Murder on the Champ de Mars (20 page)

From the jasmine-trellised gravel walkway, a ramp led to the rear of the white-walled wing. The corridor was narrow, with small rooms for patients off both sides. Antiseptic-smelling and basic—unlike the great-uncle’s room. The ventilation system thrummed. She padded past open doors on both sides—most of the beds were empty; one contained an old man on a respirator—then a larger common room on the right occupied by old people nodding off in wheelchairs, where a muted
télé
was playing the news.

A door opened and shut down the hall. She ducked into the common room. She heard murmured voices, but the footsteps continued past. Aimée looked around, but none of the wheelchairs’ occupants had even opened their eyes. She heard the door to the hallway swing open, the footsteps trail away.

She knew she might regret this, have to lie her way out if she was caught, but she remembered the wooden wagon and knew she needed to see who was in that last room. The one with the closed door, the one the footsteps had come from.

After a quick scan of the empty corridor, she tiptoed out into the hallway and down to the last room. She opened and shut the door without making a sound.

Lying on the bed was a shriveled woman covered in white blankets, her shallow breaths punctuated by the rhythmic flow from the artificial respirator. Dim light illuminated the sparse grey braids spread over the pillow. Seeing how the cancer had ravaged her, had turned her into an old woman, Aimée gasped. But these were the same dark, deep-set eyes she remembered from photos, and from those visits fifteen years ago: there was no denying this was Drina Constantin.

The door opened.

She dove behind the bed and slid underneath it in time to see white clogs on the linoleum. The fluorescent light flickered on, shadows moved.

“Plug it in there.” A woman’s voice. “Near the floor.”

Lying on her stomach, she tried to make herself small. She saw the outlet an arm’s length away and panicked. Thick fingers fumbled for the outlet. Then she heard a snap. Several clicks.

The machine thrummed to life. A moment later she heard the flick of a switch. “We need to refill the oxygen containers …”

“You’re noting this down?”

“Everything. As instructed.” The door opened and closed again. They’d gone, leaving the light on.

Aimée crawled out from under the bed, her heart pounding. They’d be back any moment.

“Drina?” She touched the wrinkled cheek—cool. The sunken eyes remained closed. “Maybe you can’t hear me. It’s Aimée, Jean-Claude’s daughter. Nicu said you wanted to see me, to tell me about Papa.”

No movement. Just the pumping sounds, in and out, of the machine breathing for Drina through the tubes in her nose.

“Drina, you wanted me to make something right. I know you can’t talk, probably can’t hear me, but if you can …”

Only the rhythmic
schwa, schwa
of the pumping air.

“Drina, I found the
roulotte
Nicu carved for you. See?” She lifted it out of her jacket pocket. Put the little three-wheeled wagon in Drina’s stiff hand.

Aimée curled Drina’s worn fingers around it. “I’m sorry, Drina.” At least Drina looked peaceful, in no pain.

Of course the woman couldn’t hear her, and she didn’t know if it was true. But she said it anyway. “Nicu loved you like his mother, Drina.”

The fingers tightened around the wagon. A hard, bony grip.

Drina’s eyes opened. Her wide-eyed stare revealed dilated pupils. “I remember you …” Her hot, shallow breath wheezed, crackled. Aimée leaned in, putting her ear near Drina’s moving lips. “You weren’t big then. Jean-Claude said take care … make it …” Her whisper faded.

“Make it right, Drina? How?”

Drina’s eyes fluttered. “They want to keep me quiet … but I promised him …”

She struggled, seemed to be gathering her strength, determined. Her whispers were labored, and she gripped Aimée’s other hand tighter.

“Promised Papa what, Drina?”

“You should know … I saw those men in Place Vendôme. Who notices a begging Gypsy except to shoo them away? But now they know. But they find … me.”

Aimée’s chest heaved.

“You were there, Drina? On Papa’s surveillance?”

