Murder in the Latin Quarter
Page 30
“Haven’t had time, Morbier. It’s simple; I’ll explain it. But first may I use the fax in that office?”
“Why?”
“René’s ready to send over the links to Hydrolis’s system,” she said. “Expect some interesting and incriminating reports.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Just read the reports. Then decide.”
Inside the nearest office, she jotted down the number, then punched in René’s line.
“Okay, René. 01 44 76 09 39.” She glanced at the over-flowing ashtray, half-full cup of coffee, and the nameplate on the desk. Roloff. The Commandant who’d headed the inquiry into her father’s police corruption case. For a moment her heart thudded.
“Mark it ‘Attention Commissaire Morbier’ and do a cover sheet,” she said. “Merci.”
She hung up.
“It won’t work, Leduc.”
She sat in the brown leather swivel chair behind the desk, exhausted.
“What won’t work?”
“Mireille.”
“Morbier, there’s no proof of Mireille’s arrival in France, no stamp on a passport, no entry logged in the Immigration com-puter. She’s not here.” Aimée rubbed her head. “She’ll evaporate. Like smoke. Belgium has room in their quotas for Haitian asylum-seekers. I checked.”
Morbier loosened his tie. “Do you count on help from Edouard Brasseur?”
“A fellow Haitian employed in a large human-rights organization? He’ll find her a job. She’s a trained accountant.”
“That’s your deal, Leduc?”
“It works for everyone, Morbier,” she said. “Think about it.”
Morbier stared at her with a look she couldn’t fathom. Then a grin erupted on his tired face.
“You look at home in that chair, Leduc,” Morbier said. “Like you belong here.”
She stiffened. The memory of her father’s hearing that had taken place on the second floor had never gone away. The false stink of corruption still assailed her nostrils, the odor that had tainted his career and forced him to resign from the Force he loved.
“Not me,” Aimée said, standing. “You know I don’t like taking orders, Morbier.”
She paused at the door. Sheets of paper had begun to emerge from the fax machine. “You’ll see that those go to the right person, won’t you? And this.”
She placed Benoît’s test tubes on the desk. “Don’t worry. Others were messengered to the IMF charge d’affaires and to Léonie Obin at the Haiti Trade Delegation.”
“You think this will do any good? I want to help, but word came down from the top.”
“And let Benoît’s work count for nothing?” she said. “Read tomorrow’s Libération. A half-page exposé of Hydrolis and its World Bank funding application, with facts and figures. I don’t bet, but I’ll wager you a franc it opens eyes.”
“And knocks Diana off the front page?”
“It’s only third page. Plus an editorial.”
Morbier sat on the edge of the desk. He scraped a wooden match on the desk leg, lit an unfiltered Gitane, and blew a plume of smoke. “I’m getting too old for this, Leduc.”
“Me too,” she said. Taking the cigarette from him, she took a long drag.
Morbier stared at her hands. “You okay, Leduc?”
“My head hurts and I miss my dog.” She handed him back the cigarette. “And I hate wearing tank tops.”
Morbier stared at her. His red-lidded eyes drooped.
“Are you going to tell her?”
“You mean tell Mireille who her father was?” Tired, she paused at the doorframe in thought, then shrugged.
Saturday Noon
AIMÉE READ THE DNA result from the Laboratoires Sytel, DNA specialistes. Then she read it again. Light slanted over the mail piled on her office desk. The smell of sawdust and fresh-cut lumber hovered in the air.
“We framed the wall and installed support beams,” Cloutier said, shouldering his tool bag. “On Monday we’ll sheetrock and paint. Then we’re all finished.”
He seemed to be in a hurry.
“Have a good rest of the weekend, Cloutier,” she said. “And thanks for coming in on Saturday.”
“You, too,” Cloutier replied. Then he suddenly halted his progress through the doorway. “Pardon, Mademoiselle. I mean ‘Sister.’ I didn’t see you.”
Aimée looked up. A tall nun stood in the doorway, a canvas travel bag in her hand.
“I wanted to say good-bye, Aimée,” Mireille said.
Aimée’s heart skipped. Mireille walked into the office. Her long black habit trailed on the floor, the stiff white wimple framing her honey-colored face. “Edouard’s waiting in the car. Impossible to park—the traffic, you know—but if you’ll come down. . . .”
“Non, it’s all right,” she said. “Please tell him thank you for me.”
“Cloutier’s done marvels here in the back room—Merde! ” René, just coming through the door, stopped in his tracks. “Oh! Excusez-moi.” His face reddened. “Sister, I didn’t know. . . .”
Mireille smiled. “I’m only dressed this way.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Aimée?”
