Murder in Passy (13 page)

“Look, I’m on leave. Think I’d complicate my own ongoing investigations?”

“
Non,
I thought you wanted to have dinner tonight,” she said. “After you’ve dropped in at
La Crim,
chewed the fat, skimmed the file. I know you know how to do that. None of that’s changed since my father’s time, has it?”

“
Alors
, I go back to Brittany day after tomorrow. I just thought we could meet.” He cleared his throat. “You do know that any outside interference could hurt Morbier’s case?”

“Interference?” She tried to control her voice.

A woman bundled in a fur coat stared at her, then turned the corner.

“Morbier, my godfather, lost the woman he loves, could lose everything he’s given his life to, the reputation he’s earned, his honor, freedom,” she said. “A lot more than just his retirement, Melac. It’s all wrong. Tell me, could I live with myself if I didn’t help? But look at it this way: What if you’re in this situation some day? Who could you call?”

“You’re just using me,” Melac said, disappointed.

Her throat constricted. Was she using him? Wasn’t she asking a favor for Morbier?

“Relationships don’t work that way,” said Melac.

Melac called a one-nighter and a brief bout of telephone tag a “relationship”?

“Aimee, I needed to wind up the divorce, work out the settlement,” he said. “My ex is making it difficult. I wanted to settle custody arrangements before, well, getting back in touch with you.”

Stunned, she wondered if she’d read him wrong.

“Morbier warned me you follow jungle rules like a feral cat,” he continued.

What did she know? Her penchant for bad boys had racked up a miserable record. Feral cats did better.

In the background came the scrape of roller bags, the muffled arrival announcement. There was a pause. “I’ve been getting my life together, taking my daughter to piano lessons,” he said. “Thinking a lot. Just hoped you wanted dinner. I’m sorry.”

Score zero. Blown it again.

Dejected, she kicked at a pile of brown leaves. Soggy and damp, they clung to her heel. Like the guilt in her heart. “I understand,” she said. “It’s not fair to involve you. I just saw a broken man this morning. Not the man I know. Morbier’s given up.”

It tore her insides to see Morbier wrongly accused. In such pain. The arrival announcements boomed louder now.

She’d figure something out. Find another angle.

Somehow.

“Et alors,”
he exhaled. “I’m picking up messages at
La Crim
. I’ll test the waters. But no promises.” Pause. “Still have that Champagne in your fridge?”

She envisioned the moldy Brie and Miles Davis’s butcher’s scraps in her otherwise empty refrigerator. Not smart to appear too easy. Her eye caught the lit maroon storefront of Nicolas, the wine shop, down the street.

“Let’s say my office. Nine
P.M
.” She hung up. Said a little prayer and looked at her Tintin watch. Two hours. Forget her scooter.

In the wine shop, she bought two bottles—a Veuve Clicquot and a Beaujolais Nouveau—on the owner’s recommendation. At the tree-lined intersection, a taxi’s blue light signaled that it was free. She waved her arm holding the bag and caught the driver’s attention.

The young taxi driver threw her a knowing smile. “Clubbing,
Mam’selle?
”

“Not tonight. 11 rue Biot, near Théâtre L’Européen,
s’il vous plaît.
”

“A little culture in couture?” He grinned. “I should have known.”

“Fifty francs if you get me there in ten minutes.”

“How about nine?” He adjusted the laminated photo on his dashboard, hit the meter, and took off. “That’s Lola, my daughter.” The radio blared sixties ye-ye pop music, and the taxi filled with the driver’s running commentary about his daughter’s progress in beauty school. Her second day back at work, and it hadn’t yet ended. Her feet ached; her hands jittered from the espresso.

The taxi sped up wide Avenue de Wagram into the 17th past dim-lit Place des Ternes and the darkened fun fair, along Boulevard de Courcelles and the gold-tipped fence under dark nodding trees bordering Parc Monceau, and over the rail lines crossed by rue de Rome.

