The Paris Directive (28 page)

The Hôtel du Centenaire in Les Eyzies was small, but the
Michelin
Guide
called its restaurant excellent, worth a detour. Molly was looking forward to it and was crushed when the maître d’hôtel couldn’t find Pierre’s reservation.

“But you are in luck,” he said, as he glanced over his bookings. “We have a cancellation.”

And that evening Molly felt very lucky indeed. Their comfortable table, the soft lights, the delicious food, and waiters who appeared to be genuinely pleased to be serving them. And especially Pierre, who seemed to know that it wasn’t necessary to say anything. It was as if she’d been touched by the magic of the cave. Or perhaps it was merely the wine, a seductive bottle of fragrant white from Bergerac.

When their bill came, Molly, as agreed upon, was more than happy to pay her share. She took the check, perfectly willing to cover the whole thing, but Pierre was so genuinely offended that she gave it up, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

Later, though, as they sat in his car in front of Madame Charpentier’s bakery, Pierre seemed grumpy. Molly wondered what was bothering him. Usually, with people she knew, she could always tell
why the mood of an evening had changed. Not tonight. There was something unpredictable about Pierre. He seemed so guarded, so locked up within himself. Her father would have said that he’d make a great poker player. You had no idea what cards he was holding.

“Anything wrong?” she asked.

“Given the food, I must say I thought that place was too expensive.”

Molly indulged him with a smile. “Maybe—but my fish was absolutely exquisite.”

“I’m glad you didn’t order the pigeon. They cremated the poor thing. Even I could make it better.”

“I didn’t know you were a cook as well as an artist.”

“How could you? You hardly know me.”

“That’s true. You’re full of surprises.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Suddenly leaning over, Pierre took her in his arms and kissed her. He smelled of the cave. Molly started to push him away but then yielded to the pleasure of the moment. His lips tasted of garlic.

“How would you like dinner at my place?” he offered.

“Only if you’re as good a cook as you claim.”

“Tomorrow night?”

She hesitated. “No, I can’t.” She gave him her phone number. “Call me on the weekend.”

Oh yes, he’d have her! She was worth waiting for. But how much more time could he wait? She’d already mentioned his accent. Not a good sign. If an American noticed it, how much more likely that the French would, given their peculiar sensitivity to their language—the purity of its sound, its diction. Reiner was acutely aware of one thing. The longer he remained in the house where he was staying, the more dangerous it became. No more failures, Reiner swore.

35

LE CYRANO

M
olly put down the Sunday paper. She’d been reading an article about two of the lawyers in the murder case—François Astruc, Ali’s new defense lawyer, and the investigating magistrate Christine Leclerc. Everything that Molly had heard about Madame Leclerc’s thoughtfulness and intelligence she liked. She wondered why she hadn’t tried to see her before. Anything to accelerate the inspector’s investigation.

Finding her number in the Bergerac telephone book, Molly decided to call her at home. Why not? All she could say was no. But as luck would have it, Christine Leclerc was as curious to see the daughter of the murdered Americans as Molly was to meet the investigating magistrate.

Her house was perched on a terrace overlooking the Dordogne. A lovely view of the river, especially on a hot, sunny day. The white-haired man in the blue smock, who came to the door, smelled of soap. Ushering Molly into the twilight of the living room, he left without a word. She hoped that she’d come to the right house. The shutters were closed and fastened against the heat of the day, the windows behind them opened wide and the lace curtains pushed back to catch any breath of air trickling in. Molly wondered why there were so few air conditioners in this part of France when the country was plainly bristling with nuclear power plants. On a piano inside, she heard someone playing a familiar Scarlatti sonata much better than her mother ever could.

Molly, with a heavy heart, was thinking of her mother when Madame Leclerc appeared in the doorway on the other side of the
room. A small woman with a black chignon, dressed younger than her years. In her sparkling white pants and elegantly fitted blue silk jacket with its bright floral pattern, she didn’t look much like a judge.

