“They’ve got it all wrong, Morbier,” Aimée called out.
“Move along, Mademoiselle,” said the flic, pushing her toward the blue-and-white police van.
“Just a moment, Officer,” Morbier said.
The officer raised his eyebrows, eyeing first Morbier and then Aimée’s black leather pants, down jacket, and spiky hair.
Morbier flashed his ID. “Give me a moment.”
“Bien sûr, Commissaire,” the flic said, taken aback.
“What mess have you gotten yourself into this time, Leduc?” Morbier asked, his breath misting in the freezing air.
“You got that right, Morbier. A terrible mess.” She gave him a brief account.
Morbier listened, pulling out a Montecristo cigarillo, cupping his hands, and lighting it with a wooden match. He puffed, sending acrid whiffs into Aimée’s face, and tossed the match into the snow, where it went thupt. When she finished he shook his head and looked away, silently.
Why didn’t he say anything? “Morbier, help me convince them. . . .”
“Might as well teach rocks to swim, Leduc. There’s procedure. You know that. Do the drill. You’re a suspect, shut your mouth.”
“Shut my mouth?”
“Until you give your statement,” he said. “Be smart.”
She controlled her horror. Of course, he was right. She’d explain, diagram her route, show that Laure couldn’t have killed Jacques.
“Laure wouldn’t shoot her partner after practically the whole police force had seen them together in the café!”
Morbier flicked his ashes, they caught in the wind. “And witnessed their fight and your meddling,” he said.
She’d forgotten about that public scene.
“You’ve got clout, Morbier,” she said. “Use it.”
For once, she hoped he’d listen to her.
The flic grabbed Aimée’s elbow in an iron grip. “I’m sorry, Commissaire, the van’s waiting.”
“What a night for this to happen!” Morbier expelled his breath with a noise she recognized for what it was, resignation underlaid with the steel note of authority. A mode he’d perfected. Voices drifted from above them. Lights glowed from the building’s roof.
Aimée noticed a black-leather-coated man, a pack on his back, standing in a doorway. He watched them intently, listening, as if gauging the situation. Could he have witnessed the shooting?
A battered Renault Twingo skidded to a halt beside the white morgue van. Several men jumped out, cameras in hand or on straps slung over their chests.
“The press! Excuse us, Commissaire; allez-y, Mademoiselle.”
The flic bundled Aimée away before she could point out the possible witness to Morbier. He shoved her into the police van, handcuffed her wrists to the bar behind her like a criminal. She slipped on the floor, which had been salted to slow a prisoner’s traction if he aimed to bolt. She felt each cobblestone as her spine jounced against the hard seat and the van headed, siren blaring, into the night.
Monday Night
AT THE BARK OF A GUN above him, Lucien Sarti had jumped and ducked into a blackened stone doorway. A reflex. Knots clenched his stomach; he wanted to melt into the stone.
He worried about crossfire. Relentless sleet pelted the buildings. Peering up the curving street, he saw no one else on the glistening icy surface. Then clumps of snow fell from a scaffolding above and crumbled on the cobblestones. He saw movement, heard thuds.
Lucien moved back deeper into the doorway, pulled his black leather coat tighter, waited. He brushed the snow from his curling black hair. Given his history, the best thing would be to leave. Run, get away. But his big chance lay a stone’s throw off, just around the corner.
His luck!
The warren of nineteenth-century soot-stained buildings and twisted mounting streets reminded him of rue du Castagno in Bastia’s old port. But instead of sun-baked stone, the sirocco whipping from Africa, and old women knitting on their stoops, the steep stairs ahead held clusters of new snow, gusts of wind, and prostitutes who’d stepped into the shadows.
He waited until he saw flickers of light and heard the wail like a cat in heat and then sirens. As he was about to run across the street, the door behind him was opened by an old man leading a Westie on a leash.
Think fast, he told himself.
“Pardon, I forgot the door code,” he said to the old man. “My friends live on the second floor.”
The old man nodded, a muffler wrapped high around his neck, and Lucien edged his way inside. He waited on the dank building’s pitted stone staircase until the thumps in his heart subsided, until he heard cars pulling up and voices outside. He figured it would be easier now to blend into a crowd and cross the courtyard.
Since birth he had been taught to keep his mouth shut: aqua in boca. His grand-mère would indicate the need for silence by sliding her finger across her lips. He knew better than to get involved. He threaded his way past the police van to the gate and paused, listening. Snatches of conversation drifted on the sleeting wind. “Shooting on the rooftop” was all he could understand. No way could he get involved.
This city was filled with contradictions, unlike his native Corsica, where it was simple: all outsiders were viewed as a threat.
Satisfied that no one had noticed him in the flurry of activity, Lucien made his way across the snowdrifts in the courtyard to a jewel-like townhouse.
He opened the front door and mounted the staircase, passing several landings until an open door revealed a well-dressed crowd in the foyer. A party? He should have worn his new shirt. Conari had just told him to stop by for a brief meeting.
As a woman leaned toward an arriving couple to greet them, a scent of roses wafted from her. Familiar. Snowflakes danced outside the foyer window, catching the light and framing her tan, smooth back. Only one woman he’d ever known would wear something like that in this weather. But it couldn’t be. And then he lost her in the crowd of newcomers.
“Lucien, so glad you’re here.” A voice, loud and welcoming, came from his host, broad-shouldered Félix Conari, who filled the doorway. Long charcoal gray hair curled behind his ears. His skin was Côte d’Azur bronzed, the all-year bronze of the wealthy. “Do come in; it’s wonderful you made it.”
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Conari, my pleasure.” Lucien’s hand picked at his coat pocket, a nervous habit.
“Welcome to our annual client party.” Félix winked. “Impress with success, you know.”
Lucien didn’t, but he nodded.
Félix put an arm around him and escorted him inside the large apartment’s reception rooms, which were high ceilinged and adorned by carved moldings, parquet flooring, and marble fireplaces. Lucien managed a smile, hoping his eyes didn’t reveal his surprise. A mix of flat-chested, hollow-cheeked miniskirted models, advertising médiathèques, clad in head-to-toe black, and bourgeois matrons clad in Chanel hovered by the table, which was spread with hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.
Right behind them a man entered and handed his overcoat to a waiter. “The police are blocking the backstreets; someone’s been murdered on a roof,” he announced with irritation. “It’s a mess. I couldn’t find a parking place!”
Someone murdered? Lucien concealed his shaking hands by putting them in his pockets. With his background, he had to steer clear of this.