by Cara Black
Aimée ran down the stairs out onto rain-slicked rue du Louvre. She caught René before he stepped into a waiting taxi at the curb.
“René, look at these photos. We’re being watched.”
René set his briefcase on the taxi seat and thumbed through them, a tight smile on his face.
“I didn’t think stalkers went after men,” he said.
AIMÉE PACED in the cavernous marble-floored Tribunal. It was crowded with scurrying lawyers, their black robes trailing, and with defendants knotted in earnest discussion; the smell of cold stone and wet wool lingered in the corners. She peeked through the oval window of the courtroom’s oak door. Four robed judges sat on a dais—more oak—one leaned back, her eyes closed.
A minute later, Maître Delambre came through the door. His cheek was swollen and his arms loaded with dossiers. He’d survived the dentist’s chair, it seemed.
He pursed his lips when he saw her.
“Those mecs are still following me,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort.
“Better mind your own business, Mademoiselle Leduc. A difficult task for you, I’m sure,” he said, shifting the pile of dossiers to his other arm. “Laure’s case looks open and shut. Guilty.”
“What do you mean? You don’t even have the lab report.”
“It came this morning,” he interrupted her, pulling out a sheet. “The report confirms the preliminary finding of gunshot residue on her hands. None on yours, however.”
It didn’t make sense. How could Laure? Why would she?
“Why the delay?” She thought fast. “Wouldn’t that indicate issues as to inaccuracy or as to procedures? May I see this report?”
He handed it to her. “According to the lab, they’ve experienced an unusually high frequency of cases. A big backlog. But the GSR test results are clear, and damning.”
She scanned the report, shaking her head.
“That’s all?”
“It’s in black and white. What more do you want?”
She looked closer. “It says here the detailed lab analysis will follow. Where is it?”
Maître Delambre expelled a breath of disgust, then rifled in his briefcase. “Hmmm, percentages, element and metal composition. Voilà.”
Aimée studied the paper. Checked the numbers. Her mind reeled. “Gunshot residue’s composed of lead, barium, and antimony.”
“So you’re an expert on this, too,” Maître Delambre said. “Mademoiselle Leduc of the many talents.”
“I own a gun—licensed, of course,” she said. “All bullets contain lead, barium, and antimony.” She pointed to one of the columns of numbers. “Few bullets contain this.”
He leaned over her shoulder. “The expert found a problem?”
She ignored his sarcasm.
“A very high tin content. Ninety-eight percent. That’s unusual,” she said. “Do you have another copy of this report?”
He handed her one.
She studied it. “Demand a retest. These lab findings are crucial!”
Maître Delambre ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “Look, I’m sorry. The lab performed its function, which is to show the presence, or absence, of GSR. And from these findings, a GSR presence has been clearly demonstrated. As far as the flics are concerned, and I’d have to concur, this indicates she fired the gun that killed her partner. Internal Affairs has an open-and-shut case. I can’t help her.”
Something was very wrong. “That’s not good enough. Nothing makes sense unless she was set up,” Aimée said. “The gunshot residue must have come from another gun, one with high tin content in its ammunition.”
“You raise an interesting point. But it’s moot.”
“Ask yourself this: she could have taken care of her partner much more easily and made it seem like an accident, so who set her up and why?”
“As far as I can see it’s over,” he told her. “She and her partner argued in the presence of a whole barful of witnesses. Internal Affairs gave her the option of working with me, an outside lawyer, an unheard-of courtesy, but in the light of this evidence, they’re taking over. As they should have in the beginning. Someone pulled some strings to get her outside representation but this is now internal police business. Not mine.”
So Morbier had tried to help Laure.
“Please, demand another lab test to be carried out in your presence. Ask questions about the high tin content of the residue. I doubt if anyone’s been convicted on the evidence of gun residue alone. Find out. You don’t want to lose one of your first cases, do you?”
He rocked on the heels of his shiny black shoes.
