Murder in Passy (19 page)

“Liken it to the balancing act between the past and present,” said Lucard. “Keeping to the tightrope analogy, you reach the wire by practicing, preparing. Above the crowd, it all depends on using what you’ve learned, drawing on your skill. This expertise gets you to the other side. To success, Morbier. Worry too much about the height, the past, and it weighs you to one side. If you don’t focus and balance, you plunge.”

The less-than-veiled analogy meant “back off.” Forget the corruption investigation assigned him by Laguardiere. Turn over the source he’d met en route to Lyon.

The reigning powers assumed that a smart
flic
would wish to maintain the
esprit de corps
of his men, exit his lifetime of service with some dignity. Have a retirement to enjoy. Especially if they could dangle the carrot of a reduced murder charge.

No one except Laguardiere remained to watch his backside. Morbier’s stitches itched, two in his scalp tugging on his hair; a dull pain thudded in his side. He needed more painkillers.

“Anything wrong, Lucard? Wrong enough that twenty-four hours makes a difference, eh?” Morbier wiped his brow. “Or did the photographer raise ripples in the IGS sea?”

Last night, light-headed, he’d keeled over during transport to the sixth-floor prisoners’ clinic of Hôtel Dieu. At the elevator, a freelance photographer had snapped his fall. Almost a bit of luck. He’d known the photographer, a strident Communist, for years. But, if they hadn’t confiscated the photographer’s camera already, they’d get to him.

No doubt his “incident” had necessitated a hurried meeting to defuse a scandal. No one could know the
flics
allowed their own to suffer what they did to other prisoners. They’d sent Lucard to make nice before the ax. Cover their judicial asses. As always. He’d been a fool to think he’d be able to nail corruption this deep.

“But I can make this go easier.” Lucard smiled. “I want a name, Morbier.”

Reveal his informer and sign the man’s death warrant?

“Pierrot
le fou.
Jacques Chirac. Take your pick.”

“Don’t waste my time, Morbier,” Lucard said, his black eyes squinting in frustration. “The IGS consulted your team, assembled your investigation reports and notes. You’ve got no alibi. It’s a done deal. You know how this works. Make it easier for yourself. Cooperate. You’ve commanded respect in a long career. You don’t have to throw it all away.”

Morbier swallowed, his throat dry. What he wouldn’t give for a glass of water.

“Then think of the men you work with,” Lucard said. “What about your team? I promise to do what I can. You know I keep my word, Morbier. I’ve worked deals for your cases before, haven’t I?”

Tired, Morbier wanted all this to end. Had no stamina for it any more, apart from Cheb DJ’s broken fingers. A nagging part of him longed to pick up his last paycheck, get incoherent in his apartment with a crate of half-decent Bordeaux, and maybe Xavierre’s face would go away. For a little while.

“Five years for a crime
passionnel
,” said Lucard, gauging his reaction. “But I can suggest health issues to the IGS and sentencing judge, knocking it down to three. A private cell,
télé,
the protected wing in La Santé.”

All
flics
served their sentences in the protected wing; they wouldn’t last five minutes in the general prison population.

“The IGS, unofficially of course and pending their investigation,” Lucard said, “recommends you retire effective today so your pension remains intact.”

They’d thought of everything.

“But I need a name, Morbier. You owe your partners, your team; time you came through on this.”

Lucard had hit home. Morbier thought of his relationships made in the force. Like those friends and enemies formed on the school playground, they never went away. Did the past ever go away?

Fresh from the police academy, he’d entered the Commissariat boy’s club—a camaraderie of brothers—they joked. Formed bonds with his partner, his team. The ones watching his back, his life, when he faced the street. Depending on each other. Trusting the code that kept each other alive to the end of their shift.

Like war, he imagined: only those who’d lived it understood. The good ones, like his first partner, operated that way. Had all his life. He’d made closer bonds with Jean-Claude Leduc than his own daughter or her mother.

But they were dead. Gone. And Aimée? A stab of guilt hit him. He’d made provisions in his will: his reduced retirement pension would keep Leduc Detective afloat for a while. But he’d have to do what he’d avoided for years and in all conscience should have done a long time ago: give her the key to the safe deposit box holding the letters, her mother’s things. Tell her the truth. The whole truth. And she’d spit in his eye, walk away, and never see him again.

Not that he’d blame her.

Et alors
, in the end, the men he’d worked with were all he had.

“You’re mulling it over, I can see. That’s good. Think of your men, this tight unit who look up to you, Morbier. It’s your only recourse.”

Morbier took a deep breath. Pain sliced his ribs. He clenched his teeth, feeling the tremor in his jaw, the shaking of his hands.

“We want to oil the wheels for the IGS, make it a formality, don’t we?” Lucard leaned forward, pushing a water bottle that had materialized from his pocket toward Morbier. “Water?”

“Eat shit, Lucard.” He leaned on the table. “And make sure to quote me.”

Wednesday Afternoon

D
RUMMING HER FINGERS
on the round marble-top table of the café overlooking Place Victor Hugo, Aimée watched for Irati. The outdoor rattan café chairs gleamed like copper in the mid-afternoon light. Sparse brown-leafed plane trees encircled the spurting fountain. Opposite stood Saint Honoré d’Eylau, a narrow toffee-colored stone church. Hemingway married one of his wives here, the story went. She had a clear view of the three streets Irati might use to return to her car.

A traffic light shone green above the
PIETONS ATTENTION
sign as a rush of pedestrians crossed the zebra crosswalk.

She answered her phone on the first ring.

“Allô?”

“Aimée, have you seen
L’Humanité
?” René said.

Since when did René read that Communist rag?

“Not your style, René.”

“Look at the latest edition, the last page.”

