Murder on the Champ de Mars (13 page)

Weren’t they meeting at Café Marly overlooking the Louvre’s pyramid to wine and dine a prospective client? Didn’t she have more than an hour until their lunch?

“René,
écoute
 …” The words died in her throat as a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties followed René into the office. He was carrying a pigskin briefcase in one hand, and he reached to shake her hand with his other.

“Marc de Brosselet, with Villeroi Frères,” he said. “Apologies for just showing up, but I begged your partner, Monsieur Friant, to let me visit. He indulged me.”

Indulged him? How could René bring him here on her first day back in the office? Her desk was a mess of papers and files awaiting attention—some way to impress a potential client with a hundred-thousand-franc contract.
Merde
. She wanted to kick him. Her bare feet scrambled under her desk, seeking her high heels. Too late to change into the Dior suit hanging from the back of her chair. She hadn’t even applied mascara.

But her manners kicked in, and she caught his handshake. A firm grip.

“Monsieur de Brosselet’s interested in how we work, Aimée,” said René, straining to maintain his smile. “The nitty-gritty.”

Now she really would kick René. He wanted to see nitty-gritty, did he? She hoped her leaky breasts hadn’t stained the silk blouse she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. Pads, where were her pads? Too late now.

To top if off, she noticed a dust ball in the corner. The cleaning lady must have missed that corner last night. Or for the last month.

“We like to get a feel for a firm before we make decisions.”

So all this would go in a report to board members, shareholders, those men in suits who had no clue about computer and corporate security apart from what they saw on the
télé
.

René’s smile froze as de Brosselet paused to inspect the diapers. Chloé’s crib. The stuffed animals.

“Interesting,” he said. “I gather you bring your baby to work?”

No running or hiding now. No doubt he’d ask whether they could perform under pressure and on deadline with an infant in the office.

“That depends on the project and my hours,” she said. “But under normal circumstances, Chloé, my six-month-old, stays with a child-minder.” Lame. “But it’s my name on the door, Monsieur.”

“
Pardonnez-moi
, but I’m curious about this diaper service, Didee Wash. Do you recommend them?”

She nodded. “René thinks they’re the best in terms of hygiene. He surveyed all the cotton diaper services in the Paris region, and Didee’s the only one who uses an organic alternative to chlorine.”

“Good to know,” de Brosselet said. “My wife’s pregnant. And good to know you’re a thorough researcher, Monsieur Friant.”

She relaxed. What was that Oscar Wilde saying?
Be yourself
;
everyone else is already taken
.

“Please sit down, Monsieur de Brosselet,” she said, moving Chloé’s stuffed dinosaur and pulling out the Louis XIII chair for him. “Maxence, can you make us three espressos?” Maxence leapt to his feet. “He’s our intern from the Hackaviste Academy, where René teaches,” she explained. “We’ll show you how our small but innovative firm works, and how we get results that larger ones don’t.”

“Can you make a system hack-proof and totally secure?”

She shot a look toward René. “Let’s show Monsieur de Brosselet the Veleda project to give him an idea of our services,” she said. “Monsieur de Brosselet, this is pre-operational, but it’s three-quarters realized, and I think a good fit to show you and Villeroi how we adapt security as needs arise.”

René, mobilized into action, was nodding as he opened his desk drawer. “We’re constantly adapting, refitting, retooling,” he said. “Microdots—remember them?—were once the safest storage, reams of info on the head of a pin. Use once and destroy. Efficient for single use, but static. Computer security can’t be static.”

René opened the file and began to shuffle through, so Aimée took the reins.

“Changing and evolving is our forté,” she said. “One day a firewall is secure. The next day, it might be full of holes. You need a security system that is constantly vigilant, that roots out any sign of unexplained probing,” she said. “Malware’s insidious. All it takes is one click on a link from a customer’s compromised email account to penetrate your system.”

“You mean hacked? How can you tell?”

Had it happened to his firm?

“We work with people who’ve been hacked every day,” she said. “And we’re selective about who we take on, Monsieur de Brosselet. In your case we’d perform a threat assessment to see if we could address your needs.”

