“What’s he doing here?”
Catherine closed the door behind him and crossed her arms. “I told you the other day. We’re working together on an article. What do you want, Maxime?”
Maxime narrowed his eyes at Louis. “You’re the Saint-Blancat brat, aren’t you? You’ve been trying to make yourself into a hero again since you got home.”
Ah, so we’re getting ready to fight? Why is he so angry with me anyway? Louis was only trying to figure out what happened to his father. “My name is Louis,” he replied, his voice cold.
“Right.” Maxime rolled his eyes, then turned to face Catherine. “That’s the best you could do?”
Oh, that makes sense. The man is jealous. Though Louis wasn’t averse to the idea of going out with Catherine, it was a little intimidating at the moment. He was used to dating younger girls with no more goals in life than himself. More importantly, they were both focused on finding a killer. Not exactly romantic despite what the dishes might indicate.
“I’m flattered you think so highly of me, Monsieur Marty,” Louis replied with a smile that Maxime was quick to notice when he spun to see why his ex-wife’s new friend was still speaking.
Catherine stared daggers at Louis from behind her ex-husband’s back.
Okay, probably not helping. Louis raised his hands in surrender and sat down on Catherine’s chair. They weren’t done working and he was not about to miss the show, no matter how cold that gray-blue stare was.
Apparently satisfied she only had one male to deal with, Catherine turned her attention to her ex. “What do you want?”
With a last sullen look in Louis’s direction, Maxime faced Catherine. “I have some news about the house.”
“And you couldn’t give it to me over the phone?”
Maxime crossed his arms. “I wanted to see you.”
Lips in a tight line, Catherine blew air through her nose. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now give me the news and leave.”
Louis felt sorry for the man. It was becoming clear who had asked for the divorce. Yet, he wondered if Maxime had fought for her to stay. Probably not.
The air went out of Maxime. In a defeated monotone, he said, “The city of Toulouse has taken over the buying of the house. You know, they have the right to take over any transaction at the same price, and they apparently wanted our place. So the whole process is sped up. I’ve already moved out so they can start renovating for some sort of Occitan association, and you’ll be getting your part of the money within the month.”
Catherine’s mouth fell open. “They’re buying a tiny house at such an expensive address, and at a price way over market value, to set up an association?”
Maxime pulled on his ear. “I didn’t ask them to explain everything to me. I figured the important thing is that we sell as soon as possible. That is what you wanted, right?”
Catherine’s reply was a whisper. “Yes.”
Maxime looked around the flat. Louis got the impression it might be the first time he’d been invited in. The man didn’t appear impressed by the old couch, small kitchenette, or low-ceilinged mezzanine that probably doubled as bedroom. His eyes fell on the dirty dishes behind Louis and he turned to Catherine. “You cooked?”
The blush came back to Catherine’s white face with a vengeance. But she only pressed her lips together as she stared at her ex-husband.
“We lived together for three years,” Maxime said, a baffled expression on his angular face. “I never saw you cook.” He eyed the dirty dishes. “And it even looks like you know what you’re doing.”
Catherine’s voice was as cold as her stare. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Maxime.”
Maxime looked between her and Louis, who gave a slight shake of his head to indicate that he didn’t know what was going on here. The woman clearly knew how to cook, but Louis had no idea why she would have hidden that from her husband for years. Some English quirk, surely.
Maxime’s confident posture surrendered and his gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ll see myself out.” As he opened the door, he threw a last remark at Catherine. “Once you get the money for the house, I hope you’ll find a decent place to live. This place is unbelievable.”
As the door closed, Louis looked around, frowning. He’d lived in his fair share of shady apartments over the years. This place had a mezzanine, a kitchen, a couch, and, he assumed, a bathroom. What else did she need?
Twenty-Two
“Anna (Prostitute)” flashed across the screen of Catherine’s mobile phone. She snatched it up and slid the reply button across the screen. She decided her habit of entering contacts’ names and occupation in her directory to help her remember who the person was might need to be adjusted if she were to meet with a great number of prostitutes for Alima’s payment article. Anna was a nineteen-year-old Russian girl Catherine interviewed the night before.
“Oui, allô?” Catherine grabbed her notebook and a pen to take the call in the relative privacy of the hallway. This might be for an article, but she was still not comfortable with discussing shop with a prostitute in public.
“Alima has disappeared,” Anna said. She rattled away a good octave over the voice she had used the night before when she was relaxed and poking fun at Catherine every chance she got. “We left work together last night and planned to meet for lunch today, but Alima never showed up. I went to her place—I don’t think she got home at all.”
Catherine sat down on the first step of the stairs heading up to the next floor where the sports section and layout team had their offices. “All right, calm down, Anna. I’m sure she’s fine.” She certainly hoped so. Should they have warned Alima about the homeless man who might or might not have gotten killed for his intervention on the night of the murder? But he had most likely met the killer, so there was a certain logic to him being taken out. Alima only found the bodies. “Are you sure she didn’t get home? How do you know?”
