Murder on the Champ de Mars (14 page)

She sensed a presence behind her in the office, whipped her swivel chair around. René had slunk silently back in and was sitting with his back to her in his customized ergonomic chair. A minute of silence lengthened to two. When René got really angry, he retreated behind a wall of silence. She was in big trouble.

She’d have to eat her pride. Time to make peace.

“
Désolée
, René,” she said. “Call me out of line. You’re right, I don’t want you thinking—”

René jumped off his chair. “That you’re crazy to get mixed up in this when you’ve got Chloé to think of? That you’re giving Melac ammunition for his custody case? Next he’ll accuse you of terrorism, going vigilante.”

Implying that she was like her mother. Was she? Guilty heat spread up her neck.

“How much did you hear, René?”

“Enough to know that—”

“I went to meet Nicu,” she interrupted, her breaths coming short, like pants. “To help him find his mother. Not to watch him bleed to death under the Métro, René.” Her throat caught. “And it was my fault he was killed. My fault because I insisted he keep looking so I could find Papa’s killer. When he found her notebook, they stole it and killed him for it. On top of that, Drina’s not even his mother.”

René’s mouth widened in an O. “That part I didn’t hear.”

She’d kept it from Morbier, although she was unsure why. Maybe she didn’t want to delve that deep into the details, feel the guilt of Nicu’s death again.

“Aimée, this whole mess gets more
compliqué
at every turn.”

“Like I don’t know that, René.” She looked up at the time. “It’s four
P.M.
, nineteen hours since Drina’s abduction, twenty hours since her last medication. Without it she’s suffering.”

René shook his head. “If she’s even alive, Aimée. Get realistic. She’s gone, and her supposed secret about your father’s murderer has died with her.”

“Maybe she’s gone.” She sighed. “But her secret isn’t, René.”

“Face it. Time’s run out. Drina’s out of the picture, and her son who’s not her son, too.” He plopped down, adjusted the height of his custom chair. “I had too much champagne last night.” He rubbed his temples.

“Then you need this.” She reached into her drawer, found her Doliprane and threw him the packet. “Not that you look hungover or anything.” She paused, couldn’t give up. “There’s more, René.”

“Do I really want to hear this? And does it even matter?” René sighed. “You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you, Aimée?”

He was always a good sounding board; she did want to hear his take. She began with Drina’s notebook. René listened, swallowed the paracetamol and sipped green tea.

“Fifi and Tesla?” he repeated when she told him the names Nicu had read her. “As in a poodle and the scientist Nikola Tesla?”

“Code names, René. For who I don’t know.” Just then, at that moment, she wanted it all to go away. To go home to Chloé, give her a bath, play with the bubbles.

René’s face softened. “You okay, Aimée?”

“I miss Chloé.” Suddenly she realized that her blouse was wet. “
Merde
, I’m leaking.”

After a trip to the WC and an application of mascara, lip liner and some Chanel red lipstick, life had improved. Priorities. She had priorities.

What they were, besides Chloé, she still had to figure out.

Back in the office, René said, “When’s your appointment with the attorney?”

“Tomorrow. She requested Chloé’s birth certificate.”

“
Une formalité
, I’m sure,” said René, looking grim. “Stay calm, Aimée. Morbier told me the lawyer’s good. The best.”

“So you two are talking behind my back?” She balled up an old fax and tossed it at him.

René kicked it back to her. “Only for your own good.”

She held up the torn drink receipt from La Bouteille. “So far it’s the only lead I’ve found.”

René shook his head, pausing his fingers on the keyboard. “Not this again.”

“It’s related, René, part of a puzzle I can’t find a way into.”

“
Mais
everything you’ve said, Aimée, it’s all conjecture. Too many ifs—if this woman’s alive, if she’s related to a woman murdered twenty years ago, if there’s a connection to your father. What does it even matter now?”

“Not just any woman.” She took out the envelope containing Nicu’s birth certificate. Set it by René’s keyboard. “Djanka Constantin, aged twenty-four. My father investigated her homicide. René, it’s all connected but I don’t know how.”
Then the tattered black-and-white photos she’d found in the envelope. “Here’s Nicu as an infant with Drina and Djanka—see, it’s labeled. Both Constantins. Look at their cheekbones. Tell me they’re not sisters.”

