Murder in Passy

by Cara Black

  “The stolen plates.” She wished she had one of the painkillers sitting on her bedside table.

  “They’ll abandon it if they’re smart,” he said.

  “Got any other ideas, René?”

  He brushed cobwebs from her coat. “I might. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “What if the EPIGN are watching your place?”

  René swallowed. “Good point. But Michou’s expecting me next door for a drink.”

  The blood sample from her Louboutins. She still hadn’t heard back from Viard.

  “If Viard’s there, can you ask him to meet us down here?”

  René shook his head but punched in the number and made the call. “What about hooking up the feed? Please, René.”

  In the back seat of the Citroën, René opened his briefcase, set his laptop on the leather seat, and hooked a cable to the receiver.

  Not two minutes later, footsteps sounded on her left.

  “Giving Michou a run for her money?” Viard grinned. “I like your androgynous look. Very Helmut Newton. But why the cloak and dagger, Aimée?” Viard dusted his hands in the less-than-clean subterranean garage René rented for half the price of his apartment and felt lucky to have.

  “You don’t want to know, Viard.”

  “Again?” He pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. “We were swamped. I managed to get to your heels this morning. O-negative blood type. Nothing special. Except for the mucosa traces.”

  “Mucosa?”

  “You know, the lining in the nose. After lunch, we had a lull,” Viard said. “Thought I’d put a portion of the sample under the microscope. Interesting.”

  Anxious and hot in the humid dank garage air, she took off the fedora. Shook her hair. “In what way?”

  “The mucosa came from the nose. Along with the blood. I’d say there was a nosebleed.”

  Surprised, she moved closer. “Not from a gunshot wound?”

  “I found no gunpowder residue. Of course, that might not present in such a small sample. But, why someone might have a nosebleed: I looked more closely at the blood—red cells, white cells, platelets.… ” Viard, enthusiasm creeping into his voice, thumbed to another page in his notebook. Nodded as he read and rubbed his chin. “Then it got fascinating, or morbid, depending on your point of view.”

  Why couldn’t he just tell her?

  “What’s your take, Viard?”

  “Far too many white blood cells—abnormal ones at that—for a healthy individual. Also not a normal number of platelets.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not a doctor, Aimée,” he said.

  “Neither am I, remember?” Her ribs ached. She wished he’d get to the point. “I got through a year of premed and never hit the lab. Chemistry and biology did me in.”

  “Speaking based on the lab smear, with such a high white blood cell count, he’s about done in.”

  She unsnapped the tie. Fanned her neck. “How can you tell?”

  “Like I say, I’m not a physician. But symptoms such as nosebleeds, fatigue, weight loss, and high white blood cell count— and abnormal white blood cells—in most cases indicate an advanced stage of disease. Leukemia.”

  Stunned, she leaned against the wall. Did she need to rethink everything with this revelation?

  “A terminal terrorist? Gives him an interesting motive,” René said.

  “Worse, René,” she said, thinking. “Nothing to lose.”

  She pecked Viard on both cheeks. “Merci.”

  “So when’s our dinner?”

  “Ask René,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “But it’s safer here,” he said. “Stay with Michou.”

  “My taxi meter’s running.”

  René handed her a red cell phone. “That’s your new number. It’s programmed in my cell. Keep in touch every twenty minutes.”

  She paused at the door, a dark unease flooding her. Morbier’s weight loss, the hollows under his eyes. “How long does the man have, Viard?”

  “I run the lab, but I don’t provide diagnoses, Aimée,” he said.

  “But according to … the platelets, your observations.… ” Her throat caught. “

  At this point, I’d suggest he live every day like it’s his only one.”

  * * *

  AIMÉE SURVEILLED THE winding street, the corners. Deserted except for the taxi. She clutched her side, sinking into the back seat. “Rue Raynouard, s’il vous plaît. On the way, stop at the all-night pharmacy on Champs-Elysées.”

  Ten minutes and three extra-strength Dolipranes—washed down by fizzy Vittel—later, she crouched in the back seat as the taxi cruised past Xavierre’s dark, shuttered town house. She noted the parked cars and the Renault with two heads silhouetted against the darkness. The Renault from the market.