De Brosselet opened his briefcase, took out a notepad. From
the way his broad shoulders bulged through his pinstriped suit jacket, it was clear he worked out. “How would that work, exactly?”

“We would attempt to break into your system to see where your weaknesses are. Then we would fix them.”

“Isn’t hacking against the law, Mademoiselle Leduc?” De Brosselet smoothed a crease in his trousers.

“That’s a technical grey area these days.”

“So where do you draw the line?”

A tad too inquisitive? She threw René a look. He put his hands together in supplication, so she kept talking.

“Monsieur de Brosselet, the British have been undertaking security operations in this way since 1994 under protection of the Intelligence Services Act. And you think our own government hasn’t been doing the same thing? I say we need to keep up with the hackers. Or hire them ourselves—just like the government does.” She smiled. “You didn’t know that, did you? That’s the truth, and the other companies won’t admit it. They hire hackers for security purposes; it’s the cheapest way to get the most sophisticated programmers. And we do the same.”

He grinned. “You’re outlaws.”

“The Internet’s like the Wild West these days. Does your firm want to be left behind? Can you fight back with a club when your opponents are using laser guns?”

René piped up. “Too many times we’re hired after the fact. Statistics show it’s not
whether
your firm will fall under cyber attack but
when
and
how many times
your vulnerabilities will be exploited.”

De Brosselet crossed his legs. “As you must know, Villeroi’s a family firm, old school—handcrafted products, world renowned. I married into the family, took my position ten years ago.”

Aimée nodded. Villeroi was on a par with Hermès, but the true cognoscente believed Villeroi’s wares were the more finely
crafted. She’d lusted after a bag herself, but Villeroi never showed up at the flea market.

“Counterfeiters are stealing our designs, destroying our market,” he said. “You come personally recommended.” He recrossed his creased trouser leg. “By my uncle, the
comte
. Seems you’re working for him.”

Yet another nephew? Aimée rewound her memory but she didn’t recall de Brosselet’s name among the
comte
’s family members. Or on the board of the
comte
’s engineering firm. She’d have remembered that even with baby brain. Had René forgotten to do his research? Or was this a lie, an attempt to infiltrate the
comte
’s company?

Maxence turned from the espresso machine with a raised eyebrow. René had gripped the back of his ergonomic chair.
Merde
. They couldn’t play both sides.

“We can’t speak to that, as you must understand.” She paused, hating to pull away from such a lucrative client. “We’d need to explore for any conflict of interest,” she said. “I don’t want to waste your time, Monsieur de Brosselet, but I’m afraid …”

“My family allegiance would cloud things?” He grinned. “My uncle’s quite taken with you, you know. But feel free to ask him.”

Wary, Aimée wondered if she’d read him wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Excusez-moi.”
Aimée pulled out her phone, dialed. A moment later, after a quick query, the
comte
confirmed there was no conflict of interest.

“He’s my sister’s boy, got his own inheritance. From the right branch of the family, if you get my meaning, Mademoiselle,” said the
comte
. “Snag his contract if you can, his firm’s loaded.”

“Merci.”

She clicked off, caught René’s gaze and nodded.

“Villeroi’s looking to safeguard our communications system worldwide,” de Brosselet said, consulting his notes. “Can you convince me Leduc Detective would do a better job of providing a comprehensive computer-security system than the five other firms bidding for the contract?”

Aimée knew all their rivals, competitors with large offices and lots of people power.

“Monsieur de Brosselet, your designs and sensitive data could be stolen in myriad ways,” she said. “That’s why we cover all the bases, not just the technical ones. Maybe someone’s walking out with designs the old-fashioned way and photocopying them. Or someone’s bugging the phone of the president of the company. Which is why we’re experts in surveillance and counter-surveillance.”

René’s eyes popped.

“And of course we’d do computer security as all the other firms do,” she said, stirring her espresso.

“Interesting. How many employees do you have?” de Brosselet asked, smiling as he accepted a demitasse from Maxence.
“Merci.”

“Who you see and Saj, our permanent part-timer.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“Of course,” said René, shooting Aimée a look. “He’s on assignment in India right now.”

Assignment? More like meditation retreat.

She wished she’d prepared more. “We keep lean, if that’s what you’re asking. And we bring a special skill set to the table. My background in criminal investigation provides an unusual list of contacts, freelancers I trust for certain types of surveillance.”