René stared. “A beauty, Djanka.”

She had almond eyes, an alertness captured by the camera, which had caught her lifting her baby’s feet in the air, a half smile parting her lips. A young woman full of life. A hint of the seductress.

The looks had certainly gone to her instead of Drina.

“
Alors
, this woman, my father’s old informer, insists on seeing me, but gets abducted before I arrive. This boy she raised as her son finds her notes mentioning my father, he’s knifed to death and the notes stolen—all within fifteen hours. I want to know who—”

“You haven’t asked the important question, Aimée.”

She was surprised to hear the note of interest in René’s voice. But he always liked a puzzle—she’d hooked him.

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s this Pascal in the second photo? Besides being Nicu’s father?”

Not that hungover after all. “You’re right, René. Nicu’s uncle would know. The one who wanted to bring her back from the hospital.”

A sigh. “Then I guess it’s up to me to ask him.” René took his custom-tailored Burberry trench coat from the back of his chair, donned his fedora. “Need to look the part, eh?”

“You mean it, René?” she said. “You’ll help?”

“Time to hear some hot
manouche
jazz. Ferret around, look for the uncle.” He took the photocopied receipt, Maxence’s notes on La Bouteille, the photo and Nicu’s birth certificate from Aimée’s desk. “Call it delegating. Let me work on this. You finish the proposal, don’t blow tonight’s surveillance, and prepare for the lawyer.”

T
HE GREY-WHISKERED
G
ERMAN
shepherd lying on the cracked brown mosaic tiling at La Bouteille aux Puces growled as René entered.
Merveilleux
. Already irritated by having had to trek through the flea market in the drizzle—he’d had to park blocks away—René was less than thrilled with the bared teeth and wet dog smell in the dim Gypsy café.

Good thing he kept a packet of Chloé’s teething biscuits in his pocket. He tossed one to the dog, who chomped down. And begged for another.

They parted as friends, and René continued past the blown-up photos of Django Reinhardt and Hot Jazz posters. The walls were stained pale yellow from nicotine. He doubted La Bouteille aux Puces had changed much since Django’s time. Or that the woodwork had been scrubbed since then. Near the WC stood a wood cabin marked T
ÉLÉPHONE
—rare to see one of those these days.

“Madame Bercou,
n’est-ce pas
?” René smiled with his most determined charm at the older woman behind the counter. “You’ve owned the café a long time, I understand.”

The woman, wearing a violet scarf tied over a long braid and a blue cardigan under an apron, looked down at him. Squinted. Then shook her head.

Not a graduate of Gypsy charm school.

Had ownership changed hands? Or had Maxence gotten it wrong? He’d wasted his own time trying to keep Aimée from
getting even more involved in this goose chase. But he’d driven this far, gotten his pant cuffs wet and he’d give it another go before he left.

“Un express, s’il vous plaît,”
he said, trying to think of how to start a conversation, ease into questions. “Make it a double, Madame.”

René climbed up onto the stool. Slipped. Wished he’d worn his loafers with the non-slip leather sole.

She set a demitasse cup under the chrome machine. Brown, work-worn hands, swollen rheumatoid knuckles—every slow movement looked painful.

He felt a twinge of compassion. His hip dysplasia pained him in the damp. What he wouldn’t give for a cortisone shot right now.

Playing on the sound system was a recording of a twanging guitar with
la pompe
, the signature Django rhythm. On the walls, notices advertised nightly music. Photos of Django Reinhardt everywhere with his thin mustache and guitar held by the two fingers he played with, the deformed rest of his hand just visible. Gypsy cafés were the province of men, but the place was empty. Too early for the evening crowd, he figured.

“Madame?”

“
Attends
, need my hearing aid.” She stuck a small beige plug in her ear as she stepped from behind the counter to face him. Took his measure. “No auditions here.” Before he could open his mouth, she shrugged. “They’re held under the big tent up from Place de Clichy.”

As if all dwarves wanted to audition for the circus? Typical.

“That’s not why I came,” he said.

“Have it your way,
mon petit
,” she said. “So the music, you came for the music, eh?”

