Murder in Passy

by Cara Black

  “Coming from you, I’m surprised,” said Morbier. “You’re supposed to be defending me.” He leaned against the stone wall; the oval grilled window was above him. “Won’t twenty-five years of my union dues cover it?”

  “Quit sounding like every corrupt cobble-pounding one-stripe sergeant I’ve had the unhappy opportunity to represent,” Pollard said. “But you’re not on the take—or so I hear. What’s with you?”

  “Besides a big bucket of shit?” Anger flushed his face. He rubbed his chin—two days’ worth of stubble. Threw up his arms, the fight gone out of him. “Lucard was talking sentencing terms. What’s the use?”

  “We’ll get nowhere with your attitude.” Pollard leaned back in the chair and yawned. “We need a defense. Or had you forgotten this detail in some crusade to topple the Préfecture?”

  Morbier snorted. “Not that I envy you, but that’s your job, n’est-ce pas?”

  Pollard picked an eyelash from his cheek, flicked it away.

  “You’re a flic, Morbier,” he said. “Time you thought like one. Forget the circumstantial evidence, this crime-of-passion charge, for now. Tell me what’s twisted. What’s wrong here?”

  A wave of hopelessness hit Morbier.

  “Without the investigation file.… ” He shrugged, left the rest unsaid.

  “We’ve known each other alors, ten, twelve years?” Pollard said, his tone coaxing. “What does your gut say?”

  His gut? Jolted to his senses, he stared at his hands, at the cracked concrete floor, the fissures revealing stone. A dawning realization came over him. He’d submerged everything after losing Xavierre. Shocked, he’d wallowed in grief and self-pity, striking out in anger. Hadn’t he seen these reactions himself in the families of other victims? But flics didn’t have that luxury. Not if they were working a case.

  For the first time, not sidetracked by emotion, something shifted deep inside him. Like a numbing shot of Novocain at the dentist’s, a curious remoteness filled him. He knew the pain would return, but his mind cleared.

  It came back to him now.

  “Saturday night after dinner, Xavierre received a phone call,” Morbier said. He remembered her edginess, the way the muscle in her neck had tightened. The nuance he’d picked up, how she’d brushed it off as “the second crisis with the caterer this week.”

  Fool.

  “On Sunday, she didn’t return my calls,” Morbier said. “I left her messages. That night, instead of keeping the florists’ final appointment she’d insisted we make, she canceled. Just like that.”

  “Busy with her daughter’s wedding plans, from what I understand. Not so unusual, eh?” Pollard pursed his lips. “We married ours off in June. You think they leave, but it’s the wedding bills they leave . . . zut, they will set me back for years.”

  “But that’s not … wasn’t like her,” Morbier said. “She’d teased me, saying if I didn’t approve her mother-of-the-bride gardenia bouquet.… ” His throat caught.

  “Weren’t you invited to this wedding rehearsal party?”

  “At first, yes. But there were too many deaf old aunts, et cetera. ‘Boring,’ she said. I wouldn’t want to come.”

  Morbier focused on a large crack, a pattern of smaller branches seaming the floor.

  “Think, Morbier.”

  It played back in his mind like a bad film.

  “On Monday afternoon, Xavierre sounded like herself. ‘Bring Champagne,’ she said. But then the Lyon fiasco kicked in, though I promised to stop by en route. A half hour later, she’d changed her mind: ‘Not worth your while, don’t come.’ But something was terrifying her. I felt the push/pull of her wanting to talk. Almost a warning.”

  Pollard nodded. “So you went to see for yourself.”

  “I heard loud voices, shouting, from the back window. An argument in Basque.”

  “Basque?” Pollard sat up. “But that’s not in your statement.”

  In Morbier’s mind, he could see the man now from the back. Tall, dark hair, black coat. Moving around. Restless, he remembered. Coughing.

  “Xavierre threw a shopping bag at him. Paper fluttered in the air. But her daughter walked in. She took her by the arm and rushed out. Cars pulled up, the guests … that was it.”

  “What else?”

  “I got the call to respond.”

  “Meaning?”