Aimée persevered. “The ammo from a flic’s weapon is composed of three elements. No tin. Any flic will tell you that. You have to demand another test, compare these results with a bullet fired from a Manhurin.”
“I know she’s your friend but I’m afraid—”
“Delambre, what a coup for you!” she said. “What appeared an open-and-shut case turned upside down by the lawyer who insisted on a thorough ballistics test. You’d make your reputation.”
He blinked. She could tell he hadn’t thought of that.
“You’d show the old-school types a thing or two,” she said. “La Proc’s always looking for new go-getters for her team, believe me.”
She didn’t know that for sure but figured it sounded good.
He was wavering.
“Boris Viard runs the lab. He’s good. Talk to him.” She’d almost convinced Delambre, she smelled it. “What have you got to lose but a case that no one thinks you’ll win anyway? Try Viard.”
“Let me think about it,” he said.
“Did you use the police reports I found?”
“According to the Code Civil they belonged in my client’s dossier,” he said. “Article . . . well, that’s legalese. You’re right. But their appearance caused surprise in several quarters.”
She balled her hands in her pockets feeling the absence of Guy’s ring. “Which ones?”
“Let’s talk over here,” he said, gesturing her behind a pillar.
Drafts whipped past her black stockings. She shivered, wishing the cold from the stone floor didn’t travel up her legs.
Maître Delambre cocked his head. “Internal Affairs expressed halfhearted dismay, but soon shut up.”
“In surprise or dismay?”
He grinned. “Why, since I hadn’t noticed these before, as I informed the inspector, I commended the bureau for its efficiency in updating me.”
Not so green after all.
“Isn’t Ludovic Jubert head of Internal Affairs now?” she said, trying a hunch.
Maître Delambre paused and shook his head. “No, but that name sounds familiar.”
She’d checked several branches in the RG and Ministry directory but none listed officers’ names. She’d run into a dead end at every turn.
“I’m convinced another gun was fired that night.”
A black-robed magistrate clapped Delambre on the shoulder as he walked past.
“We have a witness,” she told the lawyer.
“Then this witness needs to come forward.” He shook his head. “Still, as the gunshot residue was found on her hands, I don’t know how effective such testimony would be in the Internal Affairs investigation.”
Panic hit her. “The witness is a boy. He’s still in school.”
“Minors can be subpoenaed under the law.”
“Wait,” she said. “He’ll come to you of his own accord.”
“And finding a second gun would help,” Delambre said.
Of course it would. And knowing the identities of the men who had been on the roof, too.
“I’m working on it.”
He bundled the files in his briefcase. “Time for my next trial, excuse me.”
“Please call the lab to request another test. All it would take is a phone call.”
He rubbed his cheek and winced. “I’ve stuck my neck out far enough already.” He checked his wat
ch. “My next client’s waiting. I’m sorry.”
Disappointed, she fingered the office keys in her pocket and shook her head. “Me, too.”
She’d have to do it all herself.
Late Thursday Afternoon
IF ANOTHER BULLET EXISTED, she had to find it. Back in the office she located her jumpsuit in the armoire and stuffed it into her bag along with a tool kit. By the time she reached the building on rue André Antoine, she’d controlled her apprehension and had a story ready. The photo of her and Cloclo had been taken right outside this building. She had to forget that. There was no sign of Cloclo there now.
“You again,” the concierge said, as she swept the cold hallway. Today she wore a housedress with a blue smock over it, but still had on rain boots. “The apartment’s been sealed by the police. No access is allowed.”
“You’re right,” Aimée said. She showed the concierge a work order she’d typed up. “It’s the skylight this time. Mind letting me get to work? My partner’s out sick and I’ve got three other calls to make.”
A dog barked from the concierge loge. “Let me see that.” She read the work order. “Men came yesterday for this. I had to vacuum the hall again, double my work. You’ve wasted a trip. A mistake.”
The killers back looking for the bullet? Or the true locksmiths? “Louis and Antoine?” she asked the concierge.
