Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “Is that normal? I mean, how many drug officers are there?” Francie asked.

  “Not too many actually. Ones who work undercover on the street like that.”

  “So just a coincidence?” Francie asked, rolling her eyes.

  He shrugged. “Not out of the ordinary.” Then he frowned into his wine glass. “This American at the embassy? He set this up?”

  Francie nodded. “He pretended to be a buyer on the phone. He said he was going to call one his friends in the Gendarmerie to meet the dealer.”

  He stared at Francie. “I think I must talk to this American.”

  “Do you want me to call him?”

  “See if he can meet us for a quick meal.”

  “Where?”

  Merle looked at Pascal. “Isn’t there a little brasserie near Les Saisons? What’s it called?”

  Francie was staring at her phone. “I’ve got it. The Lizard Lounge. Sounds perfect for us.”

  Walker Crum was still at work but offered to meet them in a half hour. The Bennett sisters and Pascal did a quick wash-up and were out the door in fifteen minutes, walking to the bar. The evening was mild and smelled like flowers. Where were the pink trees blooming now, Francie wondered. She looked in every direction to no avail. Maybe pink trees were a myth.

  Pascal ordered a fancy hamburger while the women stuck with a small glass of wine each. They fidgeted silently, waiting for the legal attaché. When he stepped into the pub Francie’s face lit up and she waved madly.

  “Easy, girl,” Merle whispered.

  Francie introduced Crum to the others. He took one look at Pascal’s burger and ordered himself one from the waiter. He sat back in his chair and smiled at the leather and wood brasserie, a bar by any other name. “I thought I’d been to every American pub in Paris.” The waiter brought him a whisky. He raised it to them. “Here’s to discoveries.”

  “So you’ve heard what happened at the drug buy, right?” Francie asked after he’d got going on his burger.

  He shook his head, swallowing food. “Did it go down?”

  “Someone went down,” Merle said.

  Pascal leaned forward. “A man was shot, the dealer presumably.” Crum looked surprised. “By the undercover detective who claims the dealer pulled out the gun and they struggled with it. So we need to know who you called to set this up.”

  Crum examined Pascal. “You’re Nationale? Why not ask them?”

  “I’m in a different division. This is unofficial at this point.”

  “Ah, unofficial.” He took another sip and made a decision. “Well, unofficially my contact at Nationale is the third in command. You’ll know who I mean. Unofficially speaking.”

  Pascal frowned, presumably trying to remember who held that position. “Third? But there are three assistant deputy commanders.”

  “But only one who deals with narcotics— les Stups,” Crum said.

  Pascal’s eyebrows jumped. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He turned to Merle and whispered, “Again. The cloud.”

  Merle made a face.

  “I would recommend, monsieur— unofficially— that you reconsider the use of said commander until further notice,” Pascal intoned.

  Crum shoveled burger into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and carefully wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin. “Well, when guns are involved, one can’t be too careful.”

  They left the bar together, parting at the corner from the attaché who loped off alone. The other three walked back to the apartment. As they were walking across the pretty little square, Francie stopped.

  “You never said who the victim was, Pascal. Do you know?”

  Pascal and Merle, arm-in-arm, paused too. “I didn’t hear the name. Tomorrow perhaps.”

  “Do you know anything about him? Was it a man?”

  “A young man. A foreigner, I believe. Australian was the rumor.”

  Francie frowned. “Do you know where he worked? Was it a tea shop on Rue Défense?”

  Pascal looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  “I met him. His name is Eli.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Francie waited in the outer offices of Yvon Caillaud’s law firm again, secure in the knowledge that she had worn a clean blouse today. She’d called him early that morning and he said he would make time for her. It was almost lunchtime, so the meeting wouldn’t be long.

  Yesterday’s bombshells still reverberated in her head. Poor Claudia, distraught and alone. Then Eli, that nice Aussie who was at minimum a drug mule or set up as a straw man for a dealer. There was no word on his condition this morning. If he survived he could tell his story, who really brought the gun to the Orangerie, who he was working for. But if he didn’t, well, she wasn’t sure how it would turn out.

