“Sweeter words were never heard!”
“But aren’t you in Paris? That’s what Alice told me.”
“I’ve had my fill of Paris, almost. I’ve got a ticket for Saturday. I’ll see you soon. Thank you so much, Brenda. And tell Alice I am so proud of her. She didn’t want to tell you about this.”
“I’m proud of her too. If she could just stop crying.”
Francie did a victory dance in her pajamas, along with some whoops and yeehas. Then she called Dylan and told him the good news.
“I’m sorry, can I call you right back,” he said. “I’m at a lunch thing.”
So she jumped into the shower and got dressed, determined to make progress on her Paris mission with the little time she had left. She checked her phone when her hair was dry. No calls. So she called Walker Crum at the embassy. It only took ten minutes to get through to him.
“Miss Bennett, how goes the battle?”
“A bit of a stalemate, unless you have something for me.”
“I may. I found Sami Amoud—“ Francie shrieked. “— almost but not exactly where he is. He is apparently still in France. He has a Tunisian passport and it has not been used in over a year.”
“But where is he? In college somewhere?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve checked all the public rosters.”
“Oh! I almost forgot. I got another phone call from the flyer I put up. It was from a public phone at the University. The person, not sure on gender, possibly male, said that Sami was in a hospital and very ill so don’t bother him.”
“Hmmm. That’s interesting. My leads have been heading to some kind of institution.”
“Like psychiatric maybe? We were thinking maybe he had a breakdown of some sort after the raid.”
“Never fear. I will work all the angles.”
Francie thanked him and hung up. She realized it was after one o’clock and she was starving. She put on her red trench coat and went out to find lunch, somewhere chic and delightful on the Place des Vosges.
This day wasn’t turning out so bad after all.
Thirty
Merle and Pascal met at the door to the apartment building; Pascal never had found his key. She scolded him for not even looking but admitted liking that he needed her in one more way.
“But wait, blackbird,” he said seriously, taking her arm. “There is something I should tell you. About Francie’s American.”
“Did you find something about Reece?”
“Come, sit for a moment.” He led her back to the bench in the square. “Not about Reece, but about the policier who was shot.”
“The one who arrested Reece?”
“Correct. My director and I did a little investigating today. We thought it was quite possible that the evidence had been tampered with, that the drugs in Reece’s arrest were being, shall we say, recycled.”
Merle frowned, confused.
“Milo turned in the heroin from the Australian, on Sunday after the shooting. But he gave the wrong case number. He gave it Reece’s case number so back it went. That’s why it disappeared then was found again.”
“Wow. What does that mean?”
“It means Milo has some explaining to do at the very least. We had to go quite high in the PJ— the Police Judiciaire— to find someone we trusted to investigate this policeman. Bertrand, my director, knew this prosecutor so now she’s involved. Anyone else in the hierarchy? It might get swept under the rug.”
Merle squinted her eyes. “Milo,” she muttered.
“A bad actor or so it appears.” Pascal sighed. “There is more. The heroin in evidence is not heroin after all but what you call in America powdered sugar. Very fine powder. But sweet and not as addictive as heroin.”
“Powdered sugar? What happened to the heroin?”
“We still don’t know if there was any. It may have been sugar all the time.”
“That’s amazing news. For Reece, I mean.”
Pascal nodded. “They are also checking the veracity of the other drugs that were confiscated at the apartment. It is quite possible that Milo did find drugs there but then switched them out for substitutes.”
“To use them, or sell them?”
“Something like that. We will find out as the investigation progresses. It is out of my hands now.”
Merle grabbed one of his big hands. “Thank you so much, Pascal.” She kissed him and held him tight. “Francie will be over the moon.”
“I wonder. Should we tell her when we don’t know what will happen? It may not work out the way we hope.”
“True. Maybe we should wait at least twenty-four hours, for the prosecutor or whoever to do their thing.”
They made their way up the stairs to the apartment. Francie was in the bathroom, curling her hair with a curling iron. She poked her head out the door.
“Where have you guys been all day? Did you eat dinner already?”
Merle glanced at her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. “Not yet. But it was a long day.” She glanced at Pascal. “What’s new with you?”
“Dinner with Dylan again, tra-la! Oh, hang on.” She finished her curling and came out to the sitting room. Merle took a glass of wine from Pascal and sat down. Francie bounced excitedly. “Guess what? Brenda called and my leave of absence is over.”
“That’s great, but what happened? Did he take it all back?”
“He’s too much of an ass for that. He’s been harassing my assistant, Alice. You met her once, I think. Purple hair, oddball fashion sense, platform shoes?”
“Yes, I remember her.”
“He wanted me out of the picture so he could hit on Alice. Can you believe it?”
“Sort of. She’s cute, isn’t she?” Merle blinked. This day was ending on a weird note. “Is she his type?”
“Hell no. She won’t have anything to do with him, but he won’t give up. Finally Alice showed Brenda all his texts and voicemails.” Francie glanced at her watch. “Gotta run! I’m meeting Dylan at some cool place by Nôtre Dame.”