Sitting down beside her visitor on the couch, Madame Leclerc was eager to express her sympathy. She spoke in English, as if to spare her guest any needless pain. Molly considered her English a work in progress. All the same, she did appreciate her kindness in agreeing to see her.

“Merci beaucoup, madame … mais si vous voulez—”

“English is fine,” insisted Madame Leclerc. Her white-haired servant returned, carrying a bottle in a gleaming silver ice bucket. “A cool glass of wine, perhaps?”

Before Molly could say no, he’d poured them both some white Bordeaux. A complex smell of citrus and vanilla. Molly sampled it with pleasure.

“Delicious. But I know how busy you must be these days so let me come to the point immediately. I don’t think Ali Sedak murdered my parents.”

Madame Leclerc took her news calmly.

“Why is that, my dear?”

“Call it simply professional judgment and based on everything that I’ve heard thus far. You see, I also work in the area of criminal law.”

“Yes, I read about that in the paper.”

“As a prosecutor in New York, I’ve met all sorts of criminals who claimed to be innocent. Some with no more credibility than Klaus Barbie. But in this case I’m inclined to believe the suspect.”

“You realize, of course, that he’s been indicted and the evidence against him is not unpersuasive.”

Her visitor paused, choosing her words carefully. “I think it’s possible that he’s being victimized.”

“A conspiracy?” she asked, studying the pretty young woman and weighing the seriousness of her charge.

Molly explained that she’d spoken to Ali Sedak while he was being held at the local commissariat, and she had taped the interview. Pulling out her recorder, she played excerpts. She didn’t believe that this frightened little man was capable of murdering those four
people. And certainly not alone. Then she mentioned the phone calls to Ali’s house made on Schuyler Phillips’s stolen cell phone. They were made at about the same time the killer was using her father’s stolen MasterCard to withdraw money from his account. If it had been Ali calling his wife, she said, he wouldn’t have immediately hung up. More likely it was someone attempting to throw suspicion on him. Molly concluded Ali was probably telling the truth. “I suspect the caller was trying to frame Ali, make him a
pigeon
.”

“Aha!” Leclerc nodded and considered how to begin. From another room, whoever was playing had moved on to a new challenge—a Bach partita, this time—but was finding it heavy going. The music kept starting and stopping.

“As I said before, the evidence against Ali Sedak at this point in our investigation is persuasive. But,” she added, “by no means conclusive.” And she hoped Mazarelle would soon give her a tighter case against the accused. There were questions still to be answered. Among them whether Ali’s dealer, Eugène Rabineau, had played a role in the crime. Did he, despite his denials, actually sell Ali Sedak the five kilos of hashish the police found outside his house? And if Sedak was a dealer, who were his clients?

“Speaking of which
 …
” The momentarily distracted speaker sighed as the pianist, clutching at straws, groped repeatedly for the right notes.
Madame
le
juge
began again. “Rabineau, according to
his
clients, left for Marseilles on business the day of the crime and did not return until the following afternoon. An alibi, yes, but not what I would call airtight.”

No, definitely not airtight if junkies were providing Rabineau’s only alibi. Molly shared Leclerc’s interest in the drug dealer. She was wondering how to find him, when whoever was playing inside brought a fist down thunderously on the keyboard. Within seconds, she heard approaching footsteps and the door at the far end of the living room flew open, daylight flooding in.

The young, curly-headed blond woman was furious. She stood there in her bare feet wearing a tangerine tank top and strawberry panties, a refreshing fruit salad of summer colors. Molly thought she had a cute figure. Her hostess couldn’t seem to decide if she wanted to introduce the newcomer. Whether Blondie was her daughter or
girlfriend, she was obviously a volcano—an anarchic force in an otherwise peaceful landscape. Molly was reminded of Lola Lola in
The
Blue
Angel.
Hands on hips, Blondie snapped
“Pardon!”
and slammed the door behind her.

Christine Leclerc winced and smiled. “My protégé,” she acknowledged.

Molly didn’t laugh at the word, but really! It seemed so old-fashioned.

It was Thérèse who told Molly where she could find Rabo. A bar opposite the Bergerac train station called Le Cyrano in a shabby section of town with racist graffiti scrawled all over the sidewalk, the walls.