  She squinted at her nail polish, picking at the chipped edges. There had to be another way to find out the truth, to decipher what the cops were up to. They had to be dirty. Her indignation rose. Reece was the victim of corrupt cops. Pascal had just told them rumors from headquarters, but they could be true.

  The French lawyer took his sweet time but eventually he greeted her, apologizing for making her wait. “It is a busy day.” He turned in to his office and made a face. “Ooh-la-la. Quelle pagaille. What a mess.”

  “We could go somewhere else,” Francie said. “If that would be more comfortable.”

  He brightened. “But of course. Le déjeuner. My favorite café is on the corner.”

  If she’d learned one thing in Paris, it was that eating food, the rituals of the meal, makes everybody happier. M. Caillaud was no exception. Francie wasn’t impressed with his local, a busy, unwashed sort of coffee-and-croissant place that, oh by the way, served lunch. But it would have to do.

  He ordered onion soup and she did the same, thinking it must be safe. “And to finish perhaps le plateau de fromages. The cheese plate?” he asked her. She nodded and it was done.

  With his beer and her wine on the table Francie got down to business. “Did you hear about the shooting in the Tuileries yesterday?”

  He nodded. “It was on the television.”

  “I feel responsible. I talked to the attaché at the American Embassy and he took it upon himself to call a number that I gave him. Someone sent me a threatening text. He called them back and pretended to be interested in some drugs. He set up the assignation behind the Orangerie.”

  Yvon blinked. “How bizarre.”

  Francie showed him the text on her phone. “The attaché was able to read the blocked number and call back on another line. Then he called somebody at police headquarters to actually meet up with the seller. I’m not sure what he expected to happen but presumably not this. I didn’t ask him to do it. But now, I’m afraid I— we got someone shot.”

  “But the news reports say that the seller brought a gun with him and threatened the policier.”

  “It’s possible. That policeman is the same officer who arrested Reece.” She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t think Paris was that small.”

  Yvon lowered his face to sip from his frosty mug. “That is concerning. The Brigade des Stupéfiants has had problems in the past.”

  “Here’s another one: the heroin that was confiscated in Reece’s apartment? Vanished. Gone. Wiped from the record.”

  He looked stumped now, his neck at an angle as he blinked hard with incomprehension. “How do you know this?”

  “The attaché called someone at police headquarters. We wanted to know the exact charges for Reece. Just to double-check what you got from them. And it no longer includes a heroin possession charge, or anything about heroin.”

  The onion soup arrived, steamy and sharp with a cheesy crust of bread on top, to distract them. Yvon looked completely confused and Francie couldn’t say she blamed him.

  They ate in hurried silence, barely enjoying the cheese selection and downing the last of their drinks in gulps. Yvon motioned her back to his office. He offered her a seat opposite his desk burdened with piles of file folders and sheaf
s of documents. He sat down and took out his cellphone. “One moment, Francie.”

  He dug out a battered notebook and fingered through it. He punched a number into his phone. In short order he began speaking rapidly in French, somewhat agitated or maybe he always sounded that way in French. A long conversation with pauses, more rapid-fire French, then it wound down into niceties.

  He lowered the phone from his ear, tapped it, and sighed. “So here we have it then, mademoiselle. Francie, excusez-moi.” He stood up and came around the desk, shoving law books off a chair, and sitting down. “There was an issue with the drugs, the heroin, in the evidence. But it has been resolved. It is there and the charges are as they were.” He looked askance. “I will not say it does not seem strange. But it appears to be resolved.”

  “They were lost and now they’re found again?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently.”

  “Is this normal? To ‘lose’ drugs inside the police station?”

  He waved a hand now. “I do not know. But the other issue, the policier who participated in the sting. That is what you call it, a ‘sting’?”

  “Sure.”