“Eh? I’m not on a first-name basis with all the workers who traipse through here, Mademoiselle.”
“A mec with bleached white hair?”
The concierge’s brow furrowed. She shook her head.
“Aaah, then Antoine. A black cap, down jacket, and bad teeth?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Check with your dispatch office but I tell you the work’s been done.”
The dog barked louder, its nails scratching against the closed loge door. “If you don’t mind—”
“Madame, you must have heard the skylight break that night.”
“I’ve had enough questions. Like I told the flics, there was a storm.”
For a nosy concierge she hadn’t noticed much.
“It says right here to fix the rear-hall skylight on the third floor,” Aimée said, holding out the form. “The least you can do is let me check it out.”
The concierge shushed her dog, set the broom against the wall, and put her hands on her ample hips. “Keep your hair on, Mademoiselle, I’m only doing my job.”
“Same here,” Aimée said. “I take it you have no problem with me going up to see if the rear skylight’s secured while you feed your dog, who’s jumping out of his skin with hunger?” Blame it on the dog; that might work.
A guilty look crossed the concierge’s face. “Since you insist.”
Aimée pushed past her. “Excuse me.”
She had to work fast. On the third floor she set down the tool kit. What if those guys had already found the bullet? If they were the shooters, it would be gone. But if they were just hired goons, as she hoped, she had a chance. They’d have been searching just as she was. Maybe they hadn’t been lucky. Maybe she would be.
One way to find out.
A frieze of carved rosettes and leaves framed the ceiling, thick with years of coats of paint. A table saw and planks of wood stood near the skylight. All the apartments on this floor were being remodeled. The vacant one’s door was now barred by a red-wax police seal. A perfect secret meeting place. Yet instead, Jacques had been lured up to the roof.
With both hands she dragged the table under the skylight, climbed on top, reached up, and felt for the hasp.
Downstairs, the dog barked louder. She heard the concierge’s voice speaking to someone on the telephone, then her footsteps mounting the stairs.
Aimée turned the hasp and pushed with both hands. The heavy skylight opened a few inches. Wind swirled inside, carrying gravel and grit, spitting at her face. She gave another heave and the skylight fell back, opening to the sky.
She stretched her arms up, hooked her elbows over the frame, jumped up, and wiggled her hips through the opening.
She pulled herself onto the roof, now covered in a layer of gray slush. The flat area of the roof looked much smaller in the late afternoon light. The slate tiles ascended, angled every which way like children’s blocks. The roof overlooked the street and faced the building where she figured Paul must live. He would have had a perfect view. The church’s high roof blocked visibility from all other sides. No wonder no other witnesses had come forward.
Here she was, climbing on a roof, and she’d promised herself, never again. Yet she had to find the other bullet. She must keep her gaze focused ahead of her. And not look down.
Her foot slipped and she grabbed a metal pipe. She closed her eyes, inhaled, then exhaled. Her fingers scraped against the cold rough metal and her heart felt ready to jump out of her chest. Again she inhaled, exhaled, concentrating on her breathing, imagining a white light as her sessions at the Cao Dai temple had taught her. Trying to ignore the brisk wind.
She repeated the routine ten times, until her nose tingled with cold. She opened her eyes, calmer, and tried to visualize that Monday night: the sleeting wind, drifting snow, and the flat spot where Jacques’s body lay.
She edged across the tiles to the tall chimney that she and Sebastian had climbed over, reached out, and found the spot she remembered. She ran her hands over the rough pockmarked stucco that flaked between her fingers. Wrong, the place she’d felt was smooth. She slid, leaning against the chimney, to its rear, gripping the ledge with one hand, the other tracing the smooth wall.
Aimée’s fingers found an indentation. Circular, the size of her pinkie tip. Her breath came fast as she pulled herself around. Below her feet lay the leaf-clogged gutter, and then, several floors down, the street. Perspiration beaded her forehead. She pulled out her penlight. Saw a charcoal-powder sunburst in the midst of white-gray-caked pigeon droppings.
