“It’s complicated,” Leopold said. “I’m sure your car will be fine. Please,” he gestured toward the doorway.
With a cold look, Sophie brushed past and set off toward the stairs. “The door will lock behind you.”
Once outside, she pulled a set of keys from her purse and marched up to a battered blue Citroen 2CV that was parked a little way down the street. The wheel arches were peppered with rust and some of the paint had blistered in the sun, but it looked structurally sound despite being more than twenty years past its prime. Assuming it ever had one.
“This is your car?” asked Jerome, eyeing the cramped seats.
“Yes. You have a problem?” said Sophie, unlocking the doors and jostling the driver’s side handle. “You’ll struggle to find a taxi at this time of day.”
The bodyguard didn’t reply, settling himself into the back seat and buckling the seatbelt around his bulky frame as best he could.
“There’s no problem,” said Leopold. “Do you know the way?”
“Of course I know the way; I’ve lived in this city all my life. Maybe you can just be quiet until we arrive, okay?”
Nodding, Leopold fastened his own safety belt as Sophie started the car, which spluttered into life with a reluctant rattle from its twin cylinder engine. Nudging the vehicle to the brow of the hill, she pressed her foot to the clutch and coasted the car down the steep slope toward the main road out of Montmartre. As they merged with the traffic, Leopold couldn’t shake the feeling that his vacation had come to a very sudden end.
Chapter 12
THE PARIS POLICE Commisariat Central headquarters were located south of the river, opposite the imposing Fontaine Saint-Sulpice, a dominating stone fountain incorporating four ornate statues depicting famous religious figures from history. The impressive monument rested upon four thick octagonal basins, concentric pedestals ringed with intricately carved stone lions who glared menacingly out over the city as cascades of water fell across their backs. In the shade of the great fountain, tourists and office workers sat and enjoyed the view, soaking up a little oasis of calm in the otherwise bustling neighborhood.
With a reluctant groan from the Citroen’s rusty brake pads, Sophie rolled the car into an empty loading bay and killed the engine, which Leopold presumed was to prevent it from committing suicide. The heat inside the vehicle was unbearable thanks to the steel chassis and lack of air conditioning, and Leopold could feel the sweat on his brow.
“You’re parking here?” asked Jerome from the back seat. “This is a loading zone. Won’t you get a ticket?”
Sophie opened the driver’s side door. “The worst they can do if I don’t pay the ticket is impound the car, and this particular model is worth less than it would cost me to pay the fine. I can always get a new car.”
The bodyguard shrugged and wrenched his own door open. “Suit yourself.”
Without bothering to lock the car, Sophie led the way to the front of the building where a tall archway announced the main entrance. Feeling a wave of relief as the air conditioning blew a cold draft of air over his face, Leopold followed Sophie toward the reception area where the art restorer mumbled something to the middle aged woman manning the desk.
“She says to wait here,” said Sophie, taking a seat close to the doors. “Capitaine Rousseau will come and collect us soon.”
Obliging, Leopold sat down in silence next to her, catching the faint murmurs of some Europop chart-topper playing in the background. Sophie’s eyes were focused on the far wall, deliberately avoiding him, and her legs were crossed – the body language alternative to “screw you.”
“I didn’t get a chance to say this before,” said Leopold, trying to catch Sophie’s attention, “but I’m sorry about how this turned out. We approached you as a suspect, and that was the wrong thing to do. If there’s anything either of us can do…”
She turned to look at him. “You’ve done enough. Tell the police everything you know so that they can get to the bottom of this and find Jean’s killer. Jean was a good man, but desperation can make people do very stupid things. Things that can get them killed.” She bit her lip. “Let’s just get out of here as soon as we can.”
Leopold heard a door open and turned to see a tall, middle-aged man step into the room. He wore plain clothes, a dark shirt and jeans, and his silver hair was closely cropped in defiance of a receding hairline.
“Bonjour, I am Capitaine Rousseau,” he announced in a thick accent. “Please, come with me.” He waved them forward.
“Time to get this over with,” said Leopold, getting to his feet. The others followed suit.
“Wait, who are you?” he aimed the question at Sophie.
“Sophie Bardot,” she replied. “Old family friend of Jean Dubois.”
“You are with these two?”
“I was with them when you called, oui.”
“Then you can probably answer some questions, too. Follow me please.”
Leopold struggled to keep pace with the policeman’s long strides as he led them down a long, windowless corridor that smelled like cheap furniture polish.
“I recognize him,” Sophie whispered, leaning in to Leopold’s ear. “He’s been on television. Something about a string of murders. They call him Le Loup – The Wolf – because he always tracks down his prey.”
“That’s a little melodramatic,” Leopold whispered back.
Sophie shrugged. “I’m just saying, it looks like they’ve brought in the big guns. Whatever’s going on, it must be making some very important people worried.”
They rounded a corner and Rousseau stopped outside a scuffed wooden door. A plaque fastened to the front read salle d'entrevue.
“Please, go in and take a seat.” He ushered them through.
