by Black, Cara
Epilogue
THE LOUVRE’S SILHOUETTE BLOCKED all but a tiny rectangle of the silver-gray Seine. Weak November sun struggled through dirty windows into the Leduc Detective office.
“Cazaux almost made it,” Martine said. She crossed her long legs, tugged the short skirt of her red power suit, and fluffed her blond hair. She seriously inhaled her cigarette. “Too bad, I was out of commission. That’s one conversation I’ll always regret hearing.”
Aimee, her eye bandaged, shrugged. Miles Davis nestled in her lap, asleep. She sipped her espresso with her semi-good hand. “The EU is under reorganization, the treaty shelved. Especially after Hartmuth’s withdrawal.”
Morbier stood up, stretched, and offered Aimee a cigar.
“Cigars don’t count,” he said. “You don’t need to inhale.”
“Living dangerously suits me.” Aimee accepted. She clutched the cigar in her other fist as he lit it. “That helicopter ride inspired me. I’m going to take up rock climbing. Seems to be my forte after all the heights I’ve been to. Care to join me, Rene?”
Rene turned his head as far as his neck brace allowed. “Ask me next year,” he said. “Maybe my body will be healed.”
“Seems amazing, after fifty years—,” Morbier began but Aimee didn’t let him finish.
“Fifty years doesn’t mean injustice goes away. Sooner or later it reappears. But when this generation dies, who knows?” She shrugged. She puffed on her cigar, sending clouds of smoke into the air.
“Where’s Hartmuth?” Rene said.
Aimee winced. “The total body count isn’t over. Is it?”
Morbier inhaled deeply on his cigar. “Thierry chained himself to Sarah’s hospital bed. She’s out of intensive care. Hartmuth’s feeding her.”
“I think you know one of our undercover investigative reporters,” Martine said slowly.
“Yves?” Aimee shuddered.
He’d been a good guy after all. Maybe she’d call him after her plastic surgery healed.
“They found him,” Martine said. “Battered. But he’ll live.”
“When do you move into your new office?” she said.
“When Gilles packs his stuff into crates,” Martine said. “I’ll have to get my own flat now. Grow up.”
“Editors do that.” Aimee grinned. She turned to Rene. “Partner, we need to apply for another tax extension!”
“Aimee,” Rene asked slowly, “will you tell Abraham?”
“If he asks. Otherwise, I’ll let the ghosts alone. All of them,” she said.