Molly drove slowly past the few taxis lined up in front of the station and parked outside Le Cyrano, the big neon sign above its name advertising Amstel. Going inside, she went over to the bar and sat down. The slight breeze from the open windows that looked out onto the street felt good. They were the only windows. The feeble yellow light from the globes on the walls merely heightened the dinginess. There were some people at the tables, but with the weekend train schedule, business was slow. The bartender, a moonfaced dreamer in a red-striped vest, appeared glad to see her.

“Amstel,” she ordered.

He poured her a glass, wiped off the bottom, and placed it carefully down in front of her. Molly smiled, a dazzle of perfect teeth.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

He shrugged.
“Un certain je ne sais quoi.”
He supposed it was the teeth. “From New York?”

“That’s right. Ever been to New York?”

“Why would I want to go to New York?”

Molly was eager to tell him but drank her beer instead. If he’d no idea, it wasn’t worth the effort.

Molly glanced around the room. As far as she could tell, no Rabo. At least no one who matched Thérèse’s description of him. Though
she couldn’t see the face of the guy with his head down on the table sleeping, he had no rings on his fingers, no ponytail.

“I’m looking for Rabo,” she told the bartender.

“Who?”

“Rabo.” Had the inspector been pulling her leg?

The bartender had no idea that she’d come to Le Cyrano to score. He was happy to be of service. Told her that Rabo had a delivery to make, but he’d be back any minute. “Have another beer. How do you know Rabo?”

“We met in Marseilles recently.” It was certainly worth a gamble. She didn’t know what she’d do if Rabo actually showed up. “Promised he’d have something for me the next day, but I couldn’t make it.”

“Neither could he.”

Molly glanced at the barkeep suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

“He came back here the same evening. Missed his connection, I heard.”

“You’re sure?”

He pointed to an empty table in the corner. “Sitting right there drinking with a couple of
mecs
he picked up on the road. You know, Corsicans? Small, dark eyes and lips that hardly moved when they spoke. All three swollen with secrets.”

I’ll bet they were, thought Molly, recalling Corsica’s legendary reputation as the home of bandits and cutthroats. Could they all have been in it together?

“What time did they leave?”

The bartender didn’t like snoopy questions. He snatched up her empty glass and pointed to the door. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Molly found it hard to breathe. The guy who’d just come in was talking to the young couple seated next to the front door. He had the dark, scruffy-looking, sour face Ali’s wife had described. Molly glanced at his ponytail, his rings.

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

“Hey, Rabo,” the bartender called out, “a customer here.”

Getting up, Molly threw back her shoulders and, taking a deep
breath, walked straight toward him, her swaying red hair catching his eye. Turning expectantly, Rabo watched as she strode coolly past him and out the front door.

“Attendez!”
he shouted after her.

Molly was sure that her car was being followed. Caught in traffic and creeping along, she became increasingly nervous. It was a dark sedan, black or midnight blue. She couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel even when she turned around to look. Was she becoming paranoid? Her eagerness to tell the inspector what she’d learned only made her more jittery.

The cop who took her upstairs wiped his forehead and asked if it was as warm outside as it was in the commissariat. Molly told him that there was a breeze outside. He said in here it felt like a baker’s oven. Molly said that it didn’t smell like one.

The windows in Mazarelle’s office were wide open, but it was still oppressively humid. The air reeking of stale tobacco. The shrill sound of whistling from the football field downstairs scraped his eardrums. Jacket off, Mazarelle sat working at his desk with his collar open, his sleeves rolled up, and the sweat dripping down his back, pasting his shirttail to his thick haunches. The coffee still left in his mug had turned to mud. He looked up as Molly entered and smiled. It wasn’t much as smiles go, but it was the best he could do. There was no question he was glad to see her. She was a woman for whom weekends were made. It was just that he still had about a half dozen things to do before he could call it a day. Mazarelle wondered why she’d come.

Molly sat down opposite him and said, “You look a little triste, Inspector.”