In the center of the cramped room was a square table with four chairs. A tape recorder was bolted in place at elbow height, allowing the interviewer easy access to pause and rewind as needed. The room was brightly lit and there was a ubiquitous one-way mirror installed along the back wall. Leopold dragged one of the chairs around to the other side of the table, allowing him to sit opposite Rousseau with Sophie and Jerome at his side. Each took their seats and Rousseau began.
“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” he said, rolling the words across his tongue. “And Mlle. Bardot, I am very sorry for your loss.”
Sophie nodded, saying nothing.
“Mr. Blake, I must start by asking what you and M. Dubois discussed during your meeting earlier today. I took the liberty of calling the museum for his schedule. How were you two involved?”
Leopold considered his reply. “The Louvre hired me as a security consultant. It was a last minute arrangement. Dubois and I met today to discuss some of my initial recommendations.”
“Which were?”
“I noticed some serious flaws in the systems they were using. I asked him to call a staff meeting.”
“What time was this?”
“Around twelve-thirty.”
“And Dubois stayed for the meeting?”
“No, he left shortly after I began.”
Rousseau leaned forward. “And then?”
“The staff meeting lasted about thirty minutes. After that, we spoke with H.R. and went to see Mlle. Bardot.”
“When did you meet her?”
“Around two P.M.”
“Do you have anything that shows where you were for the time between the staff meeting and speaking with Mlle. Bardot?”
“No. We took a cab and paid cash.”
“No receipt?”
Leopold’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think we’d need one.”
“I spoke with an employee at the museum who says that you and M. Dubois were arguing shortly before he left the museum. The witness also says…” he pulled a folded piece of notepaper out of his pocket and studied it carefully. “He says that you were tied to a chair? Mon Dieu, why would he do this?”
“You know how it is; sometimes people don’t like
it when outsiders tell them how to do their jobs. We had a minor disagreement. He quickly saw things from my point of view. There was no issue.”
“Of course, it happens all the time for me, too.” He smiled, a warm grin that creased up the skin around his eyes. “And who was it that hired you? Was it Dubois himself?”
“No. I get the impression he wanted to use someone local, but his bosses overruled him.”
“So Dubois was not kept in the loop? I suppose this is normal for a man close to retirement. I only hope they give me a little more warning when my time comes.” He smiled again.
“I suppose,” said Leopold. “So, are we going to talk about what happened? Perhaps if we knew a little more about how… about the circumstances. It might help.”
“Of course, of course,” Rousseau said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Tell me,” he directed his question at Jerome, “what kind of bullet could cause enough damage to punch through six inches of concrete wall?”
The bodyguard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure there are hundreds of possibilities.”
“You have military training, don’t you Jerome? I apologize for my rudeness, but I couldn’t find any mention of your surname. But you have served with the military, non?”
“Yes.”
“And you work in private security now.”
“Yes.”
Rousseau appeared to consider his next words carefully. “And Mr. Blake, you can certainly afford the best, isn’t that true?”
“You’ve spent time researching us, I see,” said Leopold.
“Of course.”
“Then you’re aware I can have a senior partner from any top law firm in the city here within thirty minutes. I would choose my questions wisely, if I were you, Capitaine.”
“Je suis désolé – I am sorry, forgive my rudeness. Yes, I looked you up; I do so for anyone I interview. I believe you inherited quite the windfall after your parents’ deaths. It must have been a very difficult time.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
“You must have made some very strong connections in France after you opened your offices here, non?”
“I wasn’t involved in the La Defense projects, but I understand they all went smoothly.”
“Yes, yes. Very smoothly. It is quite unusual for construction deals to complete quite so quickly, especially in La Defense. You must have quite the influence, Mr. Blake.”
Leopold didn’t reply.
“And Mlle. Bardot,” Rousseau continued, looking over at Sophie, “you first met these gentlemen this afternoon?”
“Oui, they told me they were from an art magazine and needed an interview for an upcoming article. After I let them in the house, they revealed they were working with Jean… with M. Dubois. Then you called. So, here I am.”
“And you have never met them before today?”
“No.”
“And you were at home all day, until now?”
“Yes. You can check my phone records if you like. I made a call around lunchtime from my landline.”
“Oui, I know,” smiled Rousseau. “I already checked. Thank you for your help.” He turned back to Leopold. “You were not forthcoming with her?”
“It helps to interview possible leads when they don’t know what’s going on,” replied Leopold. “It keeps them off guard. But you should know this.”
“Indeed I do, indeed I do.” The police captain sat back and sucked in a deep breath. “I will tell you what happened to M. Dubois. I apologize, Mlle. Bardot, if this upsets you.”
“Just tell me,” she said. “It’s better than not knowing.”
“A few minutes after one P.M. this afternoon, Jean Dubois and four other people were killed near the Notre Dame plaza, just outside the steps that lead up from the metro station. It appears that the killer targeted M. Dubois first and then proceeded to open fire at other people on the street. This helped to create confusion and allowed him to get away. He used a high caliber rife round, a .338, and was positioned at the top of one of the cathedral’s towers. We also found the body of a police constable who appears to have attempted to prevent his escape.”
“Do you have any leads?” asked Sophie, her eyes welling.