Pascal watched her dash out with her red trench coat over her arm. He sat down with a glass of Rhône blend. He swirled it, sniffed it, and sipped it. “She maybe forgets all about Monsieur Pugh?”
Merle squeezed his knee. “Good thing you didn’t.”
Francie slowed to a walk along Rue de Rivoli, making her way toward the Hôtel de Ville, turning off toward the bridge to the island, Île Saint Louis. Dylan had promised to meet her on the bridge. She was developing quite a fondness for bridges over the Seine. When she got there she didn’t see him so she paused in the middle and watched the water go by. She would miss Paris. What a strange vacation though, full of headaches and heartaches and old friends and new.
It was nearly dark. The street lights shone along the quais, the low streets paralleling the river. She buttoned up her coat and retied her scarf against the damp chill. It was still just April, after all.
And there he was, striding quickly toward her, a smile on his face.
“I think we have just enough time,” he said, taking her hand.
She allowed him to pull her across the bridge to the spit of the island. “To do what?”
“Find the pink trees. There’s a bunch of them, not sure what they are, but they’re right in front of Nôtre Dame. Hurry before it’s too dark.”
They skipped across the tip of the island then across the next bridge that led directly to a park in front of the huge old cathedral. Dylan was still dragging her along when he stopped abruptly and looked up at the trees. Francie caught her breath and followed his gaze. All she could see was pink petals on the ground in little piles, like someone had swept them up. In the trees small green leaves dominated.
“Damn it.” Dylan looked at her. “I guess these are done.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see them. I was near here last week.”
He got out his cellphone and readied his finger. “I’ll find some.”
“No, not tonight.” She put he
r hand over the screen. “Let’s find that restaurant.”
He looked slightly stricken. “Are you sure? I’m sure there’s some around here.”
“I’m sure. And I’m starving— again.”
At the small, romantic bistro he’d chosen they made a pact to turn off their phones like the French. She let him order for her again. She just didn’t want to get into the translations. He had the restaurant schtick down to a science, she thought, smiling.
“Did you get me something marvelous— how do you say marvelous in French?”
“Merveilleux. And yes, I did. This is country food. Comforting, you know, like southern food in the US. Lots of cream. I ordered you brandade de morue. It’s cod and it’s amazing, you’ll see. Very traditional.”
“Oh, I love fish.”
“I bet you’ve never had it like this,” he said mysteriously. “Guess what I got myself— macaroni gratin, otherwise known as mac and cheese.”
“What? That’s American.”
“Not really. They use French cheeses. Comté and Mimolette or Gruyère.”
“I haven’t heard of Mimolette. Is it good?”
He hummed in anticipation. “I’ll let you taste it, if you’re good.”
Francie swatted his hand and promised to be good. Anything to taste a new French cheese.
Their dinners were every bit as mouth-watering and comforting as he promised. The cod was mashed with potatoes and cream and parsley and who knows what else. You could taste the fish but all the other flavors exploded around it. Dylan’s macaroni and cheese came in a baking dish all its own, topped with bread crumbs. He gave her a large spoonful, then seconds. He told her Mimolette was from Lille, near the Belgian border.
“I must go there sometime and watch them make Mimolette. I’ve had Comté and Gruyère so I think I can taste that other flavor. Wow.”
Francie came out of her cuisine daze and set down her wine glass. “I told you on the phone about my leave of absence being rescinded, right? It seems like ages ago.”
“It was. Lunch.” He wiped up some cheese with a slice of bread. “But what happened exactly?”
She told the story of Alice and Greg again. “He’s just like he was in that story you told me, from college. He probably did terrorize that poor sorority girl with his nakedness. On purpose because he thought he was tantalizing.”
“I know I’d be traumatized.” He shuddered.
“I told my managing partner to call your partner. I hope that’s okay. In case she needs more ammo on Greg Leonard.”
“Anthony will be thrilled, believe me. He loves to tell that story.”
She sighed. “I just wish I’d helped Reece Pugh more. I really don’t think I did anything for him.”
“Well, like I said, some clients are just not going to work out.”
“Too bad.” She leaned in. “I hate to lose.”
They were walking back to her apartment in the purple evening light, the sky hanging onto its color for their benefit, no doubt. They crossed one bridge, then another, then walked the river for a bit before turning back toward the Marais. They were silent as both were coming to grips with their last moments in Paris. Francie sighed in sated bliss at least twice.
At the door he pulled her in the way she liked it and kissed her. It was very nice, and tempting. But he pulled away even as he said, “You know what they say? What happens in Paris, stays in Paris.”
“That’s why we’ll have to see each other at home, I guess. I don’t want this to stay in Paris. Do you?”
For an answer he kissed her again. “We’ll have to come back, don’t you think?”
Back in the apartment Merle and Pascal were either out to dinner or already in bed. Everything was quiet. Francie lay back in the little bed and wished she wasn’t such a prude. Why couldn’t he come up? What was wrong with her? But she remembered her own pact, to take things slowly to avoid more heartache.
Another sigh, then she took out her phone to check her email. There was a voicemail from when they were in the bistro and had turned off their phones. The number didn’t tell her who it was. Another crank call? Another threat? She listened to the message.