A nod. “Always toys for Nicu, he’d do that. Said if anything … tell his little girl …” Drina’s hoarse whispers roared
in her ears. “They covered up Djanka’s murder, blew up his van …”

Drina lapsed into Romany. Desperate, Aimée squeezed Drina’s hand. Cold, now so cold. “You mean Djanka’s murderer killed Papa?”

Rattling sounded in Drina’s throat. More Romany, for a minute or two this time.

“Please tell me in French so I understand … Drina?” She rubbed Drina’s arm. “Why, Drina?”

Drina’s Romany trailed off. The only words Aimée caught made her blood run cold.

Tesla. Fifi
.

“Who are they?”

Drina’s eyes blinked open. Stared at Aimée. Her pupils pinpoints. “You know.”

Drina’s grip loosened. Her lids lowered halfway. Aimée felt a presence, hovering, suspended. A current of air lifting her, pulling at her.

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” a voice was saying. “She’s slipped into a coma. You can let go now.”

She came back to the room, to the humming machines, to the hand cupping her shoulder. To a young nurse’s nodding face.

“She’s letting go now,” said the nurse. “You should too.”

Shaken, Aimée looked up at the young nurse, her thin face full of understanding. How long had she been there?

“I wrote down her words, the fragments I could make out,” said the nurse. “Like I was told.”

Like she was told? Aimée’s pulse quickened. On the side table lay a notepad.

“Who asked you? You mean someone was waiting for her to confess something?” Yet Drina had just told her they wanted to keep her quiet?

“I don’t know,” the nurse said. “I just did what the doctor
asked. I wrote the Romany words as they sounded, but they were garbled.”

“I’m sure you did a good job,” Aimée said, picking up the notebook.

“Doctor Estienne’s coming back, he’ll want to see it.”

“I’ll give this to him myself, thank you.”

“The orders were—” said the nurse, starting to protest.

“Changed, Nurse.” She pulled out her cell phone. Hit René’s number. “I’m handling this now.”

“But Doctor Estienne and the
monsieur
—”

“
Quel homme?”
The nurse went to leave but Aimée caught her arm before she could reach the door. She could hear René’s tinny phone voice answering her call, but he would have to wait. “Which
monsieur
? Tell me before I report you for illegally recording a patient’s dying words.”

The nurse’s eyes batted in fear. “Who are you?”

“Special security.”

“Like the
monsieur
?”

“That’s all you need to know. We don’t wear uniforms. I need to verify this, give me his name.”

“Let me go,” she said, her voice rising. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“To do with what?”

Dodging past Aimée, the nurse reached for her pager from the nightstand and hit some buttons.

Aimée grabbed it.
Merde
. She had to get the hell out.

“Cooperate and I’ll see you’re not arrested.”

“Arrested? But the
monsieur
’s with security at the ministry.”

“Which ministry?”

The nurse’s pager beeped in her hand.

“The ministry—that’s all I heard.”

Think, she had to think how to get the nurse to identify this man. “You’re talking about the security team, the one with glasses, right?”

“Glasses … 
non
, the man from Toulon.”

Toulon? “You recognized his accent?” The pager was blinking. Get out, she had to get out of here. Now. “
Bon
, keep this to yourself.”

And with the notepad under her arm, she slipped into the hallway, walking as quickly as she could without running.

She pulled out her phone and called René back.

“
Allô?
Aimée? Who were you talking to?” René said. “I tried calling, but your phone—”

“René, just listen. Can you pick me up on rue Oudinot?”

“Rue Oudinot? I’m close, but what’s going on?”

“Just hurry. Now.” She clicked off, striding purposefully. Not looking back.

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle!” a voice shouted.

But she kept going and broke into a run. Then out the swinging exit doors at the back, into the chill, dark air of the garden, keeping to the shadowed wall.

A starling fluttered in alarm from the bushes.

