by Cara Black
“You’re my best friend, Martine.” The words caught in her throat. She’d choked up.
Pause. The tinkle of glasses in the background. “I know.”
“Up in five,” she managed.
She had to act fast. Any moment a staff member or patron would walk by. She’d make it work. In the bathroom she took out the nanny cam, checked the battery, and set the timer. Touched up her lipstick. Back in the hall near the phone, she waited. Listened. No one. She stuck René’s nanny cam behind the framed black-and-white photo of the waitstaff in long aprons on the terasse, circa 1900. She secured the camera with the putty she always carried in a thin tray under her blush. She angled the lens, switched the timer on, and hit power.
She faked a phone call as a waiter bustled through to the cellar. Prayed to God she’d set the timer right.
Outside on the terrasse, Martine huddled with Gianni. Aimée’s drink waited on a paper napkin emblazoned by Dalí’s signature S—the napkins all bore signatures of famous patrons. The terasse was full of the usual clientele—journalists, an actor she recognized from the Comédie-Française, bobos and intellos sprinkled with a philosopher or two wearing de rigueur corduroy jackets even in this heat, and a few Chardonnay Marxists.
After the customary bisous, she sat down and took a long swig. The Campari’s sweet, bitter tang hit the spot.
“Going to chew me out, Martine?” she asked.
Martine stretched and winked at Gianni, who held her hand.
“Alors, I’m sorry about what happened at École des Beaux-Arts,” Aimée said.
“My sister will get over it. Doubt her friend Sybille will.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Martine.”
“And I don’t want to know. Keep me in the dark, please. Sybille’s a première-class bitch. She uses everyone.”
Aimée’s shoulders lightened.
“Cheers. It’s your night out, sì?” A smiling Gianni summoned the waiter, GQ material with white teeth, a white shirt with undone buttons. He looked good enough to eat.
A wave of relief washed over her. Stress and a baby-addled brain had blunted her focus. Plus the damn humidity.
She downed the Campari.
“Encore?” asked Gianni.
Why not?
Martine leaned over the marble-top table. “I can’t believe you let Melac babysit.”
That reminded her—she checked her phone and saw it was on mute. Stupid. What if Melac called?
She unmuted it.
“Neither can I, but . . . Wait, how do you know?” she asked.
Gianni lit up a triple-filtered Zenit 100’s cigarette and sat back. “Don’t mind me.”
Difficult.
“Melac answered your phone, remember?” Martine said. “Where’s his wife, the earth woman?”
“A new job. Maybe trouble in paradise?” Aimée shrugged. “But I don’t ask.”
She explained how he’d turned up with his mother, his wanting to be in her life, her babysitter issues . . .
“His mother?” Martine said.
“Talk about awkward, Martine.” Aimée sipped the fresh Campari the waiter set down.
“Did you know he had a mother? Why wasn’t she around before?”
“Never asked. We never got that far. Alors, remember my friend Suzanne Lesage, the one who—”
“Not that again.” Martine raised her hand. A slim gold-chased bracelet flashed. She nudged Gianni and winked.
“Gorgeous, Martine,” Aimée said.
“Let’s get to the important things.” Martine pulled out a photo. “Here’s the house in Favignana.”
A sun-kissed gold limestone villa, complete with columns, turquoise shutters, and a garden stretching to the matching sea behind. Breathtaking.
Martine tapped the photo with her lacquered beige nail. “How about a room there for you and Chloé? We’ll have dinner in the garden overlooking the sea while Chloé builds sand castles.”
More like Chloé would eat the sand, since she put everything in her mouth these days.
If she rearranged the office schedule, got René and Saj to cover a little extra, once Maxence returned, she could, in theory, make it work.
“Of course Gianni’s cousin—Federico; you know him—will take us around in his yacht.”
Always the matchmaker, Martine.
Before Aimée could reply, her phone rang. Her answering service. “Désolée, have to take this.”