“Francie? It’s Walker Crum from the embassy. Good news. We— and it was a team effort here— located your boy. Sami Amoud is in a, well, you’d call it a health spa. Some might call it a sanatorium or a detox center. One of those very private and fancy places for the rich. Why he is there, I don’t know. The place is called La Bonne Vie Atlantique. It’s on the west coast, in Brittany.” He continued with the address, phone number, and other particulars.
“Call me when you get this and I’ll give you what I’ve got on Sami. Cheerio!” He signed off with a fake British accent.
Francie felt her blood pressure rise and the pleasant blur of the evening with Dylan disappear. She punched in his number, looking at the time. Surely it was too late for him to still be at the office. His phone rang six, seven times. Then he picked up, out of breath.
“Crum here.”
“Walker! It’s Francie Bennett. I just heard your message. Good detective work!”
“All that training finally pays off.”
“So what’s the deal with Sami? Can I call him? Will he come to the phone?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t reach him earlier today. I get the impression they’re pretty protective of their clients, or patients or whatever they call them. It’s supposed to be a retreat from the world sort of place.”
“But he’s been there for months?”
“Looks that way.”
“Can I— Could you— how do I see him then?”
“He’s not there against his will as far as I can tell. It’s not really that sort of place. I imagine if you showed up they would tell him you were there, give him an idea what it was about. Maybe he’s ready to leave now, who knows.”
“That’s what you suggest then— going there? Surprising him?” How would he take that? But she only had one last day left in France. She had to take the chance. “Can you take the train there?”
“I’d fly. There’s an early flight, takes only a little over an hour.”
And so the plan was hatched. But would she go alone? With her terrible French? Should she tell Yvon Caillaud? Take him with her if he’d go? He had been so dismissive the last time she spoke to him. She wasn’t sure he even cared about Reece.
As she mapped where the health spa was located, searched for morning flights to Brittany, and let this new information sift in her mind, Merle and Pascal came in from dinner, laughing about something. She let them talk for a minute then stood in the door to the sitting room. “Hey you two lovebirds.”
Merle smiled. “How was dinner with Dylan?”
“Lovely. Cheesy. No pink trees but there’s still another day or so.”
Pascal frowned. “Pink trees?”
“Cherry trees,” Merle said. “I thought I saw some today. Where was that?”
“Never mind about that,” Francie said, holding up a hand. “New mission. I need somebody to go to Brittany with me tomorrow.”
“To the beach?” Merle brightened. “I love the beach.”
“What mission?” Pascal asked.
“We’ve found the roommate. We’ve found Sami Amoud.”
Thirty-One
The Uber driver made good time. Merle and Francie reached Orly Airport on the southern outskirts of Paris in less than thirty minutes. They brought nothing but their purses so the security lines were quick. Orly was smaller than Charles de Gaulle Airport and they were in the air by eight AM.
They drank coffee and strategized for a few minutes, planning on taking a taxi to the health spa located ten miles from the airport, no matter how expensive. Francie had checked out the website for La Bonne Vie Atlantique. It looked very posh and serene in earth tones and soothing sea blues and greens.
Merle set down her paper cup on the tray and turned to Francie. “Look, there’s something else you need to know.”
“About Sami?”
“About the drugs the police confiscated from Reece’s apartment.”
“Did they trace them to Sami?”
“Pascal took your concerns, and his own, about the narcotics cop to his supervisor. They decided to check out the evidence, you know, the drugs. As you suspected, the heroin supposedly confiscated at the Orangerie from Eli was actually heroin from Reece’s case. The cop returned it to evidence under Reece’s case number.”
“That bastard!”
Merle set her hand on her sister’s arm. “And there’s more. It’s not heroin at all, Francie. It’s sugar.”
She sat back in her seat. “Wow. That means one less charge on Reece. And a big one.”
“Probably. If this cop, Milo Soyer, is found to be tampering with evidence, taking confiscated drugs out on the street to boost his arrest rate, or taking real heroin and swapping in sugar, maybe even shooting Eli, then everything he’s done, all his cases, should be thrown out. I don’t know if that’s the way it’s going to work, but Pascal thinks it’s very possible.”
“Oh my— everything? All the charges?”
“Or at least knock them down to misdemeanors. I don’t know.”
“Wow,” Francie said again with awe. “Pascal did all this?”
“He did. With his supervisor. He didn’t want to tell you yesterday because he isn’t sure how it will all shake out. Sounds like they made a few enemies in the Police Judiciaire. That’s where narcotics and other criminal divisions are. I found out that Pascal’s division is technically in another branch of the government.”
“I don’t care what branch he’s in. He stuck his neck out. He’s fighting corruption. He’s amazing.”
Merle smiled proudly. “I know.”
“To Pascal.” Francie raised her paper coffee cup. Merle tapped hers against it and repeated the toast. “My hero,” Francie whispered.
The small airport where they landed clung to the Atlantic coast of France. The blue ocean stretched out before them as they taxied in to the terminal. They were outside some town, Francie couldn’t remember which one. At any rate the spa was isolated in the dunes somewhere.
Blame it on Paris Page 22