“Mademoiselle, please come down.” The concierge’s voice whipped by her in the wind.
Had the concierge climbed up and poked her head out the skylight? Didn’t she have anything better to do?
“Un moment, my tool bag fell,” Aimée shouted back.
Her penlight revealed the copper gold stub end of an embedded bullet.
“You’ve made a mistake, Mademoiselle,” the concierge said. “What are you doing up there?”
Exasperated, Aimée blew air from her mouth and felt the perspiration dripping from her forehead.
“Madame, go back downstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”
“The office said—”
“Madame, attention, it’s dangerous. Don’t come up here.”
Aimée heard the skylight shut. She had no time to waste. She needed to gouge out the bullet before the concierge returned with the flics. She felt her foot sliding and hugged the wall, terror stricken. Bits of gravel fell from the roof and she looked down, hearing horns and shouts.
The gravel rained over a stalled truck in the street.
Big mistake. She shouldn’t have looked down. Her stomach felt queasy. Crippling fear overwhelmed her.
Concentrate. She had to push it aside, and concentrate.
She took the miniscrewdriver from her tool kit, chipped at the stone surrounding the bullet, then with a swift turn gouged it out. She caught the bullet, scooped it into a Baggie, and put it into her pocket. Shaking, leaning against the wall, she felt her way down.
By the time she made it back to the skylight, opened it, and slid back into the hall below, her hands had steadied.
She grabbed her bag, shoved the table into its place, and met the concierge on the stairs. “Madame, everything’s taken care of here,” she said. “I’m leaving now.”
“I checked with the locksmith office; the woman has no record.”
“Schizophrenic! That new woman’s schizophrenic.” Aimée rushed past her. “I guess I have the afternoon off.”
FROM THE Metro station she called Viard at the Laboratoire Central de la Préfec
ture de Police and arranged to meet him. Trying to control her excitement, she ran all the way to the police lab situated near Parc Georges Brassens. At the brown-red brick building she caught her breath and showed her police ID, an updated version she’d made from her father’s.
She found Viard in the basement firing range. Shredded black figures on white paper hung from a wire. From the star-burst shots centered in the figures’ stomachs and hearts she figured he practiced every day.
“Not bad,” she said. “You know what the customs officials say?”
“Our black-figured targets differ from their white ones, which shows our priorities?”
She grinned. “You said it, not me. I’ve got a puzzle for you to solve.”
“Make it good,” Viard said, returning the SIG Sauer automatic to a drawer and pulling off his safety goggles and earmuff headgear. He ran the ballistics lab and he owed Aimée. She’d introduced him to René’s apartment neighbor, Michou, a female impersonator who worked in a Les Halles club. Last month Michou and Viard had celebrated six months together, a record for him, and they had invited Aimée and René to their anniversary dinner.
“Can you tell if a bullet’s responsible for the GSR in this report?”
She handed him a copy of the lab report she’d gotten from Maître Delambre. “Viard, notice the ninety-eight percent tin content in this column. Anyone who’s loaded a Manhurin knows that gun doesn’t fire high-tin-content bullets.”
“Of course. I also see that residues were found on the subject’s hands,” he said.
“Let’s talk in your office,” Aimée suggested.
His office, on the second floor, held a standard-issue metal desk and bookshelves crammed with ballistic and gun manuals; the floor was covered with a nondescript fawn carpet. In contrast, by a curtained window, were shelves crowded with orchid plants. Exquisite and delicate in appearance, they were rooted in fir bark, peat moss, pearlite, and lime. Their petals were colored all hues of purple, from light violet to a deep almost indigo. Others were yellow, some white. They were like butterflies caught in midflight.
“You’ve gotten more orchids.”
He nodded. “Mexican and South American varieties like these Phragmipediums thrive in indirect sunlight,” he said, picking up a spray bottle and misting them.