  “His name is Milo Soyer and he too was wounded in the incident with the gun. No mention of anything strange there, just a bad situation. The seller of the heroin felt threatened, reached for his weapon, there was a struggle. It went off. Milo may lose part of a foot, they say.”

  “And the other man? Eli—?”

  “Eli Henderson. An Australian national. He was shot in the—“ He patted his abdomen. “Stomach? He died in surgery.”

  “Oh, no,” Francie whispered, remembering the open, smiling face of the Aussie.

  “A sad state of affairs, yes. Officer Soyer feels very bad about it, they say.”

  “I bet they do,” she muttered.

  “The officer refused treatment for his injury for some time. He returned to headquarters and insisted on writing his report before seeing a doctor. Very commendable.”

  “Who did you talk to over there?”

  “The Chief Commander in charge of BS, les Stups. And his second in command. I have known them both for many years.”

  “And you trust them?” she asked.

  “Without a doubt. They are French policiers, mademoiselle.”

  “Yes, but some are more trustworthy than others, I’ve heard. You said yourself they’ve had problems in that department.”

  A Gallic shrug.

  “Wait,” Francie blurted. “Did you say heroin? That was the drug being offered to the policeman?”

  “Yes. The young man, Eli Henderson, had opened his coat to show it to the officer, they say.”

  “But— Yvon. The attaché asked for cannabis. Weed. Marijuana, whatever you call it over here. Not heroin.”

  “So maybe he brings the whole store. It happens.”

  “Really? You think they just walk around with a drug store sewn into the lining of their coat?”

  Yvon looked down his nose. “Mademoiselle. You are not acquainted with this world. Unfortunately, this is quite common in my practice. My clients are often apprehended with multiple commodities. Like Monsieur Pugh.”

  “But that was his apartment.” Francie peered at the lawyer. “The commander said he had all sorts of drugs on him?”

  “I assumed. But perhaps he only mentioned the heroin.”

  “Does it strike you as convenient that heroin went missing yesterday, no charges, no drugs, nothing. Then today, after the sting, it shows up again in evidence?”

  “But that is not connected, mademoiselle.”

  “It was the same officer. Milo Soyer. And Eli worked in the same neighborhood where Reece lived. Do you have Soyer’s report from Reece’s arrest?”

  “I know only what I can glean from my contacts there. But even if it was the same officer, that means nothing.”

  Francie looked at him, wide-eyed. “Nothing?”

  “Now I must continue with my other cases. Thank you for a pleasant lunch, mademoiselle.”

  She stood up. “Can I see Reece again? I have more questions for him.”

  Yvon got slowly to his feet. “I do not think that is wise.”

  “Is there any chance of his release? His mother is now in the hospital. Could that be a special circumstance?”

  “I’m afraid not, mademoiselle. Dommage.”

  Francie took her time, gathering her coat and purse, and walking down the hall. By the time she reached reception she had a plan.

  “Bonjour, madame,” she said, smiling sweetly at the middle-aged brunette with sharp features behind the desk. “Do you speak English? Good. Do you know how I can get a message to our client, Reece Pugh, at Fresnes Prison? I’d like him to call or write to me. Is there a system for that?”

  The woman snapped into action. “Bien sûr. Allow me to help you.”

  Back at the apartment Francie found it empty. Merle had a lunch date with a potential attorney who might help Annie with her environmental law work. It would be good for Merle to have something over here, some work. She was such a workaholic, the whole family was baffled by her staying in France and blowing off her cushy job with Legal Aid. But when one of them said the magic word— Pascal— everyone nodded knowingly.

  Francie sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out the letter to Reece. The receptionist had given her the address for the prison and all the particulars, including using the word “AVOCAT” in bold on the envelope so the letter wouldn’t be read by authorities.

  It was a harsh way to learn that your mother tried to commit suicide. Especially if your actions, or potential actions, were part of the reason for her despair. Francie emphasized that Claudia was recovering but she didn’t mince words. There was no easy way to soften the blow.

