those were real gunshots, not the télé. Have you realized your son could have been hit by a stray bullet?”
She looked away.
How could he reach her? He took another sip of wine, wishing his hip didn’t hurt so much. Poured more in her glass. “Isabelle, say this flic was corrupt and an angry contact shot him. We need your help to find the guilty man.”
“You’re undercover, right? Some special detective unit.”
René took a big sip. Let her think that. He nodded.
Isabelle stared straight ahead, then locked eyes with his. She pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. “There were three shots. I saw it all.”
“Three?” René’s stomach flip-flopped. Whether from the wine or her words, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. “Paul said . . .”
She shook her head. “Paul didn’t see the third one. The last shot.”
“Did you see who fired?”
“I don’t want Paul involved, you understand,” Isabelle said.
Negotiate, like it said in chapter eight, page eighty-seven. Reluctant witnesses would try to negotiate. Agree, but obtain your objective.
René nodded. “If you agree to meet the lawyer and give evidence, Paul can be kept out of it.”
“Then it’s a deal, little man?”
No one had ever called him that in his life and gotten away with it.
“Count on it. And my name’s René.”
She pushed aside her half-full wineglass. “Et donc, René, I was sitting right here, writing my uncle for help. Paul was asleep in his alcove behind the curtain. Or so I thought. That’s why I noticed. It was black outside, like coal; a storm was brewing. Then, all of a sudden, something flashed right across my line of sight from that roof. I heard a bark like a gunshot. It startled me so much I spilled the ink.” She pointed to a splotch on the table’s surface.
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Dark figures were moving on the roof. I turned down the radio. In five minutes, maybe more, I saw another flash.”
It could make sense. Had they ambushed Laure, used her gun on Jacques, then put their gun in her hand and fired again?
“How much of that had you drunk, Isabelle?” He gestured to the empty green bottles on the floor by the fridge.
“I got my check Tuesday.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“No money on Monday, René. I ran short. Paul had to have food,” she said. “But I stock up on food when I get my check. Always. Then I can’t spend it on my friends.”
He stared at the bottles. To a lonely woman, wine was a friend.
“My boy’s a monkey. He goes up on the roof all the time. I blame that old fool downstairs who lets Paul help him,” she said. “I heard the door creak open and then I saw the third flash. Paul set his schoolbag on the table and crept into the sleeping alcove. Eh, you can be sure I gave him a talking-to. Told him we’d have trouble if he opened his mouth. He promised, after I put the fear of God in him.”
Something bothered René.
“Peering out into the dark from your window, how could you see figures?”
“Before the storm came in full force, I could make out shapes. There were two dark figures.”
“Isabelle, think of how it looked from the other side. If you had a light on, wouldn’t they have seen you?”