  Across the narrow street, she noted a dim glow emanating through Madame de Boucher’s second-floor lace curtains. Then a darker curtain blocked the dim light.

  A car door slammed, an engine rumbled, and the Renault’s headlights flashed on.

  “Turn right.” Past the steepled church on rue Jean Bologne, paralleling rue Raynouard, she motioned for him to pause. “Wait by the florist’s across from the Boulainvilliers Métro.” She took his card. “If I don’t call you within one hour, erase my record. Put me down as a no-show pickup. You never heard of me.”

  She passed him two hundred francs.

  “Deal?”

  He nodded, took the francs, patted a tattered copy of a Simenon novel on his dashboard. “Got an Inspector Maigret investigation to keep me company. Almost as exciting as tonight.”

  She summoned a smile. “But tonight’s far from over, Monsieur.”

  She knew Madame de Boucher’s building on rue Alphonse XIII overlooked the rear courtyards and gardens of these apartments.

  Stepping onto the narrow street, she had a sense of being watched. She heard the crunching of leaves, the heavy tread of measured footsteps.

  Her shoulders tightened. She stepped into the building doorway and turned.

  Headlights backlit a dark figure: moisture glimmering on close-cropped hair, a martial stride halfway down the street. Hair rose on the back of her neck. No mistaking that cocky assuredness. EPIGN.

  They not only were watching Xavierre’s house, they were patrolling the quartier.

  She dug in her purse for the stubby universal mailman’s key in the side pocket. The one she’d “borrowed” from Morbier a month ago and “forgotten” to return. The worn key provided la Poste universal access to buildings and courtyards. A passe-partout. Where was it?

  The footsteps crackling over the leaves got closer. She concentrated until her fingers found the key.

  Praying that the key still worked, she inserted it and heard the lock tumble. Once inside, she shut the glass door, heading into the marble-tiled foyer toward the rear. She kept going, ignoring the knocking coming from the glass door, almost running into the table with a vase of roses emitting a faint fragrance.

  At the door on her right, she slipped off her boots and stuck them in her bag. Sans stilettos, she crept across the dark pavered inner courtyard to what had been a carriage entrance. Now a small wooden vaulted door was the only egress.

  The door creaked open onto the adjoining courtyard, choked with Land Rovers, a barometer of the quartier’s wealth. A high stone wall backed onto Madame’s building.

  No trees to climb. No outbuilding with a roof. No ladder.

  Stuck.

  Less than two hours left.

  She climbed onto the nearest Land Rover’s hood and then to its roof, eyeballed a rough measurement, and wished the Doliprane would dull the ache in her ribs faster. She fashioned a slipknot at one end of her cashmere scarf, knotting the other end to her long, coarser wool scarf. Together they almost reached the top of the wall.

  And then she saw the wood wine carton filled with newspapers. Climbing down, she spread old newspapers on the Land Rover’s roof, hefted the cartons
, and prayed her aim would hit the rusted iron remains of the old gas-lamp fixture topping the wall.

  She balanced on the upside-down wine carton and threw the end of her scarf. Missed. Then again. On her third try, the scarf knot caught on the rusted iron and held. She tugged, testing her weight, and climbed, pulling herself up.

  Her toes wedged in the stone niches. She tried to ignore the sharp slicing pain as her sore ribs landed on the wall’s top ledge. Then she levied herself up. One leg over, and the next. She gasped in pain.

  Below her lay a huge drop to Madame’s courtyard.

  She prayed to god her scarves would hold and rappelled halfway down the wall before the rotted iron in the crumbling stone came loose. She caught the ivy trellis and hung suspended, the pain in her side shooting through her, then eased herself down onto a chipped haloed statue of Mary.

  Perspiring, she picked up her knotted scarves, now encrusted with rust. Keep going, she told herself. She had to keep going.

  She crept past the concierge’s loge and jiggled the inner door lock with the mini-screwdriver on her Swiss Army knife until it clicked open. She slipped on her boots and mounted the staircase to Madame de Boucher’s door.