  “High alert, issued in Lyon. I left. Met my driver, then asked Leduc to … don’t get her more involved.” Morbier slammed his fist on the table. “If only I could check.… ”

  “This?” Pollard slid a brown unmarked folder over the desk.

  Morbier thumbed open the file. Crisp photocopies of the crime-scene report, procès verbal statements, witness accounts, preliminary lab reports.

  “How the hell did you get this, Pollard?”

  “That’s the least of your worries, Morbier.” He stood, glancing at his watch. “Time for my hearing upstairs. You’ve got thirty minutes to read the contents before putting it in here.” Pollard indicated the top drawer. “I need to return it today, compris?”

  “And then?”

  “My brother-in-law’s shift resumes in thirty minutes. But he leaves en vacances as of tonight. You’ve only got until midnight to pass on a message.”

  Pollard set down a rectangular gold notebook embossed with the legend Wedding wishes for your new life together, a slim gold pen attached. “Take notes, find overlooked details, compare it to what’s on the report. Analyze. Do what you always do.”

  “In this notebook?”

  “We’ve got hundreds left; now my wife uses them for shopping lists.”

  Never close, often adversarial in cases, Pollard puzzled him.

  “Why do this for me?”

  “Let’s just say I prefer not to lose cases to the police des polices.”

  The door shut behind him.

  Morbier scanned the file with anxious fingers. Paper-clipped to the last page he found the message. On a torn-out pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT telephone form he saw three handwritten words:

  Laguardiere died today.

  Wednesday Night

  A MAN WEARING a black ski mask held a gun to the head of the young woman. She lay panting and spread-eagled in the dark coved crevice. Her legs apart, one ankle duct-taped to a door-frame hinge, the other to a wall post. Only a torn chemise-type dress half-covered her thighs.

  “Not clever of you to listen to Joxi,” he said. “But I’ll take care of you like a real man.”

  Her whimpers echoed off the stone. Her eyes were black points of terror as she writhed back and forth.

  Aimée tiptoed closer. Only one more step, and.…

  Her heel caught on a metal rim protruding from the stone floor.

  “Silvio? Took your time. My turn first, then—”

  Aimée swung the wine bottle with all her might against his head. The loud crack reverberated as he staggered, wobbling as if dancing. He shook his head, then fell to the ground, his gun clattering by his feet. His body twitched, his fingers scrabbling against the stone.

  Aimée pocketed his gun and kicked him in the jaw until his moans ceased. She turned to the shaking young woman whose eyes were wide with fear. “Are you all right?”

  A loud scream answered her. Echoing and echoing.

  Hair rose on the back of Aimée’s neck.

  She turned to face a shaking, white-faced Robbé, held by the other ski-masked man. No doubt he had trained a gun on Robbé’s back. Had he seen … ?

  “I don’t like you hurting my friend,” the man in the ski mask said, his voice deep and gravel-like.

  “I don’t like rape.… ” Aimée countered.

  A snort. “So you say.”

  He shoved Robbé to the ground. “Now undo the girl.”

  “But I’ve got this boy’s insulin. He’s diabetic.”

  “Did you hear me?” The man held his snub-nosed pistol to Robbé’s head. “Now!” A beeping came from his wristwatch. “Merde!” He checked it, shrugged. “Time flie
s when you’re having fun.”

  “You call this fun?” She’d edged her hand into her coat pocket. She gripped the pistol that the other man had dropped, angling the barrel nose-up, holding her breath.

  He gave a mock sigh. “Seems like he won’t need his insulin now.”

  She edged her forefinger around the trigger. “Why?” She had to keep him talking.

  “Plan B.”

  Plan B again. She perspired under the dress shirt and le smoking jacket she was wearing and wished to god she had backup.

  “So what’s this Plan B?”

  “Damn hot down here.” He pulled off his mask and shook a head of black curly hair, his other hand holding the pistol aimed at Robbé. “That’s better.” He shot her a grin, revealing a set of silver braces.

  A bad sign when a terrorist removed his mask: he didn’t care about witnesses.