“Mireille, meet René, my partner.”
René blinked and stared.
Mireille took a step forward. “I think you were right, Aimée.”
“What do you mean?”
Mireille set down a copy of Libération on Aimée’s desk opened to an article headlined “Hydrolis CEO Jérôme Castaing implicated in World Bank funding proposal scandal.”
“That maybe I was in the wrong place.” She gripped Aimée’s hand in her warm ones. “Family takes time, non? This Castaing contacted me, but I don’t feel ready. He says we’re related.”
Aimée looked down. And when she looked up Mireille had gone. Her footsteps echoed on the staircase.
“So that’s . . . your half-sister?” René asked.
She stared at the DNA results. “Not according to this.”
René rocked back on his heels. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” But she didn’t feel fine.
René closed the folder on his desk, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got an appointment. We’ll talk later. Dinner?”
And burden him more? “Go celebrate landing the Aèrospa-tiale contract with Saj.”
He smiled. “You mean, order in and then put our feet up?”
She saw him rubbing his hip.
“Don’t tell me, René!”
“Eh?”
“You’re finally going to see that doctor,” she said.
“You could say that,” René answered, his eyes evading hers.
”About time, René.”
She noticed what looked like a package half-covered by plastic sheeting under René’s desk.
“Did Cloutier forget something?”
René was taking his linen jacket from the coat rack. “What?”
“I’ll call him and check.” She bent and lifted the plastic, revealing a brown metal box. “What’s this?”
“That?” René fingered his goatee. “Something he found in the wall.”
“You mean from before my grandfather’s time?” She shook her head. “Open up a wall in Paris and who knows what you’ll find.”
She looked closer.
“But it’s not very old,” she said. “It’s a safe, looks like from the seventies.”
“Forget it for now, Aimée.” René leaned down. “I meant to store it in the back. We can go through this clutter later.”
Curious, she leaned closer. “René, the door to this safe is broken.”
“Cloutier said he didn’t mean to damage it,” René told her. “He had no idea it was there until his sledgehammer cracked it open.”
A breeze ruffled the papers on her desk.
“Then why didn’t he tell me himself?”
Inside the safe she saw a bundle of envelopes rubber-banded together.
“You’re a bad liar, René.
You read them, didn’t you?” Angry, she took them out.
“Aimée, I meant to tell you, but with all that’s happened. . . .”
“If they concern Mireille, you should have!”
“Not Mireille,” René said.
She saw a canceled American stamp on an envelope addressed to Mademoiselle Aimée Leduc in a childish scrawl.
A frisson raced through her. “From my mother?”
René stared at her. “Your brother.”
*November 10, 1802.
Acknowledgments
Many, many thanks go to Rico; Lillian; Grace; Diane; Marion Nowak, la magnifique; Dot; Barbara; Jan; and Max; Don Can-non; Susanna von Leuwen; Elaine Taylor; Leonard Pitt; Lau-ren Haney and the ever knowledgeable Dr. Terri Haddix.
The opinions here in no way reflect on the wonderful philanthropic work or the political stance of those working for equality, justice, democracy, and literacy in Haiti. On the Haitian front, gratitude goes to the very generous Margaret Trost; journalist Wadner Pierre; Pierre Labossiere; Louissant Bellot and Camille Christian; and Ben Terrall. Also, Michael Geller; Mellen Candage and les anonymes at the World Bank.
In Paris, many thanks to Vassili Silovic for that late afternoon espresso, the fossils and inspiration; Diane Cribbs; Elise Munoz, une vrai amie in the rain; Laura Sumser; Donna and Earl Evleth toujours; Pierre-Olivier encore toujours; Anne-Françoise; la petite Zouzou; Sarah Tarille, la extraordinaire; attorneys Pierre and Leila Djebrouni; Carla Bach; Monsieur Fernand of the café on rue Feuillantines who keeps the stories alive; Gilles Thomas for the underground explorations; Jean-Claude Mulés—Retired Commissaire Brigade Criminelle and Cathy Etile—Police Judiciare.
And nothing would happen without James N. Frey; Linda Allen; Laura Hruska; my son Tate, and Jun.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Paris, September 1997, Monday Afternoon
Monday Night
Monday Night
Tuesday Morning
Tuesday Afternoon
Tuesday Noon
Tuesday Afternoon
Wednesday Noon
Wednesday Late Afternoon
Wednesday Late Afternoon
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Thursday Afternoon
Thursday Afternoon
Thursday Evening
Friday Early Morning
Friday Midday
Friday Afternoon
Friday Afternoon
Friday Evening
Friday Evening
Saturday Noon
Acknowledgments