“Hold on.” She found the newspaper rack on the café wall, took the wood roll, and scanned
L’Humanité’s
back page. Her breath caught when she saw the photo of a bruised, kneeling Morbier clutching his stomach.

“My god, they’re torturing him.”

“Gets worse. Read the caption. ‘Untold story of a bent Commissaire Divisionnaire.’” Concern vibrated in René’s voice. “The article accuses Morbier of beating up a fellow
flic
who discovered irregularities in a Lyon investigation.”

Her heart fell. “Lies!” she shouted. The waiter looked up.

“A trumped-up charge,” she said, lowering her voice.

“You don’t know that, Aimée,” he said. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Confined in jail, bruises? They beat people up, that’s what they do, to make them talk,” she said. “Maybe I’m ruining his chances after all.”

“What do you mean?”

A flicker of dark brown passed the window. She leaned forward, her gaze traveling over the passersby, alert. She bit her lip. Only a blonde pulling a shopping cart.

“There’s a leak in the force.”

A long expulsion of air from René. “So now you’re going to take on the Préfecture?”

“Not by myself.”

She couldn’t trust the
flics
, Melac most of all. Aimée slid a ten-franc note under her demitasse saucer in case she had to leave in a hurry.

“Xavierre’s murderer’s my priority,” she said. “Irati almost let something slip. Call it instinct, but I know it links to Euskadi Action, the separatist Basques.”

“And I have a bad feeling, Aimée.”

She had to reassure René. “Listen, I called in a favor so patrols are on the alert for that Mercedes.”

René said, “With a high-end car like that, they change the plates. That’s the first thing they do.”

“You sound well informed.” Aimée’s finger ran over the calcium deposits streaking in her water glass. A wind rose, like a sigh, shivering the yellow and brown leaves.

“I should.” He sounded miffed. “My car’s been stolen two times.”

She heard clicking in the background. “I’m on a break at the symposium. Lots of interest in the security proposal you finished for me last night. Two potential clients already.”

How could she have forgotten the two-day Data Encryption symposium René was participating in at La Villette?

“Brilliant, René.”

“Of course, you’re monitoring the data sniffer feed,” he said. “You know, working?”

She’d set alerts, customized the feed, and prepared it to continuously download to her laptop. Automatic, but René didn’t know.

“Of course.”

Pause.

“Why do I think you’re keeping something back, Aimée?”

She couldn’t get him more involved. More compromised. And she couldn’t tell him that, or he’d protest.

“I’ll finish the report. You concentrate on the symposium. Those potential clients.” She picked up her bag and buttoned her coat, wondering if Irati had taken the long route instead of the closest.

“The
juge d’instruction
’s mentioned here, a Lucard,” René said. “His reputation’s solid. Distinguished record. Trust him to get the truth,” René said. “Now I wish I hadn’t told you.”

Trust the system? The
flics
? René hadn’t grown up with them like she had.

“Didn’t you insist on driving me to Xavierre’s, René? Saying you’re Morbier’s friend too?”

“And I’m not?” René inhaled. “This makes me sick. I don’t understand what’s going on or why. But what if your interference backfires—on him?” René hesitated. “Or on you?”

She shuddered, remembering Melac’s fingers tracing her cheekbone.

“Right now, that worry is at the bottom of the list, René. Talk to you later.”

The espresso machine grumbled in the background. The white-aproned waiter set down Aimée’s change on the round marble table.

“Don’t suppose you’ve seen my friend?” She gave a little sigh. “I could swear she meant this café. Petite, long dark brown coat, carrying a Printemps shopping bag, shoulder-length black hair, early twenties?”

The waiter jerked his thumb toward the zinc counter. “Just them.”

A group of men wearing blue work jackets with the
EAU DE PARIS
water company logo on the back stood at the counter drinking beers with a chaser of red wine.

“
Le quotidien
, their daily dose, same time every day.” The waiter spread his hands. Not good tippers, she figured. “Seems like there are always more of them.”

He wiped a towel over the table. Paused. Gray-haired, sturdy black shoes with rolled-up toes that spoke of wear. Bad feet? But the talkative type, old school, proud of his métier, she could tell.

“Nice that they keep your gutters sparkling clean,” she said to the waiter, cocking her head toward the workmen, her gaze still scanning the pavement.

“Not the gutters.” He shrugged. “We’ve got the most picturesque reservoir in
la ville.
”

“Here?” Aimée asked, engaging his conversation, darting her eyes over pavement. “Not the one in Belleville?”

He shrugged. “Passy reservoir’s a well-kept secret.
Caché,
hidden above ground, too.”

Sounded familiar. Had she learned that in school?

“It’s like a private pool with a view of the Eiffel Tower, like going on a holiday.” He re-wiped the table with a towel. “The
Carlingue
liked the view.”

Carlingue,
a phrase she hadn’t heard since her grandfather’s day. Most referred to them as Gestapistes, the French auxiliary of the Gestapo. Run by Lafont, the convicted criminal, and Bonny, the former policeman. Her eyes widened.

He caught her look. “So much so,” he continued, “that they reserved the tunnels under the reservoir for torture chambers. Convenient, right across from their offices.”

“Offices? You mean rue Lauriston?”

He nodded.

Madame de Boucher’s account of her brother came back to her. Even today, rue Lauriston meant one thing.

“The right address on the wrong side of history.”

A philosopher too, this waiter.

Just the street name sent shivers up the older generation’s spine. Few talked about it or about French collaboration. Few had survived.

* * *

A
FTER TWENTY MORE
minutes in the café, Aimée returned to the Marché Saint-Didier. Irati’s Mercedes windshield held a parking ticket. From the corner of her eye she saw four men sitting in the Renault, the gray Renault she’d seen before.