  The strains of “Leaves of Autumn” came from the doorway. That damn bird was singing again. She knocked and stuck her fedora over the peephole. Heard footsteps on the other side. She knocked again.

  “Madame, please, I must talk with you.”

  No answer.

  “It’s vital, Madame. The quartier’s thick with police patrols.”

  “So,” came a muffled voice. “You’re with the police. I know the law. Go away. You can’t barge in here until dawn. Nazis or not, you won’t get in here.”

  Aimée took out her card and slipped it under the door. “I lied. I’m not a flic. Look at my card. Irati’s in danger. Please, I’m the only one who can help her.”

  Silence. She removed the fedora and put her eye to the peephole.

  “Agustino was murdered not far from here. Tell Irati. But he warned me before her mother’s murderer.… ”

  The door opened. Madame de Boucher stood, ice pick raised. “Shhh … my neighbors. Quick.”

  Again in that hallway reeking of old newspapers. But a quivering Irati, her face drained pale, stood by the coatrack.

  “But how did you know I’d … ?”

  “Come here? A good guess. You Socialists stick together, don’t you?” Aimée stepped inside. “Listen, the EPIGN’s parked below, watching your house. They’re looking for me too.” The parrot’s singing was louder inside. The shrill notes grated on her taut nerves, and she shut the salon door. “It’s dangerous; I know a safe hiding place.”

  “You’re lying.” Irati backed up.

  “Check for yourself,” she said.

  Madame de Boucher set down the ice pick and grabbed her walking stick. “I’ll see about that.”

  “This man coerced you, didn’t he, Irati?”

  Irati backed away. Her eyelids fluttered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Of course she did. Just her body movement gave her away.

  “Do you want him to get away with your mother’s murder? The brutal slaying of Agustino and his nephew … ?” She shuddered, remembering the bloodied Adidas. Blood everywhere.

  Panic painted Irati’s tight features.

  “Agustino told me he’s called Txili, his ETA nom de guerre,” Aimée said. “What hold did he have over your mother?”

  Irati bit her lip. “Maman told me nothing. I saw him, this Txili, yes; but Maman told me to get out of the room. I’d never seen him in my life. I didn’t know he’d stolen our car or what he wanted until the next morning.” A pinprick of blood showed on her chapped lip.

  Aimée nodded. “But was he bleeding? Did he look wounded? Could you tell that much?”

  She thought, shrugged. “He coughed, I think.” Irati’s brow wrinkled in worry. “On the phone, he said Maman had left the bag for him; I was to do as she’d promised or he couldn’t protect us.”

  “Couldn’t protect you from what?”

  “The others. The group. That’s what he kept saying.” Her lip trembled. “They’d place a bomb under Robbé’s car, shove me on the Métro tracks, my aunt would return to Bayonne and find my uncle dead. Terrible things. He said he couldn’t stop them unless I cooperated.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Irati’s eyes batted in fear. “What else could I do?”

  “But you’re involved with Euskadi Action. This shows all their trademarks.”

  “Involved?” Irati spread her arms. “I attended one meeting. I wish I never had. Fanatics ranting about reclaiming the Basque homeland, like a religion. They insisted I buy a stupid T-shirt and hound me now with mail.”

  So that’s how they’d gotten her address.

  “But what did this Txili hold over your mother?”

  “Zut alors, we can’t get away from them. Anywhere Robbé goes, his car could go up in smoke. If I’m in a crowded station.… ” She shook her head. “Any time, he said, any place, it could happen.”

  He’d terrorized her. Irati saw his threats as real. Who was to say they weren’t? But how could she break through and convince her?

  “I can help you,” Aimée said. “Or there’s the EPIGN downstairs. The elite assault squad. It’s just a matter of time until they find you, like I did. They’ll interrogate you, break you down, link you to the princess’s kidnapping.”

  Irati’s hand went to her mouth in fear. “The princess … what do you mean?”

  “I think you know. At least part of it.”

  She hoped her hunch was right.

