“I have a gig,” Lucien said.
“First, let’s go to church,” she said.
THE TAXI stopped on rue Saint-Rustique, the oldest street in Montmartre, wide enough, she imagined, for a twelfth-century cart. She handed the driver thirty francs. “Keep the change,” she said, hoping to earn late-night taxi karma, and he grinned.
A gutter ran down the middle of the street, like an inverted seam, leading to Eglise Saint-Pierre, a church built on the site of Roman temples to Mars and Mercury. In the fifth century, an abbey, later the birthplace of the Jesuit order, had stood here. Now it was the oldest chapel in Paris. During the Revolution, it had been a telegraph station. In the Franco-Prussian War, a Prussian munitions depot. At the time of the Commune, a fortress against the Communards and starving masses who were reduced to hunting rats.
The bronze sculpted Italian doors stood open, revealing a candle-lit medieval stone chapel. A small crowd was leaving the mass. The courtyard, usually crowded with tourists, lay deserted this winter night.
The musk of incense made her nose itch. Their footsteps echoed as they passed the statue of Marie Thérèse of Montmartre and walked toward the columns crowned by sculpted leaves.
Félix Conari was shaking hands with the priest, clasping them within his own. A gray-haired man wearing a dark suit, red tie, and blue shirt, the uniform of Ministry types, stood next to him. His was a face she’d seen often in the paper next to that of the Minister of the Interior.
Church and state. Bad partners. She didn’t like it.
She caught Conari’s eye. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. A few moments later, he excused himself and joined them.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Conari, but your housekeeper—”
“My wife didn’t tell you? Aaah, I forgot she’s at a reception, but it’s good you found me.” Conari put his arm around Lucien. “Ça va, Lucien?”
Lucien gave a hesitant nod.
“We celebrated the annual memorial mass for my sister. Come, let’s talk outside,” Conari said. His silk tie was rumpled, his eyes tired and red. Near the pillar, he picked up his brown overcoat, which was resting on a folded suitbag with an Air France luggage tag.
Outside the church, which was overshadowed by Sacré Coeur, he buttoned his coat and steered them to the adjacent cemetery gate. Mist topped the summit of rue du Mont-Cenis, the street that was once the ancient pilgrim route.
“We must clear up this misunderstanding, Lucien,” said Félix.
The dark cemetery, with a sign saying it was open once a year, revealed sinking sarcophagi pitched at drunken angles. Druids, Romans, medieval men, they were all under here, somewhere.
“How can we reach Petru?” Aimée asked.
“He was supposed to meet me at the airport.”
“Two hours ago he threatened us.”
“I haven’t seen him since Monday,” Conari said. “I don’t understand.”
He seemed as lost as she felt. She’d thought Conari would have answers. She’d been clutching at connections, grasping at straws driven by a feeling in her gut, unsubstantiated by anything more than an overheard conversation in Corsican, Zette’s body hanging from the WC door, a nine-year-old’s observations from the roof, lights in a construction site at night, and a sour taste in her mouth about Ludovic Jubert.
“Félix, what’s going on?” Lucien asked.
Conari gave a deep sigh. “I’m concerned, too,” he said. “Petru hasn’t returned my calls.”
“Petru tried to incriminate me. And he’s been following me.”
“You’re serious? He threatened you, Lucien?” Conari shook his head. “Petru’s a hothead, he gets out of line sometimes. But this sickens me.”
“Out of line, Félix?” Lucien said. “He planted information at the recording studio to tie me to the terrorists and then alerted the police.”
“So Marie-Dominique told me,” Conari said. “On the outside she’s a sparrow; inside, a protective hawk, like all the Vescovatis women.”
A vein pulsed in Lucien’s forehead, just visible under a black curl. So Conari’s wife had warned Lucien.
“Why, Félix?”
“Ask him,” he said. “Ever since Marie-Dominique phoned, I’ve tried to find him. There’s some misunderstanding. But don’t worry, I’m going to salvage the deal with SOUNDW-ERX.”
“I thought Kouros pulled out.” Lucien’s mouth tightened.
“Lucien, my boy, we signed the contract!” Félix said. “Look on the bright side.”
Lucien shook his head. “But Kouros didn’t sign it.”
“His handshake’s his word, remember, Lucien?”
“Not if there’s any taint of the Armata Corsa. He made that clear.”
“We have a contract, Lucien,” Conari said. “I’ll get you into the recording studio as soon as I can. Right now, I have to concentrate on my construction contract.”
“How long has Petru worked for you?” Aimée asked.
“Six months or so. He does odd jobs,” Félix Conari said. “His cousin married my sister. He’s from a different clan than Marie-Dominique.”
“Does that explain him turning on Lucien and sabotaging his recording deal?”
“Corsican hotheads make no sense to me, Mademoiselle,” Conari said. “I married into a family and I try to help people like Lucien when I can. But ancient wrongs don’t interest me.”
“Was one of his little jobs to cover up the shooting of a flic on the rooftop opposite yours during your party?”
Conari’s eyes widened. “Petru? You think he shot someone? No, he was serving at dinner. At the table. You saw him, Lucien. We all did.”
“A witness heard men speaking Corsican on the roof,” she said.
Félix Conari shook his head. “In that howling storm?”
“I think the police will be interested, Monsieur Conari.
Especially if they learn you’ve employed a suspected Corsican terrorist.”
Lucien’s hands twisted on the grip of his music case.
“Terrorist? Petru? There’s a mistake. Maybe some macho posturing. . . .” Conari pulled his lower eyelid down with a fingertip, an old-fashioned gesture meaning, Who are you trying to kid? “I want to help but I have no idea why he’d plant false information. My wife could have misheard.”
“Yet you said he’s disappeared.”
“We have to straighten this out.” Conari took his cell phone, hit the speed dial. “Petru, I’m back, we must speak,” he said. Then Conari snapped his cell phone shut. “I got his voice mail. The moment he calls me, I’ll let you know.”
“His number?” she said. She was programming the number into her cell phone as Conari showed it to her.
“Does he live in your apartment?”
Conari shook his head. “Petru lives somewhere in the quartier.”
“Don’t you know where he lives?”
“He just moved, but he has been secretive about a lot of things,” Conari said. “When I think about it, it is odd.”
“Where did he live before?”
“Near Place Froment, above a Turkish grocery,” Conari said.
“Something more specific, Monsieur Conari?”
“We picked him up there once,” he said. “I waited in the car by the cemetery wall. Let’s see, I remember my driver fetched him. The shop had everything—food, hookahs, even Turkish videos.”
Lucien hitched the backpack onto his other shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a gig, Félix.”
“Lucien, believe me. Mademoiselle Leduc, I’m sorry for what happened. Petru’s got a temper. But to fly off like this? I don’t understand.”
“Where were you, Monsieur Conari?”
“I’m negotiating with the Ministry. It’s difficult with these Separatist attacks aggravating the situation.”