Murder in Passy (15 page)

Aimée dropped the duster, battling a seed of doubt. “How could you think Morbier … ?” Her throat caught.

“Not me.” René’s brow creased. “But I’m saying that’s ten to one how the
flics
would look at this. His driver’s his alibi. So why hasn’t Morbier been released?”

She sank on the recamier. “I asked him that.”

“Didn’t answer, did he?” René averted his eye. “The facts don’t look good. I’m sorry, Aimée.”

“Morbier’s no amateur. He knows the system. It doesn’t make sense.” She stared at René. “Unless.… ”

“Give up, Aimée.”

“The mustard stains on his suit.”

“Eh?” René’s eyes widened. “So he’s hungry, stops at a
routier. Non,
not many of them any more. So a rest stop where the food’s in plastic. He changes his mind and heads back to Paris.”

“The first part’s brilliant, René.”

“All this from a mustard stain?” René shook his head.

She remembered Morbier pacing on the wet pavement, the thrumming of the waiting car’s engine, his black wool coat glistening with mist, open to his corduroy jacket.

“If anything, the timing could confirm his guilt,” said René, his voice terse. “Look. Morbier’s my friend too. This hurts. It’s terrible. But right now, leave it alone. Don’t pursue what guarantees his—”

“Innocence?” She picked up her cell phone, scrolled down her address list. Hit a number. “Inés?
Oui, ça va? Non,
I’m fine. Silly question, but does Emile still run Les Acacias? Retired? Of course … your son? Nice to keep it in the family. My number’s the same, I’d appreciate if he could call me. You too.”

She hung up. Rubbed her hands in front of the fire. Warmth crept up her arms.

“Why didn’t I think of it?” She shook her head. “Emile’s son runs the
routier
now, still a trucker stop with the best
frites
and
saucisson
on the A6 approach to Cachan.”

“The A6 south to Lyon?”

“My father met his suburban
indicateurs
at Emile’s. A lot of the
flics
did. The old-fashioned
routier
, good food, easy to blend in, and everyone’s on their way somewhere. A quick getaway.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s say Morbier met an
indicateur
there to get information on Lyon,” she said. “He loves Emile’s
saucisson
smothered in
moutarde de
Dijon.”

“You’re serious?” René’s brow creased in thought. “But then why not.… ”

“Reveal his informer?” She shook her head. “He’d never get another whisper.”

How many times had she seen her father unearthing a lead, checking every detail cobble by painstaking cobble, finding it a dead end? Then came the one odd piece at the back of the file or discrepancy glossed over—or rechecked for the fourth time— that broke the case.

“Sounds far-fetched to me,” said René. “You’re reaching, Aimée.”

“You’d drop your socks if you realized how much a
flic
’s work owes to an informer’s tip,” she said. “Like a slow-moving train gathering information—a name, the girlfriend’s last address, bits and pieces that add up.”

“Protecting a source, fair enough. But that goes both ways,” René said.

“Depends on how deep the source goes, his cover, the connections, a lot of intangibles. Half of the
flic
’s work’s done by listening to snitches; the other half, methodical plodding.”

The reasons she hated criminal investigation.

“Et alors,
say that’s so, say the informer’s related to Morbier’s investigation in Lyon.” René stood, did a neck roll. “My turn.” He took the black marker, reached on his tiptoes, and circled Xavierre’s name.

“What do you really know about her?”

Good question. Morbier had revealed little about his relationship until last night.

“Not much more than you,” she said. “I’d only met her on the street once before. But she was in love.”

René drew a column. “In love.
Voilà,
we also know she was
haute bourgeoise,
moneyed, lived in a chic
quartier
; she’d rekindled an old affair with Morbier—”

“But why her?” Aimée interrupted. “Why now, with her daughter’s wedding, guests, the preparations?”

“Let me finish.” He pointed the duster handle like a schoolteacher. “Very important. We know she’s Basque.”

“True. Yet Xavierre and Irati don’t fit the Basque Separatist profile in the headlines—hiding revolutionaries in safe houses after armed attacks and bombings.”

She’d gotten nowhere with Agustino about Xavierre’s past. But he had been hiding something. Cybèle had denied her sister’s links with ETA. But Aimée wondered if Xavierre had supported the cause in other ways.

If it smelled, her father always said, track it down. Or it would bite your sinuses like ripe Port Salut.

Before she could pursue it, René’s cell phone trilled on his desk. He glanced at the number, then reached for his judo bag.

“
Cherie?
Ready?”

Aimée looked up in surprise to see a wide smile on his face. He clicked off his phone and headed to the door.

“Hot date?”

“If that’s what you call pot stickers with her parents at Chez Chun.”

“The woman from the dojo? I call it progress.” Aimée said. “Chinatown’s perfect on a night like this.”

She felt happy for René. It was time he met someone and it worked out.

He shook his head. “A Marais hole in the wall run by her uncle, near her family’s wholesale luggage shop. Traditional types who think I should learn their Wenzhou dialect.”

Aimée grinned. “And you’re still here?”

He paused at the door. “What about you?”

She bit back her frustration, seeing the names on the wall, the looming long evening alone. Stood and booted up her computer. “Work to catch up on.”

He hesitated. His phone trilled again.

“Try and get her alone next time, René.”

* * *

I
N THE WC
down the hall, Aimée splashed cold water on her face and leaned on the cracked porcelain sink. In the soap-speckled mirror, she studied a fine line under her eye. Expression lines, my foot, she thought. She squeezed the tube of Dior concealer. Empty. Like the evening ahead.

Emptier for Morbier in a cell. And a pity party would get her nowhere. She had work to do.

Back in Leduc Detective, she blew on the fire and sipped her espresso. Cold.