  Tears brimmed Irati’s eyes. “But I never knew. Never. He just told me.… ” Her shoulders shook. “You think he’ll hurt Maria?”

  “Not if I can help it,” she said, pulling a cane-backed chair toward her. “Sit down. We’ve got less than two hours left.”

  “Two hours?”

  “His deadline. Have a seat.”

  Irati collapsed in the chair. “Her father was ambassador here years ago. That’s how we knew them. Maria’s family comes to Bayonne every summer. We go to my uncle’s house in the mountains in Basse Navarre. I’ve known Maria since we were little. She likes to party, a little rebellious. But still, inside, she’s sympa, you know; she has a good heart.”

  “Spoiled brat, I heard.”

  Irati wiped her eyes. “Her father’s so conservative, insists she perform her ‘duties’ noblesse oblige. She hates it. A little wild, yes. But I figured she’d go along with it.”

  “With a kidnapping by ETA terrorists, a daring escape, followed by a tell-all article and modeling contract?”

  “Nothing like that.” Irati shook in horror. “He insisted that I ask Maria to meet at this resto and say we’d go clubbing and then …” She paused. “It felt wrong. He said Maman was a patriot and wasn’t I? When I asked him what he meant, he said Maman owed the cause from way back. Took an oath. Had vowed support.”

  “Support that got her killed? How could he explain her murder?”

  “At first he blamed Morbier.” She rubbed her eyes. “Then he changed his story, said he couldn’t control the ettaras—the young militants—who took things into their own hands out in the garden.”

  “A lie,” Aimée said. “Like all the lies he’s telling you. I only heard one person’s footsteps, one car door slam.” Aimée took Irati’s elbow, stared into her tear-filled eyes. “He’s using your fear, I understand. But you can’t let Morbier go down for this.”

  “But he threatened that Robbé would be next if I didn’t cooperate, didn’t arrange to meet Maria.”

  “So instead of the Marmottan reception announcing the Basque accord, Maria went to meet you but was kidnapped instead.”

  “You’re sure?” Irati’s eyes batted in fear. “I’ve heard nothing on the radio or télé.”

  “I was there. Before any public announcement was made, her father insisted on a three-hour window, t
o negotiate in private.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Basque referendum’s dead in the water and Maria’s the hostage for release of ETA’s political prisoners in France, his goal all along.”

  Irati blinked. “He’s an ETA political militant? You’re sure? He seems a business type, conservative. I couldn’t believe the way he talked.”

  Aimée’s mind spun into high gear. “As if his talk doesn’t match his appearance?”

  “I saw him for only a few minutes before Maman …” Irati took a breath. “… made me leave. At first impression I took him for a banker. Thinking back, yes. Now in his phone calls he uses those old phrases, passé ETA slogans, ‘militant patriotism’ and ‘Basque autonomy.’ People don’t talk like that any more. They’re sick of violence.”

  A front? But for what?

  Irati stared at her. “He said he knows you.”

  The hair stood on the back of her neck. “Me?”

  “He must have seen you, I don’t know.”

  Of course: from the window. Or … something in the back of her mind niggled, eluding her.

  “But at first you didn’t recognize me in this outfit, did you, Irati? That’s why you’re going to get away—you can change clothes like shedding skin, new colors, new hair.”

  “But for how long?”

  Irati had no illusions about the future, but a desperate need to believe. How many more bodies would there be, she wondered, before Irati wised up?

  “Long enough for you to—”

  The cell phone on the hall radiator trilled. Irati glanced at the number. “It’s him.” Before she could answer, Aimée grabbed her hand.

  “Keep him talking as long as you can,” she said. “Agree to anything. Ask to meet him. Just keep him on the line.”

  Irati nodded and picked up the telephone, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Oui?”

  Pause. “Look, there’s something.… ”

  She pursed her lips.

  “What … non!”

  Irati dropped the phone.

  Aimée reached down and grabbed it. A buzz. She hit CALLBACK and the number came up blocked. Not even time for Léo to trace it.

  Irati looked like she’d been hit by a truck.