  “I’d like to know Plan B.” She caught the girl’s eye. Hoped she got her message. “She would, too.”

  “You’ll find out,” he said, stepping closer to a shivering Robbé.

  Her heart thumped against her chest.

  “I’ll let him find out first.”

  She squeezed the trigger, shooting through her coat pocket. There was a deafening crack. He grabbed his chest, his other hand jerking, and fired wildly into the low ceiling. Stone chips and dust rained down. Aimée fired again, hitting his shoulder.

  “Salope, how did you … ?” he asked, a surprised look on his face. Then his legs gave out and he fell backward.

  A line of blood trickled over the cracks in the stone.

  She tried to ignore the singed odor and the heat in her pocket. She turned to the girl, who’d closed her eyes. “Can you walk?”

  A nod. She took the Swiss Army knife from her bag and sawed the duct tape from the girl’s wrist. Then she rubbed her ice-cold arms.

  Robbé slumped, his eyes flickering in his head.

  “Robbé?”

  The girl screamed. “He’s dead!”

  Aimée dropped the knife and felt for Robbé’s pulse. Rapid. His hands cold and clammy.

  “Please … please cut me loose.”

  No time to finish undoing her. She handed the girl the knife. “Here.” Took the insulin kit from her pocket.

  “My hand’s numb. I can’t.” The girl broke into tears.

  “Try. You have to try.”

  Robbé mumbled. His legs seized up. He’d gone into diabetic shock. She pulled out the syringe, flicked the ampoule, and hoped she remembered everything Irati had told her.

  She rolled up Robbé’s sleeve, stuck the needle into his upper arm muscle, and released the plunger.

  The coppery smell of blood mingled with that of the damp in the stone alcove. It made her light-headed.

  The girl crawled on the floor, shivering, and tugged her hand. “There’s more of them.” Her teeth chattered. Her face was smudged with dirt, her hair was matted, and she looked like she hadn’t eaten.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. One of them’s hurt. Joxi. He helped me.”

  “Then we’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

  She rolled down Robbé’s sleeve. Why hadn’t the color come back to his face?

  She took off her coat, draped it around the girl’s shoulders. “You can do this. I know you can.”

  Robbé’s eyelids fluttered.

  “He’s coming around. See?” she said. “Help me get him on his feet.”

  Somehow, with the girl’s help, she got Robbé over her shoulder.

  “Which way?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Didn’t you hear noises?”

  “Down there.” She pointed to the long tunnel branching into a fork.

  Think. She had to think. René had indicated that the way to the reservoir pools was through the outdoor staircase. From the pool level, another way out existed through a now-disused maintenance house exit.

  To the right, she saw a sloping cove lined by raised dirt beds. Electrical wires from a switch box in the low ceiling led to a short walkway through thick walls. Beyond was a green door similar to the one at the entrance.

  “This way,” she said.

  At the door, she pulled out the key ring, propping Robbé against the damp wall. She tried each key. The dress shirt plastered wetly to her back; drops of perspiration beaded her brow. The eleventh key clicked and turned. She shoved the door open.

  “Someone’s coming,” the princess said.

  She prayed that this led outside and not to a storeroom.

  “Let’s go.”

  A dark night and fresh cold air greeted them. A concrete spiral staircase wound upward.

  For a thin man, Robbé weighed heavily on her shoulder. “Can you walk, Robbé?”

  He blinked at her, disoriented. “Let go of me.” He jabbed her with his elbow and fell back against the railing.

  Pounding sounded on the metal door below. She’d locked it. But how long before they located another key?

  “You tried to kill me,” he said.

  “Me?” she asked panting. “If Irati hadn’t given me this, you’d still be in diabetic shock.” She shoved the kit into his hand and took his arm. “Hurry.”

  Unsure, he stared.

  “Next time you won’t be so lucky,” she said. “The Basque put a gun to your head, remember?”

  “Get going now,” the girl yelled. She pushed him up the stairs.