“Lean works if it delivers, Mademoiselle Leduc,” he said.

She smiled at him and nodded to a wide-eyed René. “Shall we get started?”

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER
, René stood and stretched. “I’ve done my bit on the proposal. Your turn, Aimée. Think we hooked de Brosselet?”

“Time will tell. That is, if I finish these last projections.”

“Lean, I like that.” René grinned. “We’re a lean machine.”

She glanced at the time. She had a surveillance coming up, but there was still so much to do. No return call yet from Madame Uzes. Nor had she heard from Morbier. No chance to follow up on La Bouteille aux Puces for information or on Nicu’s uncle, who should be questioned. And Drina Constantin, wherever she was, was running out of time, if she was even still alive.

“What’s with the old newspaper?
Qu’est-ce que c’est
, Aimée, a
procès-verbal
and a torn drink receipt?”

Then an idea surfaced. “Remember that book you gave me,
Mamans Can Have Lives, Too?
It says delegate when your plate’s full.”

René nodded. “
Bien sûr
. It’s a best seller, so it must work. Delegate away.”

She wrote out La Bouteille aux Puces’s name and address and slid it across her desk to him. “Sit down a moment. Let me explain.”

She did.

“Delegating?” René shook his head. “That’s asking me to go on a wild Gypsy chase. And it’s personal.”

“Who else would I trust with this, René?” she said.

“You think I can figure out what happened twenty years ago from people who lie for a living?”

“You’re right,” she said, seething inside. “A racist’s the wrong person to ask. I’ll figure it out myself.”

Her phone rang. Morbier.

She turned away from René.
“Oui?”

“How’s the little princess today?” Morbier asked.

A little shiver traveled down Aimée’s arm. Her father had called her that.

“She loves apricots,” she said. “And splattering them on the wall. Today’s her first care day with Babette. But that’s not why I called and left you a message, Morbier. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said, dismissive. “Speaking of calling, have you contacted that attorney?”

“Seems Melac’s attorney contacted mine before I’d even made an appointment. Not good, Morbier.”

She knew René was listening to her conversation. The office behind her had gone too quiet. Him overhearing this was the last thing she wanted.

“Hold on, Morbier.” She put her hand over the phone. Turned. But no René.

Had he stormed out in a huff?

She couldn’t think about that right now. She needed to fill Morbier in, find out what he’d discovered.

“Leduc, I’m tied up testifying at the tribunal. It’s the first time I could take a break. Make this quick.”

Last night he’d promised to help her. For a moment she debated how much to share, decided on the bullet points: Nicu framed, his call, Drina’s trashed atelier, the possible link to her father’s murder.

“Back in trouble, Leduc? You broke your promise to me,” Morbier interrupted. “What’s going on in your mind these days?”

She figured that was rhetorical.

“Phfft.”
An angry expulsion of air came through the line. “Quit playing Wonder Woman and jeopardizing my efforts to find the Gypsy.”

“Wait
un moment
, Morbier. Your efforts? Like what? Don’t hold out on me—”

“I’m following up,” he said. “And I can’t talk about it here.
Tu comprends?”

Before she could voice her fear that Drina’s life was ebbing away, he hung up. She hit callback.

“Leduc, I’m going into court.” Morbier’s tone was ice-cold.

“Promise you’ll tell me what you hear and I’ll—”

“Keep the promise you’ve broken, Leduc?”

“Something like that. Morbier, the poor woman’s condition’s deteriorating every hour.”

Pause. “I’ve called in favors from a surveillance contact in the seventh. Put my neck out. My contact’s on it as we speak. It’s promising, but I don’t know any more.”

“Promising?”

“Keep your skirt on, Leduc.”

She heard a door slam in the background.

“Please don’t disappoint me, Morbier,” she said. Begging, she was begging now.

The phone cut off. She hated to admit it, but he was right. She needed to prioritize. She had come within footsteps of a murder this afternoon—what would happen to Chloé if she let herself get hurt chasing whispers? She had to trust Morbier, at least for now. How many times had he gone to bat for her, saved her
derrière
? More than she cared to remember.