by Cara Black
“You’re Nicolas’s sister, Maud Evry,” Aimée said. With Miles Davis in her arms, she took a step back. Her head knocked against the slanting roof and her back met the wall. There was nowhere to go in this closet-sized garret under the eaves. “But you were in Lille, in a mental institution.”
“Let’s say I left on my own terms.” Maud smiled again. “But I was not in time to save Nicolas.”
Aimée tried to control her rising panic. Somehow she had to get to the door, slip the bolt, and summon help.
“Save him?” The pieces fell into place. “You killed Clémence.”
“That putain, nothing but a cheap slut. She never listened either.”
“Clémence was pregnant with his baby. You killed your own blood.”
Maud’s mouth twisted sideways. “You’re lying.”
“You vowed to make whoever put Nicolas in prison pay. Revenge. That’s what this is about.”
“High marks,” Maud said. “I wanted you to know. I almost told you myself.”
“Chloë . . . Maud, you need help. We’ll call your doctor.”
Aimée stepped toward the door.
“For more shock treatments?” She shook her head, her eyes glazed.
“Non, of course not,” Aimée said, trying to think fast, “but let’s sort this out.”
A short laugh. “You call isolation in a straitjacket ‘help’? They chained me, like your dog.”
A copper pot boiled on the cooktop; heat filled the room. The smell of gas mingled with the odor of rot from the roof timbers.
Maud gave a little sigh. “The putain gave me no choice.” She flicked on all the burners on the gas stove. Little rings of blue flame blossomed. “Ever try dog meat?”
Miles Davis emitted a low growl.
“They say it tastes like rabbit.”
With a quick movement, Aimée lifted Miles Davis up through the narrow open skylight and shoved him onto the roof. She counted on him to scamper to the flat part framing the gutter.
“Silly girl!” Maud stepped closer, a small snub-nosed revolver in her hand.
Prickles ran up Aimée’s spine. She was being threatened by a psychotic with a gun, whom she’d thought was her friend. She edged around the bed piled with clothes and towels, toward the stove, scanning the dirty frying pans, the knives on the counter.
Miles Davis’s barks from the roof competed with Le Pen’s rising rhetoric from the radio . . . “We must stop immigrants from stealing French jobs.”
The blue rings of flames licked higher, close to a lace curtain.
“Turn off the gas.” Aimée grabbed a wet towel from the bed and threw it on the burner, dousing the flames.
“Why did you do that?” Maud said.
The gas pilot flame in the small old-fashioned water heater unit flickered above the sink. Gas fumes laced the close air.
“Don’t you see that the pilot light’s too near the burners?”
“You put Nicolas in that stinking hellhole.” Maud’s voice rose. “Full of lowlifes and filthy immigrants. Now you’ll pay.”
She echoed Le Pen.
“He was brilliant, he had a bright future, but he turned to the skinheads,” Maud said.
“Blame yourself. How could he study for entry to a Grande Ecole when you refused to support him?”
“He’d get no help from me while Clémence was around.” Maud’s eyes narrowed. “I told him.”
“He needed money, so he agreed to take the blame for Olivier de la Pecheray and went to prison,” Aimée said. “After four years, he’d had enough. He wouldn’t cover up the death of the old Jewish couple any longer.”
“Jews, Arabs, Noirs d’Afrique, that’s right. Unless the government takes control, they’ll infest us.” Maud stood so close, Aimée could see the fine beads of perspiration on her fingers holding the gun. “They’re like rodents. They’re the ones to blame.”
“Wrong,” Aimée rejoined. “Olivier’s father had Nicolas murdered in prison. And he was going to get away with it.
Nicolas knew too much; he presented an obstacle to Roland de la Pecheray’s climb up the ministry ladder.”
The gas smell became stronger. The place could blow up.
“So you say.” Maud’s smile disappeared. “It’s a crime how those Jews stick together. They still control the banks. We should have taken care of all of them in the ovens.”
Aimée whacked Maud hard against the door. The revolver blasted a white flash. Burning pain grazed Aimée’s rib. Plaster rained down as a thin white powder from the bullet’s impact. She had to shut the gas off before it exploded; she couldn’t understand why the bullet hadn’t ignited it.
She clutched her side, stretching for the burner knob, but her fingers wouldn’t reach far enough.
Maud grabbed her legs. Aimée twisted, kicking Maud sideways. Haze burned her eyes; gas reeked, fogging her brain; pain smarted along her side. She felt the gun prod in her ribs.
“Your turn, Aimée Leduc.”
She gritted her teeth. “Not in your lifetime.”
Aimée spun, hitting Maud with all the strength she had. Maud howled with pain. Le Pen hadn’t stopped orating.
Aimée pulled a chair under the skylight, somehow hoisting herself up. Another gunshot stung her leg.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Maud shouted.