“Oui, I have some. I am working hard on them right now,” said Rousseau. “Some very strong leads.”
“I think it’s time we were going,” said Leopold, getting to his feet. “We’ve done all we can to help. I wish you luck, Capitaine.”
“Before you go, can you help me with something?” asked the police captain. “Perhaps you can shed some light on this?” He reached into his pocket and retrieved a second sheet of folded paper, unfolding it face up on the tabletop.
Leopold noticed a smudgy black image. “A fingerprint?”
“Not just any fingerprint,” said Rousseau. “This is your fingerprint, Mr. Blake. We found this at the cathedral, in the exact spot the shooter used. Would you care to explain how it got there?”
The consultant frowned. “If I knew how it got there, I would have brought my lawyer with me. I suppose there was no other evidence to be found?”
“Not a trace. It seems you got sloppy with cleaning up after yourself.”
“This is insane,” said Leopold, glancing at Sophie. She was staring at him, dumbfounded. “I had nothing to do with this. Someone obviously wants me to take the blame.”
“And I assume you can prove otherwise?” said Rousseau.
“It’s not up to me to prove my innocence, Capitaine. You’ll need something a little more conclusive than a smudged fingerprint.”
“Understood, understood. But this is how I see it: I have two foreigners,” he gestured at Leopold and Jerome, “who arrive in France days before the murder. One of the foreigners is military trained and an expert in firearms, having practiced in private security for the last twenty years. The other foreigner has a very public argument with the director, just minutes before he is shot, about some mysterious security system issue. I have enough to secure a formal charge against you, at the very least. Perhaps a judge will feel differently, but I can’t very well let you leave, can I? Not with all your resources. You will have to stay here until we can arrange a court hearing.”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Leopold. “We need to be leaving now.”
“That will not be possible. I’m arresting you, both of you, for conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to assistance from a lawyer. If you cannot afford a lawyer, we will provide one for you. You have the right to remain silent under questioning, although failure to answer questions –”
“Yes, yes, I know the drill,” said Leopold. “I can waive reading of my rights, thank you. Are we done here?”
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr. Blake,” said Rousseau, making his way to the door, “but this is really only just beginning.”
Chapter 13
MARY JORDAN ROLLED her hastily-packed suitcase through the Charles De Gaulle airport customs area and tried not to make eye contact with the security staff. Head down, she passed through the checkpoint without incident and joined the flow of traffic toward the arrivals lounge, heading straight for the nearest coffee place once she hit the lobby. After nearly eight hours stuffed into cattle-class, a decent cup of coffee was pretty much the only thing on the planet that had any chance of keeping her upright. Spotting an empty table at a nearby Starbucks, she headed for the counter at a brisk pace, hoping to get her order in before someone else got the same idea.
She picked up her drink and nestled herself at the table. Grimacing as the taste of burnt coffee beans coated her tongue, Mary remembered why most people don’t stick around for airport refreshments. Still, caffeine is caffeine, she reasoned, taking another slurp. Pulling out her cell phone, she turned the handset on and waited for it to pick up a local signal. Having forked out fifty bucks for a weeks’ worth of roaming charges, now was as good a time as any to catch up on her email.
The cell phone buzzed excitedly as the sc
reen sprang into life, announcing seven missed calls and three voicemails. All from the same number. With a resigned sigh, Mary dialed her mom and held the phone up to her ear, experience suggesting that getting this conversation out of the way would save a heap of trouble later on. After a few rings, her mother answered.
“Hello? Hello? Who’s this?”
“Relax mom,” said Mary, tipping the remainder of the bitter espresso down her neck. “It’s me. What’s so important you needed to get through to me over the Atlantic?”
“Oh, I’m sorry hon. You know I don’t know how to use these damn things. I must have redialed you or something, I was trying to send out a chirp… is that the right word? That little birdy thing you put on here for me?”
“You mean Twitter?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I was trying to send a Twitter. Anyway, how was the flight? You land okay?”
“Sure, mom. Look, if you’re busy, I could really –”
“No, no. I’m glad you called back, honey. I didn’t want to bring it up this morning, what with you rushing out and all, but I do need to speak with you about something really important. Have you got time?”
Mary checked her watch. “I’m supposed to be getting picked up right about now. But I guess he won’t mind if I’m a few minutes late. What’s up?”
“Well, I know it’s been a few years, but your sister’s been in touch.”
Mary’s heart caught in her chest.
“Honey? You there?”
“Yeah, mom. I’m here. I just haven’t thought about her in a while.”
“I know sweetie. It’s been hard for all of us, but… well, I told her I’d mention it to you and see –”
“And see if I can bring myself to speak to her again?” Mary interrupted. “After what she did, I don’t know why you just didn’t hang up the phone right there and then.”
“She’s my daughter too, sweetie. I never stopped caring about her.”
“And you want me to talk to her?”
“Just think about it, okay? I’m not saying everything’s forgiven, but… well, I miss her! And I miss you two getting along. It’s not right that two sisters haven’t spoken with each other in five years. Just not natural.”
Wanted (A Private Investigator Series of Crime and Suspense Thrillers, Book 1) Page 5