  Few stars shone above them in the night sky. A half-moon wisped by clouds hung over the Arc de Triomphe, a postage stamp—sized yellow glow in the distance. Faint lights glimmered on the surface of swimming pool—like reservoirs. She inhaled the algae-scented wind, heard the splash of a fish. To the right, the blue-lit needle of the Eiffel Tower poked behind the building rooftops. From below, one would never know that several stories above the street, a whole other world existed.

  “That way. Quick.” She pointed toward the far end of the smallest pool, calculating the direction of rue Paul Valéry. They had to escape. A long narrow walkway rimmed the pool at the rear of the dark stone walls of apartment buildings.

  Running now, she made out the nineteenth-century two-story mansard-roofed house, quaint and incongruous, at the edge of the water. Unlived-in, dark, with torn shades in the window. It reminded her of a village train station complete with geraniums, similar to the gatehouse at the rue Copernic entrance.

  The exit. She had to find the exit to the street. In the crusted brick wall edging the house, she saw another green metal door.

  “Hurry. Go to the door.”

  The girl ran, coat flapping in the wind, Robbé behind, trying to keep up. She took the key ring, tried the larger old-fashioned keys first. None fit.

  “I don’t like this,” the girl said, her voice quavering. “Hear that?”

  Shouts carried over the water.

  The girl balled her wool sleeve around her fist and punched in the glass panel of the house’s door. Glass splintered, caught the light, and sprayed the coat like shiny sequins. She reached in and turned the old-fashioned handle. “Locked,” she gasped. “What do we do?”

  Aimée’s mind raced. Should they try to break down the door, barricade themselves inside, and call for help? Who knew how long she could hold them off?

  But she couldn’t give up. Finally, the last key clicked and turned. “Let’s go.”

  Running down the narrow, dark stairs between the reservoir foundations and brick walls, she hit the taxi driver’s number on her cell phone.

  “Vite! Rue Paul Valéry, near the corner of rue Lauriston.”

  If a reception committee was waiting, she hoped the taxi would deter them.

  She turned the key in the last door to the street.

  “Whatever happens, turn right and get into the G7 taxi.”

  The girl rubbed her runny nose with her sleeve, nodding.

  “Can you do that, Robbé?”

  “What about you?” he said sullenly.

  She pulled the
gun out of the girl’s coat pocket. “Just don’t look back, okay?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I.… ”

  “Forget it. Go.”

  She stepped out, the gun raised. Four dark figures were in the middle of rue Paul Valéry, the taxi idling at the corner behind them.

  She hit the taxi driver’s cell number again. “See those mecs? I’m sure you can scare them. There’s three of us just beyond them. Whatever you do, don’t let them reach us.”

  A little laugh. “Pas de problème.”

  All of a sudden, the taxi gunned down the street, headlights blinking, horn blaring. The mecs jumped and scattered. With a squeal of brakes, the taxi stopped in front of Aimée.

  She opened the door and pushed the others into the back seat, then climbed in front beside the driver.

  Without a word, he ground into first, tore down rue Paul Valéry and into Avenue Victor Hugo. In a few blocks, he pulled into the roundabout of Place de l’Étoile circling the Arc de Triomphe, a maze of headlights and hundreds of darting cars. He opened his window, stuck his fist out at a driver who slowed, then cut in front of a truck. He grinned at Aimée, his eyes shining. “No one can follow us here. We’ll be lucky to get out alive ourselves.”

  “Great job,” she said.

  “I haven’t had this much fun in years,” he said.

  “Bon, let’s keep circling and I’ll make some calls, figure out where we’re going next.”

  She turned to the girl in the back seat. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Aimée, and you are … ?”

  “Maria.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “Your father’s looking for you.”

  Robbé sat back, rubbing his arm. “That’s an understatement.”

  * * *

  AFTER CIRCLING THE Arc de Triomphe for twenty minutes, the taxi turned into Avenue Foch, the wide, tree-lined boulevard radiating from Place de l’Étoile. Town house after fashionable town house and mansion after mansion lined the street. The taxi pulled up to a grilled metal gate. A security guard nodded to the taxi driver. The automatic gates opened to a driveway where there was an ambulance standing. The ambassador paced on the front steps of the town house, which had lights blazing in every window.