Until she discovered more about Xavierre, she was spinning her wheels. She had no suspects to point away from Morbier. She needed to know this woman: her family, her past, her secrets.

Everyone left traces; the hard part was finding the significant ones. Start with basics, what she knew. Xavierre’s state-of-theart kitchen would have required building permits.

Online, she entered the Ville de Paris Web site, searched
La Direction de l’aménagement urbain et de la construction,
and input Xavierre’s address. The notation indicated the contractor’s name, license, and renovation work totaling a year. All a matter of public record. A hefty sum for work that she figured should have taken four months at most. From there she dug deeper, from the city’s approval to the renovation contract.

The approval form listed the owner as Xavierre D’Eslay
née
Contrexo. One bright star shone in the evening: now she had Xavierre’s maiden name. Her tracking possibilities widened.

Morbier had met Xavierre Contrexo more than twenty years ago. At that time, post-Sorbonne riots, he’d been patrolling with Aimée’s father on the beat. If Xavierre had been a student in Bayonne, had Morbier met her on holiday in the Basque country? According to Cybèle, her family herded sheep.

Or had he and Xavierre met in Paris, at a student demonstration? She let that simmer, sat back—and found it staring her right in the face: ask Cybèle. She tried immediately. No answer on her cell phone. She tried the house. No answer.

Determined now, she thought of the next family member, Cybèle’s ill husband in Bayonne. A minute later, directory assistance connected her.

A gruff voice.
“Allô?”

“Monsieur Urioste?”

“Who’s this, at this time of night?”

Nine
P.M
.? “
Excusez-moi,
Monsieur, but I’m calling from Paris regarding the investigation.… ”

“You a journalist?” he said. “Call in the morning.”

He’d given her the perfect opportunity. “Before the rumors reach epic proportions, we at
Le Parisien
wanted to confirm—”

“Rumors? You’re all snakes.” Pause. “What rumors?”

“Xavierre d’Eslay’s link with the Basque ETA.”

Instead of hearing the phone slammed down, she heard a clearing of his throat. “That old story?” A snort. “Happened years ago. My sister-in-law married money, didn’t know us after that, changed her tune, believe me.”

A dry laugh. She sensed he didn’t hold warm feelings for his sister-in-law.

“I need more than that, Monsieur, for my article,” she said. “That’s if you want the
facts
presented, not distortions.”

“Check with your kind, those rodents over at
Sud Ouest.
”
Sud Ouest
was the Bordeaux daily newspaper. “Talk to the archives and for once get your facts straight. And don’t quote me.” He hung up.

The
Sud Ouest
archives in Bordeaux didn’t answer. But Martine, her best friend since the lycée and a journalist, could help.

“Aimée … hold on a moment,” said Martine.

Singing, music, and laughter sounded loudly in the background. Martine lived with Gilles and his children in a huge flat overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. “Karaoke night for sixteenyear-olds,” Martine shouted. “Like the old days, remember?”

“I’d like to forget them, Martine.”

She heard a door shut, the flick of a lighter, a sharp inhalation. Martine smoked a pack a day. Aimée reached in her desk drawer for the strip of “stop smoking” patches. Empty.

“Now I can talk,” Martine said.
“Ça va?”
Martine took another drag, not waiting for an answer. “
Bon,
I shouldn’t say it but I’ll say it anyway. A Tuesday night, and you’re working late? You need a man.”

Not this again.

Martine made it her perpetual mission to set Aimée up. Blind dates, dinner parties, discreet introductions at wine bar openings— all disasters.

“Buff. Strong, of course,” Martine said. “I’m thinking of Gilles’s friend, career Navy and a champion diver, who commands the Naval underwater recovery unit in Toulon.”

She meant GIGN, the military elite assault unit.

“Don’t you have a weakness for men in Speedos?” Martine continued.

Speedos were one thing, career Navy another.

“Get back on shore, Martine,” she said. “Do me a huge favor: tap into the vein at
Sud Ouest
archives for Xavierre d’Eslay
née
Contrexo, links to ETA.”

Martine, a journalist, maintained an extensive network of contacts.
De rigueur
in her job.

“Now? But I’m jammed with my Radio France deadline, Aimée. Our four-part agribusiness program airs tomorrow.”

“Can’t the farmers wait an hour, Martine? They’ve waited this long.”

“ETA’s old news.
Passé
.” She exhaled. “No one’s interested in explosions in vacant police stations or post offices. There’s a cease-fire in the offing that they voted for in a referendum.”

“But what if this bears somehow on the
haute bourgeoise
matron’s murder—”

“The one on the
télé
, here in the 16th?” Martine coughed. “Near us?”

“Et voilà,
” Aimée said.

“See, we have a dark side. Haven’t I likened our
quartier
to an elegant older aunt with a surprisingly hip and edgy side?”

Martine only lived there because Gilles had inherited a large flat in the building, comprising the whole floor. Fourteen-plus rooms overlooking the Bois de Boulogne.

“Think of your article explored from the angle of her past links to ETA,” Aimée said, “her relationship with a Commissaire Divisionnaire, highlighting the skewed investigation based on circumstantial evidence?”

“Why do I feel … ? Wait, Morbier’s new squeeze. That’s her?”

“Was. Your nose should be twitching like a fox at the hunt, Martine.”

A long inhale.

“Except that Morbier’s investigating and doing his job, Aimée. What’s it to you?”

“
Au contraire:
he’s the
suspect
.”

“
Quoi!
I don’t believe it.”

“Believe this.” Aimée drained the demitasse of cold espresso and told her. “I need anything you can find.”

“Let’s see,” Martine said. “One of the Radio France producers has a brother working at
Sud Ouest.
Used to. How far back?”