“The information I have concerns the homicide victim,” Aimée said.
“Please give a statement,” Edith Mésard said, pointing a manicured finger to the cubicle.
“But I already have. Let’s say there’s a sensitive background,” Aimée said. A good Proc kept communication lines open for those who wanted to pass on information—hookers, the gay community, and illegal workers—but were intimidated by the flics.
“I don’t barter information, Mademoiselle, if that’s what you’re implying. In my job I must reveal my sources if it impacts the criminal proceedings.” She reached in her briefcase, then handed Aimée a card. “But you can access my direct line between seven and eight A.M. only.”
And then Edith Mésard was gone.
Outside the Commissariat on Place Goldoni, Aimée pulled out her cell phone and called Christian’s number again.
No answer.
No answer at Etienne Mabry’s either. In the dark Paris street, Lieutenant Bellan arrived. Behind him, a police car pulled up in the Commissariat parking place.
Lieutenant Bellan eyed her up and down. His wine-laced breath hit her square in the face.
“You again?” he said. His eyes were bleary. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
Save your tired clichés for the bar, she wanted to say. He must have been celebrating.
“Boy or girl?”
“What?”
“Are you the father of a boy or girl?” she said. “Your wife was giving birth when my apartment was broken into.”
Something caved in his face. He stumbled on the cobblestones.
What happened? she wondered.
The other police had caught up with them. They exchanged looks.
“Lieutenant Bellan, you’re off duty,” one of them said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”
“Down’s syndrome, the doctor called it,” Bellan said, his speech slurred. “Where I come from they called them Mongoloids … half-wits.”
Oh God, no wonder he was falling apart.
“Forgive me, so sorry,” she said.
“Want the good news?” Bellan blinked back the tears. “It’s going to live!” Several of the uniformed police shifted on the cobbles, looked away. One of the officers took Bellan’s arm. Bellan shook him off, staggered toward Aimée.
Why wasn’t he with his wife, why weren’t they comforting each other?
“Please, sir, no need for you to report back to the Commissariat,” the flic said.
“Someone’s got to pay the bills,” Bellan said, raising his voice. “Work overtime. That’s me. Question this woman,” Bellan roared. He pointed to Aimée.
His voice echoed off the cobblestones.
“Tiens, Bellan,” one of the men said. “Give it a rest.”
“Right now! She’s caused all this … from the beginning.”
A window opened above them. “Keep it down,” yelled an old woman.
Aimée’s hackles rose. “What do you mean?” she asked, staring at Bellan and the group.
None of them met her gaze. Bellan spat, fumbled with a lighter, and managed to light his cigarette.
“Like father, like daughter. On the take. Dirty!”
Good thing the flics grabbed Bellan and hustled him away before her fist cracked his cheekbone.
“My father wasn’t dirty,” she said. “Never! Do I have to prove it to the whole police force?”
Maybe she did. Caillot’s article implied her father was corrupt. Only the police files would hold the truth. The files Léo Frot owed her.
“I knew your old man,” said a middle-aged flic, coming up to her. He slid his blue hat off, revealing a gray crewcut, and rubbed his forehead. “Try to ignore Bellan, eh? He’s losing it over the baby. Bellan idolized your father. It hit him hard when your father left the force.”
Startled, Aimée stepped back. “But nothing was proved. Nothing. Only a slick article with allegations … that’s all. No stain on him, he got the posthumous award when he died.”
“Some things in the department, well, the powers that be just let them slide.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody talks about it,” he said. “You should know the code, you’re a flic’s kid. We stand together, we don’t rat on each other. And you’re one of us.”
So that’s how they thought of her? “Let me enlighten you, I’m a private detective, not police,” she said.
“But you’re getting a lot of attention these days.”
“So elect me mayor,” she said, nervous but trying not to show it. “What do you mean?”
Several flics were walking toward them. “Lie low, it’s for your own good.” He joined the others and entered the Commissariat with them.
More confused than before, she leaned against the stonewall. Doubts assailed her. Had her mother left because she thought her husband was corrupt? Would that have spurred her to leave them?
But her father wasn’t corrupt. Aimée knew that in her bones. She felt sorry for Bellan but she also wanted to kick him.
She tried to put it out of her mind. She gazed at the salon de the nestled in the Passage Grand Cerf. But the restored wire-and-glass-roofed passage was locked for the night. She settled for a glass of red wine at the zinc bar on the corner, listening to the weather report: continued heat and humidity.
In the long café mirror, she reapplied Chanel red lipstick, pinched her cheeks for color, and ruffled her hair with her fingers.
In a few minutes, as Pascal Ourdours emerged from the Commissariat, she approached him from behind.
“Monsieur Ourdours, let’s go talk.”
He stiffened.
“Please, I’m not police,” she said. “How about a drink? There’s a taxi,” she said, signaling to a passing cab. “Let’s go somewhere so I can get to know you.”
“Non … I have to get my car.”
She heard the furring of his syllables. Still scared, she thought. So shaken he couldn’t hide the traces of an accent. In the flickering streetlight, she saw his hunted expression.
He gave off the smell of fear.
“Nearby, there’s a quiet café,” she said. “We’ll converse and then you can leave. I promise … a quick drink, eh? You look like you could use one. I know I could.”
He took a step, then paused. Uncertain.
“Come on,” she said, fanning herself with her hand, “the humidity hasn’t let up. I’m thirsty and I prefer not to drink alone.”
She sensed that a bit of his wariness had dissipated.
“I work nearby,” she said, thinking fast to make the event nonthreatening. “There’s a lovely old tearoom—on Thursday nights they have a small late-night gallery opening. Let’s try it.”
“Since you put it that way,” he said, “why not?” He looked surprised but kept walking. She sensed he wanted to talk. She steered him toward Ventilo, the clothes shop with an elegant salon de thé in a pie-wedge-shaped Haussmann building. Two narrow streets flanked the several-storied building, whose voluted iron balconies were filled with geraniums. Conversation and the tinkle of glasses came from the lighted third-floor windows.
He paused. Hesitated. His brow furrowed.
Before them, a couple, arms twined around each other, came down the stairs laughing and headed into the night.
Aimée pointed to the exhibition sign. “Super!” she grinned. “I’ve been dying to see this exhibition. Old black-and-white photos of Paris at night.”
She noticed he watched her lips.
“And the good thing is, we don’t have to buy art to get a drink.”
His brow unfurrowed. “After you,” he said.
Inside the high-ceilinged Art Deco tearoom people holding drinks clustered around photos. He and Aimée took the glasses of white wine offered them, and dutifully looked at the photos.