Sniffles sounded in the phone. “I have the key to her place. When she didn’t answer, I let myself in. I don’t know her wardrobe by heart, but I’m pretty sure her working clothes are missing and all her normal shoes, at least, are accounted for.”
Catherine winced. That was bad news. “Where did you see her last?” She nodded to a colleague from the sports section taking the stairs three at a time on his way back to work after a late lunch.
“We split up at Saint Sernin. I live on one of the side streets to rue du Taur.”
Which meant Alima had walked alone in the part of the city center where their lot of fifteen had also gone missing. Catherine’s breath sped up and goosebumps crawled up her arms. Had Alima fallen victim to the same killer as Pierre Saint-Blancat?
“I assume you’ve tried calling her?” Catherine asked.
“It goes straight to voicemail.”
Of course it does. Catherine’s brain worked the case from all angles. Surely a young prostitute could decide she’d had enough and leave? In the middle of the night, without telling her friend, and wearing her working clothes. “Is there any chance she ran away, Anna?” Catherine softened her voice and hoped it carried over the phone. She didn’t want to make the girl more upset than she already was.
Anna blew into the microphone on her end making Catherine jump in her uncomfortable seat. “She just started classes at the Social Sciences University. She was going places. And she invited a whole bunch of us out to celebrate her birthday next week. She wouldn’t do that if she planned to leave.”
Catherine almost dropped the phone. Alima had been taken. Probably killed. They were so close, but hadn’t known it. Now it was too late.
Cradling the phone, she bent forward until her head touched her knees. “Have you contacted the police?” she asked in what she hoped was a normal voice.
“Yes,” came the reply. “But they don’t care about a missing prostitute, and in any case, she’s only been missing a few hours.” She took on a voice to imitate whichever idiot she’d talked to at the police station. “She
could still be with a client for all you know. Like in Pretty Woman!”
Catherine didn’t bother to explain to the woman that in France, the police would only intervene on a disappearance if they considered it inquiétant, worrisome. If a child or youth went missing, this was automatic. Not so for adults, and probably even less so for prostitutes.
Someone called Catherine’s name from inside the office. Seconds later, Arnaud’s head popped out of the door. “Did you hear?” he said, excitement dancing in his eyes. “The police have news on the mayor’s death. They’re holding a press conference in half an hour.”
Catherine gave a thumbs-up to Arnaud and signaled she would finish her call, then join him. Into the phone, she said, “Anna, I think the police are looking into your friend’s disappearance. I have to go check it out. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know anything.” She hung up and ran in to get her purse. She’d catch a ride with Arnaud. They should be able to get to the police station in time.
Twenty-five minutes later, Arnaud slot parked in the narrow street behind the police station and the two of them ran around the large red brick building to join a small group of journalists on the steps leading up to the front door. Officier de Police Judiciaire Petit, the man in charge of the investigation, brought out a paper to read his statement. The two reporters shouldered their way into the throng of journalists to record what the OPJ had to say.
“The police have made new discoveries following the search made in Monsieur Pierre Saint-Blancat’s residence. In addition to the transactions that have been proven to take place between the head of the public transport and Monsieur Saint-Blancat, we have proof that money also changed hands between the taxis of Toulouse and Saint-Blancat seven years ago, when he was mayor. A case will be opened against the implicated parties within the taxis’ organization…for corruption.”
Did that little pause mean that corruption was only the first thing they would be accused of? Were they following up on her article and putting the taxis up as prime suspects for the murder of the old mayor?
Catherine didn’t catch the next question, but she heard OPJ Petit’s answer. It stayed on the subject of corruption. Catherine let her recorder catch it as she formulated her own question and waited for the right moment to yell it. This part of her job would have been so much easier in English. She didn’t need to think about sentence structure or word choice in English; she could blurt out whatever came to mind and it would make sense. Not so in French.
As the OPJ wound up his answer, Catherine spoke up. “Is the disappearance of the woman who discovered Monsieur Saint-Blancat’s body linked to his murder?”
Several of the journalists around Catherine turned to her with incredulous expressions. They don’t know about Alima. OPJ Petit didn’t seem to appreciate her intervention, either. With a curl in his lip, he said, “The whereabouts of a prostitute is not our priority right now, Madame, we have an important investigation before us.”
Shocked at being put down so rudely in front of dozens of colleagues, Catherine let her recorder fall down to her side. They know Alima is missing. And they don’t care. She should be happy they were looking into the taxis because of her article, but it left a bitter taste in her mouth. If she hadn’t put them on that track, would they have put a greater effort into finding Alima? Or would they still have ignored her since she was only a prostitute?
Catherine felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. She and Louis had found a pattern in the disappearance of people over the last three decades. The killer removed a homeless man before they got to him and Alima after they talked to her. But it wasn’t enough. Catherine had no idea where to go from here, and Alima paid the price.
Twenty-Three
Louis showed up on Catherine’s doorstep fifteen minutes after she called him. When she let him in and told him to take a seat, he chose the kitchen chair over the sofa. While Catherine told him about Alima’s disappearance and the police’s attitude, he bent over to scratch Fluffy’s belly. The dog contentedly rolled over on his back to give better access.