Under the trees on Boulevard du Montparnasse, she called in. Her service asked if she’d received their last alert, since they hadn’t received her usual verification. Merde. She’d forgotten in her hurry to get here. Stupid.
Her stomach cramped and it wasn’t the Campari. It was imagining Suzanne in a secure facility and thinking of her promise to her.
She took down Olgan’s number and reached him after six rings.
“Before you get excited, mademoiselle,” said Olgan, his accented syllables thick, “I put out the word and heard nothing.”
And he’d called to tell her that? A welcome breeze gusted the chestnut branches overhead. She pulled a scarf from her bag and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Until yesterday,” said Olgan.
She stiffened.
“Got something to write with?”
Olgan, cautious and scared, had come through with a name—Bartok—and an address and phone number.
“That’s it?” Aimée said.
“You want the moon? That’s a lead for you. Now you follow up.”
“Who is this person?”
“You’ll find out. Call during the daytime.”
“This person’s seen Mirko Vladić?” Chills ran up her arms.
“You didn’t get this name from me, comprenez? You never met me. Do we have an agreement, mademoiselle?”
“Bien sûr,” she said, recovering. “A little context would help; that’s all.”
“If you want context, read the paper.”
“Merci.” She peered past the branches to see Martine and Gianni laughing. Martine’s eyes creased from smiling. Happy.
Aimée made her excuses to Martine, blaming Melac for getting tired of diaper duty, and pocketed the photo of the Sicilian villa. Promised to check the office schedule and ring Martine the next day.
On her way out, she took aside Edouard, the maître d’, a man who had also worked for her father. Edouard, short, trim, with darting black eyes that reminded her of a nervous sparrow’s, had been an occasional informer for Leduc Detective—if the price was right. Hiding in plain sight worked best.
“Mademoiselle Aimée, I thought it was you.”
“My favorite maître d’,” she said, catching his eye meaningfully.
Edouard grasped both her hands, nodding. Message received loud and clear.
He’d clasped the envelope she’d held in her palm. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Tomorrow, two p.m. It’s all in the envelope. And a little bonus.”
“D’accord, Mademoiselle Aimée.” A wide smile. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
He’d deliver. The Leducs always greased his palm well.
On Boulevard Saint-Michel traffic slowed; horns blared. Aimée heard a dull thud and ripping metal, squeezed the brakes on her handlebars just in time. A Citroën’s and Renault’s bumpers were locked as if in mortal combat. Shouts erupted as two drivers piled out, unhurt, fists raised. Why did the heat make drivers crazy?
To avoid the mess, she was about to turn onto the narrow street with the astrological bookstore where she and Martine had browsed as teenagers. Under the yellow lamplight by the irregular steps that were a remnant of the twelfth-century Phillipe Auguste wall, a father was pleading with a little girl: “Chérie, it’s past your bedtime . . .”
For no reason Aimée could identify,
a chill crawled up her back. She looked at the street around her. A man on a bicycle paused at the crosswalk. Blue cap, jeans, dark shirt—nothing special. You wouldn’t look twice at him—except he was staring at the little girl. A second later he looked up.
Those dead eyes. Boring into hers.
Her heart skipped a beat. It was the Hague photo come to life.
Mirko.
Her mouth went dry. The next moment she’d revved the scooter, crossing the street and weaving past the father and a disgruntled passerby, gunning toward where the man on the bicycle had been. But he had disappeared.
Maybe Suzanne wasn’t crazy.
In Chloé’s room the mobile fluttered in the soft current of air from the window. A shaft of moonlight kissed Chloé’s little arm in the crib. Melac sprawled asleep on cushions piled in the corner, Chloé’s half-empty milk bottle in his hand. He looked younger, peaceful with a half smile turning up one corner of his mouth.
Aimée didn’t have the heart to wake him.
Saturday Morning
Melac smiled at her from where he stood by the sink the next morning. “Thanks for letting me sleep.”
“You looked tired.”