But Aimée kept pulling herself up. She crawled over the skylight ledge, panting for air, and slid, face first, down the blue slate tiles. She grabbed a pipe, hanging on for dear life.
Warm wetness spread over her ribs. She saw a dark red stain over her chest. The YSL blouse was now totally ruined. Her jeans leg had been ripped by a bullet. Gas fumes came from the skylight under a smatter of stars. Below, the Seine glittered, pockmarked with lights. But everything felt far away. A tongue licked her ear and she realized she’d reached the flat part of the roof.
Shots pinged, ricocheting off a drain pipe. She bundled Miles Davis close, crawling along the gutter, pulling herself forward by her fingertips. At the edge of the roof, she tied the end of his leash around the pipe, wrapped the middle part around her wrist, and took the phone from her back pocket. If she didn’t hurry, her building would blow up. With trembling fingers she hit 18 for Sapeurs Pompiers.
“Hurry, there’s gas leaking on the fifth floor.” She struggled for breath. “17, quai d’Anjou.”
“Your name?”
“Forget my name, there’s a woman inside with a gun; the place will blow up.”
“A terrorist attack? Do you see explosives?”
If she said yes, they’d activate Plan Rouge, putting all response teams on first alert.
“Oui, a whole room of plastic!”
She put the phone down. Breathed, filling her lungs with air. Miles Davis whimpered in her arms and her phone trilled.
“I’m waiting for you, Leduc,” Morbier said. “Where are you?”
Her black high heel fell off her foot and slithered down the slate roof, then over the gutter. She didn’t want to look down.
“On my roof.” Lightheaded, she hugged Miles Davis for warmth.
“Again?”
Why wouldn’t her brain clear? “Things got hot, I needed air.”
“Leduc, what the hell do you mean?”
“Nicolas’s sister shot René, Morbier. There’s gas leaking from her stove. She’s downstairs in my building with a gun.”
“What? Don’t tell me—”
But she never heard the rest. The shock of the explosion lifted her in the air and closer to the stars. The roof tore, splintering tile, wooden beams, and plaster. The last thing she saw were tiny shards of glass, twinkling like starlight against the rooftops.
Saturday
“HALF THE ROOF blew into the Seine,” said a voice. A voice she knew. Alcohol and antiseptic smells assailed her nose.
Aimée blinked. Her eyes opened to see bright lights shining on her bandaged raised leg. Then the green walls of a hospital room. She could see and breathe. She grew aware of throbbing pain
. René, wearing a back brace, spoke to someone behind the curtain.
“I was so worried. You okay, René?”
“Better than you,” René said, parting the curtain. “Walking, talking, and communicating online with Ritoux at Tracfin for an hour this morning. He almost likes us.” René grinned. “Saj’s working at the office. We’re back on track.”
“And Nadillac?”
“In custody,” René said. “He’s insisting that his firm put him up to the wire transfer to protect their ‘assets.’ Complaining and whining as usual.”
She pictured the short, overweight hacker in a cell and brightened.
René’s brow creased. “Lucky the explosion didn’t kill you, Aimée.”
Or the fall.
“Where’s Miles Davis?”
René paused. Her heart ripped open.
“Mon Dieu, he’s dead, isn’t he? It’s my fault.”
“Non, it was thanks to his barking that the rescue unit found you. They’re awarding him a canine badge of honor.”
Morbier parted the curtains. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced; there was stubble on his chin.
“A little messy, Leduc. Maud Evry’s body parts rained down over the entire block.”
Aimée didn’t like to picture the cleanup.
“Other than that, no fatalities,” Morbier said. “The firemen contained the blaze right away. Amazing.”
“Thank God you held on to the leash, Aimée,” René said. “They had to cut it off your arm.”
No wonder her skin felt as if it was on fire.
Morbier picked up her charred cell phone. “Dead. But Jacques called me.”
A shiver went up her arm. “Waller has information about my brother?”
Morbier pushed the cuticle back on his thumb. “Maybe next time round, Leduc.”
What did that mean? “Care to explain?”
Morbier read her look. “Jacques is en route to the Congo right now.”
For a retired NYPD officer, he sure got around. Before she could press for more information, a saccharine-smiling nurse pushed the curtain aside. “Time for your medication, Mademoiselle.”
She’d think about her brother and Waller’s angle later.
“Open.” The nurse put a funnel device in her mouth. “Just swallow.”
She gulped.
“Good. Now drink some water.”
Aimée sputtered, pushing it away.
“What’s the damage?” she asked the nurse.
“Quoi?”
“My injuries?”
“Arm lacerations, a bullet graze and bruising to the third rib, a low-grade infection in your leg wound.” The nurse swabbed her arm with alcohol, raised a thick hypodermic syringe, flicked the glass with her finger, and pushed.
Aimée winced in pain. “They use this size on horses, don’t they?”
“No need to be funny.” The nurse gave a little shrug. Smiled. “Pas mal, considering how close you flew to ‘heaven’.”