“So Alima has probably been taken by the killer,” Louis said, “and we’re out of clues?”
“Yes.” Helplessness didn’t sit well with Catherine. She wanted action. “We have to do something,” she pleaded. “I was thinking perhaps we should run an article with what we have so far and see if anything comes out of it. Perhaps the families of earlier victims will come up with something now that they know they’re part of a serial killer’s scheme.”
Louis looked up from Fluffy with a frown marring his features. “We can’t give the names of the missing people we found. If we’re wrong, I’m not sure what kind of effect that would have.”
“We don’t need to name them. The families will recognize the descriptions if we say they were all last seen between the Capitole and the Garonne around the time of their birthday.” Catherine tapped her fingers on the table-top. “Actually, I was thinking…” But no, that would be too reckless. She shook her head.
“What?” Louis asked. Fluffy whined when the scratching stopped, but was ignored.
Catherine shook her head. “It’s not a good idea. It’s just…” She tried to judge his expression. She didn’t know him all that well, so couldn’t tell if he would hold her back when she went too far or push her off the edge if she got too close. She might as well air her idea. “It’s my birthday pretty soon. I was wondering if anything would happen if I walked around close to the Capitole at night.”
Louis shot out of his chair. “You will do no such thing!” Okay, he is the protective sort. “We know nothing about this guy, and so far, nobody has managed to put up enough of a fight for it to even be heard by neighbors. All those people disappeared as if into thin air.”
“Calm down.” Exasperation at his protectiveness seeped into her voice. “It was a stupid idea born out of frustration. Besides, how many people do you think have celebrated their birthdays in the city center over the last three decades? There’s another logic behind those disappearances that we haven’t figured out yet.”
Louis kept his eyes on her, but gave a curt nod and sat down again. “I don’t want you walking around the city center alone.”
Catherine’s anger blazed. “It is not your place to tell me what I can and cannot do. If I decide to get dead drunk and walk around naked on the Capitole screaming for the killer to come get me, there’s nothing you can do about that.”
Louis raised an eyebrow and cracked a smile at her. She was angry and indignant and he laughed at her? Though she might have gone a bit far with her example.
“Besides,” she added to have the last, and reasonable, word in the argument, “I have pepper spray in my purse. I’m not some damsel in distress.”
“So I see.” His smile faded away. “So you’ll write the article, but leave out the names? Will you submit that picture of Geraldine Hérault’s body?”
Catherine took a few calming breaths. “Yes. I’ll detail all our findings and ask people both to take care and to contact me if they have any clues. I’ll even add a picture of Alima; maybe someone spotted her that night.”
“Excellent.” Louis eyed the kitchenette behind her. Nothing was cooking today. The last time he was here might have been a success, but she was not about to get into the habit of cooking whenever someone came over.
Catherine got to her feet. “I should probably start working. Lots of writing to do, and I need to have it approved by my boss.”
Taking the hint, Louis nodded and got up. “I’ll leave, then.” Catherine walked him to the door, but before she could close it behind him, he turned back. “I was thinking…” He cleared his throat, then looked at Catherine, but didn’t quite meet her gaze. He seemed to be addressing her chin. “I would like to invite you out for dinner. To thank you for the delicious meal you prepared? And to mark the success of our working together on this case.”
It was Catherine’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Was he blushing? That was so s
weet. But also very awkward. They had worked well together, but she was worried he might be interested in their relationship taking on a more private nature. That was not in Catherine’s plans. She had only just gotten divorced, had no money, and her main focus was her career now that it was finally taking off. Besides, the man was a politician. If there was one thing she’d learned from the gossip newspapers, it was that female journalists were not allowed to keep on working if they were associated with an important political figure. Look at Valérie Trierweiler, the President’s girlfriend, or Audrey Pulvar, who had to give up her position as anchor-woman when her boyfriend approached a government position.
Louis was a confident man—he should be able to shoulder a polite turn-down.
“I really need to work if we want that article to appear in tomorrow’s newspaper,” Catherine said to Louis. He shifted his gaze so he looked her in the eyes. “Je vais faire la passe.” I’ll pass.
Louis’s eyes widened, then he flashed an enormous smile at her. “You’re full of surprises!”
An odd reaction to a refused date.
His eyes shone with merriment. Any trace of a blush was long gone. “I didn’t know you were that pressed for money,” he said with mock concern.
How did he know she was broke? She had been able to keep the secret from even her closest friends and colleagues in the hopes that the house would be sold soon enough for her to get back on her feet. Now this man spent a few hours with her, ate her food, figured out her secret, and then made fun of her poverty? He might have most of the charm of his late father, but his upbringing had some serious flaws.
Catherine felt the flush covering most of her face. Hoping the relative darkness of the hallway would hide it from Louis was probably optimistic. She used anger to fight down the shame. “My finances are none of your business, Monsieur Saint-Blancat. Please consider our cooperation for this article terminated. Now get lost.”
She slammed the door in his face.
The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery Page 15