Aimée fed Chloé and sipped coffee in the kitchen as Miles Davis licked her toes. Another broiling day promising thundershowers later.
“Let me take Chloé with me to walk Paul’s dog and visit Jardin du Luxembourg,” Melac said.
A new tactic to worm his way into their life? But in that moment there in her kitchen, a perfect family scene, she found she wanted him to be with them.
“Only if it’s okay with you,” he said. “We could go to the market, walk the dog, meet you at the garden after work.”
Why did that sound wonderful?
“What about Miles Davis?” she asked.
“He can come, too. Leashed dogs are okay on the east side. But we’ll take him for a big walk this morning.”
She needed time to think, work out a plan. What would she do about the ghost she’d seen who possibly followed her? She fought back a shiver.
That decided her. “Merci. My morning’s crazy since René’s teaching.”
For a moment, peace reigned: Chloé entranced by a sunbeam warming her fingers, Melac fiddling with a broken light fixture, more espresso brewing. Playing at being a happy family—but when would the illusion break?
Luckily she wouldn’t need him to look after Chloé much longer. Madame Cachou had left a message—her sister was fine; mon Dieu, such a scare; she was coming back in another day.
But Melac had noticed Martine’s picture of the Favignana villa, which Aimée had stuck on the tiny fridge. He whistled.
“What do you think of my new place, Melac?”
He shrugged and made a silly face at Chloé, who was busy smearing his home-pureed applesauce on the high chair tray. “So Maman won the Loto and bought you a villa on a Sicilian island, ma puce.”
Chloé, now intent on licking her fingers, ignored him.
Aimée gave a mock sigh. “How did you know, Melac? We’ve been invited on a sun-drenched holiday with Martine and her squeeze, Gianni. Pas mal, eh?”
Could she swing it? Decisions. She’d think about that later.
Melac averted his gaze and went back to adjusting the light fixture over the sink. Uttered an expletive as the lightbulb came off in his hand. It made her think.
“How long does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?” she asked.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“I’m serious.”
“Depends. If it’s like this one, no time at all. But you’d need a ladder for the chandeliers.”
She thought about Erich Kayser’s apartment. She tried to remember the layout, the size, but it came back to her only as dark and small. She’d walked into the kitchen at first, then the salon with a window to the street. There’d been a bedroom off to the right, a small hallway. Mentally she counted: two lightbulbs in the kitchen . . . Came up with a likely total of six.
“Ever heard of a burglar who unscrewed all the bulbs in a house to stage a crime?” she said.
Melac paused. “You’re asking because . . . ?”
Should she tell him whom she’d seen last night—at least, who she thought it was? Had it been the Campari? Non, she’d recognized those dead eyes . . .
“Hypothetical question,” she said.
“I remember a robbery like that in a mansion in the sixteenth. The owners returned and heard the robbers, but it took them ages to find the phone in the dark, and the robbers got away. Why?”
“Wondering. That’s all.”
“It’s kind of brilliant. People get confused in the dark and panic. Gives the robbers all the time they need.”
She thought so, too.
After changing Chloé’s diaper and putting her in a new peach sunsuit, Aimée made a market list. About to rustle up her spare key for Melac, tell him about the stroller wheels needing oil, she paused. This felt like playing house.
“Don’t hold your breath for École des Beaux-Arts’ payment,” said Saj. He was sitting at René’s terminal. Saj handled the bills and accounts in René’s absence.
Aimée’s hands clenched in anger as she set her bag on her desk.
“So after forcing me to uncover their corruption, they nail us by not honoring the contract?” Aimée slammed an open file drawer shut. “I’ll fight it.”
Saj sat more upright. “I’m sensing a lot of negativity, Aimée. Try taking a deep breath.”
“It ticks you off, too, Saj, doesn’t it? Remember how Dechard, debilitated by suffering, with a terminal disease, got used?”