  She didn’t tell him about Eli and the narcotics cop. She didn’t want to scare him or give him false hope. Either way, the jury was still out on what happened at the Orangerie. She gave Reece her cellphone number and her address back in Connecticut. By the time he got this, she’d be home. She wrote a few lines of encouragement and sealed the letter in the envelope. Back on the street she found a tabac that sold stamps and sent the missive on its way.

  It was mid-afternoon. Francie felt the weak Parisian sun on her face. She was too amped up to go back to the apartment so she walked down to the river. That didn’t calm her either. So she went down the stairs to the Mètro.

  She had to find Sami Amoud.

  When she emerged from the underground subway the afternoon had turned steamy and warm. She was still wearing her red trench coat, a flashing beacon in this student neighborhood. She needed to be more under the radar, after her last visit to the area. She ducked into a small women’s store, a funky place, and shopped for fifteen minutes, selecting an inexpensive faux leather jacket with lots of zippers and a thin paisley scarf. Out on the sidewalk she stuffed her trench coat into the shopping bag. The jacket was a little warm but she felt camouflaged now. She wound the scarf around her neck carelessly, letting the ends trail dramatically down her back.

  Reece and Sami’s apartment building was several blocks from the University, on the other side from Jean and Victoria’s. A ‘70s industrial building in plain cement, it was beginning to show its age with streaks of rust and broken windows. The small utilitarian entry housed rows of scratched mailboxes and a single telephone to call tenants. She knew Reece had lived on the third floor, in the back, apartment 3-D. But how to talk to his neighbors?

  The bank of mailboxes took up one wall of the lobby. There were seven stories to this building, with, it appeared, ten apartments per floor. She scanned for 3-D. No name was on the box, but that was the case with many others. How did you call up to the tenants? She picked up the receiver of the white wall phone and stared at a faded laminated sheet tacked to the wall. She couldn’t read French but when she got to numbers she could deduce that one dialed # then the number then the letter then another # sign. Whatever… she gave it a try and was gratified to hear ringing on the end of 3
-D.

  No answer. Should she try 3-E, 3-F, 3-C? What would she say— in French or whatever? Befuddled, holding the phone, she turned as a group of young women entered from the sidewalk, chattering in English. My people, she thought with relief.

  There were four of them, obviously students, carrying backpacks. They headed for the door in one corner that read ‘Escalier’ — stairs. Francie inched closer to it, hanging up the phone. They pushed right through, no key or buzzer or anything. Francie put out her foot to hold the door but realized the latch was gone, broken.

  She waited for the noisy crew to get a flight up then slipped into the stairwell. It was dimly lit and smelled like curry and mildew. In other words like every other apartment stairwell. She walked up to the third floor and took a peek out into the hallway. Deserted.

  The rooms were arranged in an ‘H’ pattern, with the letters starting in the back. Francie walked slowly down the hall, looking at scuffed doors and dirty carpet. She turned left and continued until she stood outside 3-D, a nondescript gray metal door like all the others. Someone had tacked up an index card next to the frame. It read: ‘Franck Notte. Sollicitation est Interdite.’ No soliciting. She’d already called and he or she didn’t answer, so she moved to the next door where there was no sign at all. She knocked.

  No answer. She turned across the hall to 3-F. Again, nobody home. She worked her way down to the end of the hall where a dirty window looked down on an alley. She knocked on 3-A. Almost immediately it was opened, by one of the young women she’d seen in the lobby.

  She was a pretty girl in a pink tank top and jeans, a little plump but pleasingly, as they say. She had blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail and dramatic blue eye makeup that matched her eyes. She had just taken a bite of an apple and said, “Yeah?” through the food.

  “Hi.” Francie flashed her best smile and introduced herself. “I’m working on the case about one of your neighbors. Reece Pugh? Do you know him?”

  The girl glanced down the hall then cocked her head. “Sure. I know Reece. Knew him when he lived here. Are you police?” She had a British accent. “I mean, of course you aren’t. You’re American, right?”