Aimée waited until the nurse left. “Call me a taxi, Morbier.”
“Et puis? You’re injured, Leduc.”
“Have your flics removed the cameras and bugs from my place?”
“You know about that?” He looked at his feet. “I read this wrong. I’m sorry.”
Morbier apologizing?
“Just get it taken care of. Now, Morbier,” she said. “I’m going home.”
“Stubborn as usual,” Morbier said. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Take my advice, Leduc: enjoy the peace here and recover. They won’t let you out without signing a waiver.”
“I hate these places.” She sat up. Everything swayed, then righted itself. “Can you hand me my clothes?”
“Those?” René pointed to a plastic bag with her torn, bloody clothing, which emitted a smoky scent.
A crime. Her vintage YSL silk top, a rag.
“I need a favor, Morbier.”
“You want to stay at my place? Hire a nurse?”
“I want to borrow your coat, Morbier.”
“No taxis, remember? There’s a train strike and they’re scarce as hen’s teeth.” He shook his head, then draped his coat around her shoulders. Sighed. “I’ll drive you.”
She paused. “And we’ll pick Miles Davis up en route.”
He shot a look down the hall, then nodded. “We better go out the back.”
“Coming, René?”
René grabbed his crutch. “About time, too.”
* * *
DUSK DESCENDED OUTSIDE Aimée’s open balcony door. The quayside lights gleamed, diamond-like, against the gel-black Seine. Even the roof-repair scaffolding couldn’t mar the view, she thought. An orange-brown leaf fluttered inside on the wood floor. Every part of her hurt, but she was home.
A bandaged Miles Davis nestled at her feet on the recamier, yellow plastic pill bottles lined up like toy soldiers on the side table, candles flickered. On the answering machine, a red light blinked. One message. She hit ANSWER and leaned back.
“I’m sorry, Aimée.” A pause, and she heard Mathieu take a breath. “Inexusable, but can you forgive me? If you’re there, pick up. I need to explain.”
Another pause. “My wife threw me out.”
Aimée leaned forward and hit ERASE.
Miles Davis looked up, his ears pricked. She heard a key turn in the front door lock. No doubt René, with her laptop and a new cell phone.
“In here, René,” she said. “Hungry? I can order takeout. Feel like sushi?”
Melac, in his black leather jacket and jeans, hair combed back, set a distinctive black-and-white-lettered Fauchon bag on the dining table.
“I brought an assortment,” he said. “Had no clue what you like.”
She elbowed herself up and winced. Her arm burned. “Who gave you my keys?”
He pulled a screwdriver from his leather jacket pocket, smiling.
“You want the cameras removed, don’t you?”
The smile reached deep into his eyes. Large gray eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed them before?
She let her bandaged arm fall back on the pillow. The breeze ruffled her toes peeking from the end of the duvet.
“So you’re apologizing, Melac?”
“For doing my job?”
Her body hurt too much to argue. “I accept.”
A weight, like body armor, lifted from him. “I’ve had this place under twenty-four-hour surveillance, half the time by myself.”
Married to the job. Like all of them. Like her father.
“You don’t get out much, do you, Melac?”
He blinked. “The Lille clinique sent a report alerting us to Maud Evry’s escape. Regulations, forms, it took time to obtain the proper medical protective warrant.”
Look where following rules had got her.
“A little late, Melac.”
“Blame the transport strike. We were stuck on Pont Neuf in traffic,” he said. Paused. “Maud Evry had done this before.”
Aimée cringed inside. With her good arm, she pointed to the kitchen.
“You’ll find plates in the first cupboard.”
“That I can handle,” he said, eyeing her, a softness in his look. “But I don’t know about the rest.”
“The rest?” she asked.
“You.”
Acknowledgments
Immeasurable, heartfelt thanks to Dot Edwards; Barbara; Jan Gurley, MD; Max; Susanna; Elaine; Terri Haddix, MD; Jean Satzer; Michael, Leonard, Marion, Don Cannon, Carla, and Sarah and Ailen.
In Paris: Sarah Tarille, mon amie and flâneuse; toujours generous Anne-Francoise Delbeque and the red-soled Louboutins; la petite Zouzou; Gilles Fouquet for his expertise; Pierre-Olivier— Aimée’s historian; Benoit Patission, security at the Ministry of Culture and Centre de Monuments Nationaux, Palais Royal; Elise, Jean and Damien Lesay; Isabelle, for our long ago afternoon with les enfants; Elke Tsalkis; Cathy Etile—Police Judi-ciare; Frederic Carteron, formerly Police Judiciaire; Jean-Claude Mulés, retired Commissaire,
Brigade Criminelle; Libby Hell-mann; Arthur Phillips.
And nothing would happen without James N. Frey, Linda Allen, extraordinary Laura Hruska, Jun, and my son Tate.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Paris October 1997
Acknowledgments