“Listen to this email they sent: Due to changes in the administration and a transitioning phase, all fiscal commitments will be honored . . .”—he paused, looking up at Aimée—“in the near future.”
She wanted to spit. Disgusted. “The next blue moon, eh?”
“Wait! Get this.” Saj grinned. “A follow-up email from the clerk René had dealt with: looks like la directrice cut the check yesterday before her forced administrative leave, so I’ll just ignore that last email. Let’s have that promised drink, René.”
Aimée whistled. “The Friant charm at work.”
Sybille was out. Aimée felt a thrill of glee—until she thought of Dechard. “What a mess at the school.” She sighed. “And so much for future business there.”
“The river of life flows and ebbs. And it’s especially deep with our new Swedish videographer contract.”
“Win some, lose some, Saj.” Her father would have added, Keep showing up and never let go.
Time for an espresso and work. She brewed a demitasse, savored the jolt it provided, and itched for a cigarette. Fondled the packet of Auras in her pocket. She popped a stick of cassis-flavored gum into her mouth and took out the number Olgan had furnished.
She got a recorded message for a construction company saying the business wasn’t currently open. Tempted to leave it at that, she hesitated. The old émigré had gone to bat—although for what, she had no idea.
She suppressed a shiver.
Lost in a swarm of thoughts, she did what her father would have told her to do: she took out a blue dry-erase marker and went to the whiteboard behind René’s desk. She taped the photo of Mirko to the whiteboard and then listed all Suzanne’s team members whom she knew about in one column: Suzanne Lesage, Isabelle Ideler, Erich Kayser, Jean-Marie Plove. Next to that she made another column of things she didn’t understand: ICTY funding? Suzanne’s message, “mistakes were made”? Mirko family in France? Accidental deaths?
How could Isabelle Ideler’s death be murder? A killer would have had to know she was hyperallergic to bees, and then would have to have somehow forced the bees to sting her. It sounded more and more unlikely the more Aimée thought about it. How could a person force bees to attack? O
n the other hand, honeybees were not aggressive creatures; they shouldn’t sting unless they felt threatened. How strange was it that they had stung Isabelle Ideler at all?
Had Mirko known Isabelle was allergic? Also somehow engineered the loss of her luggage? She thought about the strange feeling she’d had at the Dutch embassy—how the liaison had described Isabelle’s brother as short, which was contrary to Serge’s description.
She sat back down at her laptop. Searched the Dutch embassy staff list, found the liaison and the vice-consul. Shot them an email.
An auto-generated reply from both came back immediately. Out of the office until next week. Please contact the ambassador’s secretary if this is urgent.
Hopeless.
“Anything strike you, Saj?”
“Besides an aura of intense concentration? I thought you’d washed your hands of this case.”
“I had. Until I learned Suzanne had been shoved into a hospital. Then I spotted him last night. Alors, at least someone who looked like Mirko.”
She filled him in on Suzanne’s hospitalization, the man on the bike, and the contact from Olgan.
Saj sipped a tepid rose-hued infusion of petals and stems.
“What do you think, Saj? What am I missing?”
“If I broke it down . . .” He unfolded his long muslin-draped legs and stood. Took a marker. “May I?”
“Bien sûr.”
He put a big X through Isabelle Ideler and Erich Kayser. “Passed on.” Then through Suzanne Lesage. “Locked up.” He met Aimée’s gaze. “Who’s left from the team?”
Jean-Marie.
“You said Suzanne hadn’t spoken with him. Shouldn’t you try again?”
She nodded. “And I’m concerned about this woman who called on Suzanne’s phone and wants to meet.” She caught him up on the call from Suzanne’s number the night before. “I think it’s a setup.” She flicked the camera control button installed on René’s laptop.
“You hooked up René’s nanny cam again?”
She checked her Tintin watch. “I set the timer for two p.m. at the Closerie des Lilas pay phone. Record it, okay?”
“Watch yourself, Aimée. Let’s do some asanas and breathing work.”