At Place de Clichy, among a warren of narrow streets, she got off on the rain-dampened, cobbled rue Biot between Théatre L’Européen and an Indian restaurant. She buzzed the door. No answer. Her heart fell.

Tuesday Evening

“N
EVER THOUGHT I’D
put
les bracelets
on you,” said Henri, the guard. He unlocked Morbier’s handcuffs, shaking his head. Shouts and taunts issued from the cells and echoed off the walls of the low stone tunnel.

“Desnos at the Lab still owes me from Friday poker,” Morbier said. “Tell him to pay me in cigarettes,
compris?
”

“Who the hell did you piss off, Morbier?”

“Who
haven’t
I pissed off, Henri?”

He gestured Morbier into the cell. Morbier stooped to avoid the low crossbeam. “So you won’t get lonely, you’re sharing with an old friend.”

The steel door clanged shut behind him. The key turned in the lock, metal grinding on metal. Near the barred oval window leaned Cheb DJ, whom he’d twice convicted of robbery and twice not convicted of murder. Morbier felt a tightness in his chest.

“Heard you killed your woman,” said Cheb DJ in a thick Congolese accent. “Even I never done that,
mon vieux
.” He emitted a little laugh. “You like the accommodation, the premier river view?”

“But you’re the connoisseur, must have sampled them all,” Morbier said. “How many times did I put you in here?”

Cheb DJ laughed. His front gold teeth glinted. “Lots to catch up on,
mon vieux.
‘Ruled by passion’: didn’t know that defense flew any more.”

“To tell you the truth, passion’s overrated.”

“A
flic
like you do a stupid thing like that? Why not contract a hit man? Easy.”

“But I didn’t do it.”

Cheb DJ shrugged. “You and everyone say that. Save it for
le Proc.
”

All bravado gone, Morbier collapsed on the wood slat with a ragged blanket they called a cot. Dampness oozed from the corners, creeping up his legs. But the tremor in his jaw came from nerves.

“So you a jealous man, you flipped … ?”

The prospect of listening to Cheb DJ all night sickened Morbier. Worried him deep down. No doubt Cheb had worked a deal, a lesser charge for information. That’s why they’d put them together. Cheb punched walls—and people—when irritated.

“I know the plan, Cheb. Used it myself. But did I beat or chain you up all night like my partner wanted after your holdup on rue des Capucines?”

“No disrespect, but you think I like it here,
mon vieux?
” Cheb’s tone changed. “Give me something; my woman’s pregnant; I need the deal.”

“Eh, didn’t I respect that poor mother of yours, in tears begging to see you? Arranged a visit, didn’t I?”

Pause.

“Leave my mother out of it.”

“So give
me
respect,” Morbier said. “Screw the deal and shut up.”

“I don’t want them to hurt you,
mon vieux
,” he said. “They’ll move in the next
mec
who’s got no history with you. But us, we got history. Think about it.”

Cheb DJ stretched out on the cot, pulled the blanket up, and was snoring minutes later.

Surprised that Cheb seemed to have given up so easily, Morbier stared at the bars, more on his mind. He didn’t stand a chance without Laguardiere’s testimony. And during the brief phone call, Laguardiere’s wife had broken down in tears, saying Laguardiere might not live through tomorrow’s surgery.

Morbier’s
indicateur—
informer—might not either, if he didn’t supply him protection and keep his word. But who could he trust? No one left to trust. No more favors left.

What did it matter any more? Why even care? Xavierre lay cold in the morgue.

He remembered the first time he saw her. That hot sticky August, under the lime-tree branches, the shadows dappling her luminous skin, her lips parted in a smile. The smile he’d never forgotten. The smile he saw now. Not the blue-tinged waxen face they’d pulled from the stainless-steel drawer.

The punch slammed him against the stone wall. There was a ringing pain in his head; sparks flared behind his eyes. Dizzied and disoriented, he felt the next punch in his chest: it knocked the air out of him. Gasping for breath, he rolled and kicked as hard as he could. A
thupt
as his shoe heel connected with Cheb’s bulldog neck. Another kick. And again, until he heard the crunch of breaking bones.