Not at all
, he was about to retort. But it was a place to start. “
Bien sûr,”
he said with a smile, hoping to finesse it. “My nana loved this music,” he said.

It was true. The speakers were playing “La Mer” now and the sound of Django’s haunting guitar strains had brought back memories of his grandmother. Nana used to play Django records on her phonograph. He remembered how she set the needle on the vinyl, the scratchy sound, the burst of guitar. She would grin and hug him, and they would dance with a dish towel to
Hot Jazz
. He had only been four when she died, but he remembered sitting with her as she lay in a big feather bed with iron railings. Nana’s thick grey bun had been tied with ribbon, her drawn face fully made up.

“She danced to Django’s songs even in the kitchen,” said René.

The woman set the wobbling demitasse of steaming espresso on the counter. Pushed the sugar at him.

“Who didn’t?” she said, wiping her hands. “Everyone has Django stories. Ah, the stories. The old men drag them out at night; people like to remember.” She winked. “Duke Ellington sat here and played with him.”

René sat up on the stool. “Duke Ellington, here?”

“Everyone came to play with Django.” Her eyes danced. “Not bad for a self-taught guitarist who never learned to read or write, eh?” She turned away as if stopping herself. Afraid of letting her guard down. Typical Gypsy, he thought. Closemouthed to outsiders.

“
C’est vrai?
I thought I knew a lot about Django, but I didn’t know he couldn’t read or write.” He hoped he hadn’t laid it on too thick. “You mean he couldn’t read music?”

“Django couldn’t even take the Métro because he couldn’t follow the signs.” The woman was warming up again. “He took taxis, or walked if he’d gambled away his money.”

“Must have been quite a character,” said René.

A shrug. “Volatile, temperamental. An artist. Lived in his caravan or camped in hotel rooms.”

René’s foot tapped to the beat. It was infectious. For a
moment he wondered if his nana had swung on this tiny dance floor in her youth.

He snapped out of it. This was a long enough trip down memory lane. He needed to find out about Djanka Constantin.

“Since you know so much, maybe you can help me,” he said, hoping the change of subject didn’t come off as abrupt. “Twenty years ago, in 1978, a young
manouche
woman named Djanka Constantin was murdered. Her killer was never caught. A drink receipt from La Bouteille was found in her pocket. Were you around then?”

“Me?
Non.”

“Don’t you remember hearing about it?”

She grabbed a towel. “That’s a long time ago.”

“Do you remember her family?”

A quick shake of the head. “Three francs fifty.”

The Gypsy wall had descended, shutting him out.
C’était typique, ça
. Overcharged him, too.
Alors
, what else did he expect?

All this way only to find a deaf old woman, a shrine to Django and memories of his nana. But he sensed the woman knew more than she was letting on.

The dog growled. He heard a smack on the window, hoots of laughter. He turned around to see egg yolk dripping down the outside of the café’s window. Two teenagers in rain slickers gave off snickers and taunts.

By the time the woman had grabbed the dog’s leash and gotten to the door, they’d run away.

From the stool he could see the yellow smears on the window, watched her rub the stains off with a towel. Spit over her shoulder into the gutter.

Not the first time, René figured.

“Have you complained to the
flics
?” René said when she got back.

She shrugged. “We say it’s better to turn sideways in the wind.”

A Gypsy aphorism that seemed to cover a lot of bases. But he could use this to open her up.

“Me, I’m an outsider, too,” René said, looking up from his cup. “Picked on, excluded in the village where I grew up. I took up martial arts and earned a black belt to compensate.” He rarely shared these details. “My life’s not so different from yours, Madame.”

If the woman heard him, she didn’t let on. His attempt at solidarity fell as flat as the eggshells she’d swept into the gutter.

“
Et en plus
you saw me, a dwarf, and assumed I had come for a circus audition,” he said. He hated playing the sympathy card, it went against his grain. But he needed to reach out and get her to relate. “It’s not like I can disguise my appearance.”

She reached for a clean dish towel. “When the road bends, it’s hard to walk straight,
mon petit,”
she said.

A crack in the wall. Good. He’d push.

“Can you help? Isn’t there anyone who might remember Djanka?” said René. “A long-time client who would have been here in the seventies, or the old owner?”

“What’s it to you?” she said.