Cheb sprawled half on the cot, half on the floor. Out of commission for a while, until he came to from the pain in his broken fingers.

Blood trickled down Morbier’s cheek, mixing with spittle on his chin. Too old, he was too old for this. The jaw tremor in his neck, his tingling shoulders. Shaking, he couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t tolerate the pain in his ribs. And the shaking didn’t stop after he’d slid onto the stone floor, doubling over in agony.

Tuesday Night

“F
ELL OFF THE
earth, Aimée?” Léo, a plump woman in her forties, frowned. “Four years. Not even a call.” Léo, wearing a green tracksuit, spun the wheels of her wheelchair forward across the slick wood apartment floor. “Now you appear out of nowhere. Did I win the Keno pick?”

Aimée had kept her finger on the door buzzer a long five minutes. No wonder Léo appeared cranky.

“It’s been a while,” Aimée said. “I brought you something.” She set the bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau on the counter. Léo, named after the opera singer Léontyne Price, ran her fingers through her short gray hair.

“Still think I’m easy, eh?”

“
Non,
the wine merchant said it’s an excellent year. For once, a good vintage.”

“I’ll remember that for my next dinner party.”

A cigarette smoldered in a filled ashtray; a half-full demitasse of espresso sat by a laptop screen. To the side, a bank of radio receivers, a set of headphones hanging off the end. Léo, a radio engineer before her accident, freelanced cell phone triangulation for select clients. Highly illegal and quite lucrative. Even the
flics
used her.

“Léo, I need your expertise. Morbier’s—”

“So you work for the
flics
now?” she interrupted.

“
Moi?
Then the earth’s flat.”

“Too bad. Great benefits.”

Aimée looked at her feet. “
Not
my strong suit, keeping in touch, Léo.”

Léo made a
phfft
sound. “Like
tout le monde
. You’re no different. I help out, then it’s
adieu.
”

Stricken, Aimée realized how much it mattered to Léo, wheelchair-bound in the sixth floor walk-up, her only escape through the airwaves.

Glancing around the narrow L-shaped apartment, two rooms met her view. Clay pots with sprouting herbs lined the windowsill over the sink. “Quite a green thumb.” She pointed, grinned nervously. “Look, I’m thoughtless.”

“And I’m booked.” Léo adjusted a black knob. She scratched her neck under the wool scarf wrapping her shoulders. “Could have saved yourself the trip.”

Aimée’s shoulders sagged.

“I contract GPS satellite tracking,” Léo said. “It’s going mainstream soon, commercial. Right now it’s only a military tool, but not forever.”

“You’ve got a military contract?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Léo said.

“Léo, for you this would be child’s play,” she said. “Only take you five minutes.”

Orange and red lights blinked on the radio receivers. “No time, I told you.”

“But Morbier’s in custody,” she said. “You’re the only one who can help.”

For the first time, Léo looked up with interest.

“So don’t do this for
me
, do it for
him.
Please, you’ve known Morbier for years,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Léo put on the headphones. Sighed. “What do you want this time?”

Aimée wanted to hug her. But Léo wouldn’t like that. Instead, she grabbed a pencil and the graph paper notepad on Léo’s desk.

“Do that triangulation voodoo you do so well. Record the calls, pinpoint the cell phone location.”

“National security involved?”

The lead pencil tip snapped. What if Léo had just hit it on the head? Militant French Basques? She’d think about that later. “Morbier’s girlfriend was strangled. I found her. But someone else was in the house. Her daughter blames Morbier, but she’s misguided.”

“Misguided?”

But it felt more complicated that that.

“Either mistaken and looking for an easy answer or …” She hesitated. “… lying. I don’t know.”

“Never boring with you, Aimée.” Léo typed in Irati’s phone number. “Any idea of the transmission area?”