The gate was locked. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, trees. No way out. Her heart pounded. Floodlights flicked on, illuminating the lawn. Shouts carried through the air. She ran to the nearest tree—a ginkgo—stuck her bag down the front of her jacket and climbed. Climbed to the higher branches, scraping her nails and fingers while pulling herself up, wedging her feet in for purchase and slipping on the smooth bark.

“Over there. She’s up in the tree.”

Chloé’s face flashed in front of her eyes. Those trusting grey-blue eyes. She needed a mother, and not one in prison—which is where Aimée would be if this
homme
from the ministry caught up with her. If she was lucky. Summoning every bit of her strength, Aimée grabbed the highest branch, hoisted her weight and swung her legs over to the wall ledge.

On the other side of the wall, a dark, quiet street. With no
time to think or prepare for the impact, she jumped, aiming for the roof of a truck parked on the sidewalk, hoping she’d only end up with a few broken limbs.

She landed, her legs buckling and her body crunching the metal. She slid and slipped down the dust- and leaf-covered windshield. Her jacket caught on the wipers, and she felt her sleeve tear. Nothing hurt. Yet. Moments later, she climbed off the truck’s hood and ran.

At the end of the street, she saw the distinctive cat’s eye headlights of René’s Citroën DS. Any moment now, they’d catch sight of her, realize where she’d gone. She pumped her legs. Panted as her rib cramped. Taking a breath hurt. Go, she had to keep going.

The Citroën’s front passenger door swung open. She jumped in and René took off, gunning the engine, before she could shut the door.

“Did I see that right—you slid down the windshield of a bakery truck?” René took a sharp turn onto rue Vaneau. Braked and swerved, avoiding a truck.

“Well, I didn’t have the keys to get in, did I?” She panted, catching her breath. “Get the hell out of here, René.”

“Why did I ask?” René turned on the police scanner clipped under the dashboard.

Her rib throbbed. “Anyone behind us?”

René checked the rearview mirror. “Not yet.”

“There’s a cover-up, René. Drina told me.”

“And I had my palm read,” he said.

T
WO FIGURES HUDDLED
in the shadows on a bench on the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower glimmering yellow-orange through the trees behind them. Low-lying mist shrouded the deserted park’s gravel paths.

“There’s a little trouble.”

“More than a little trouble on both ends.” Tesla lowered his voice. “The big mouth’s going to print with his tell-all memoir.”

“That’s my problem, I’ve handled that. Everything’s under control.” The other man pulled his coat collar up against the chill. “You need to take care of your end.”

Tesla turned, his gaze sweeping the gravel path. “Don’t worry.”

“Do I need to remind you?”

Tesla shook his head.

“We’ve dealt with these things before, haven’t we? Or have you lost your touch?”

“That was years ago, I don’t do that now.”

“Then you’d prefer Larco and my people to handle it?”

“
Shhh
, no names.”

“He gets overexcited. You know what I mean,
non
?”

Tesla punched the bench.

“Is that a no or a yes?”

Tesla’s shoulders heaved. Why, why hadn’t he refused years ago? “Just kill me now.”

“So you want our friend to …?”

“
Non
, Fifi.” Tesla sighed. “Like always, you win.”

A
IMÉE WALKED INTO
her salon, patting Chloé’s back after feeding her, a clean burp cloth over her shoulder. “Alerted the troops, René?”

“Media’s on board.” René sat on the recamier, his laptop beside him, his cell phone to his ear. Candles flickered on the sideboard.

Chloé burped loud and long. “
Et voilà, ma puce
. Back to sleep.”

René gave Chloé an approving goodnight kiss.

After tucking Chloé in with the hand-crocheted blanket, Dussolier’s gift, Aimée rejoined René, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“I’ve informed
Le Parisien
and three other tabloids with twenty-four–seven on-call paparazzi.” He glanced at the time. “Any moment now the news hounds will arrive to catch Uncle Radu’s Gypsies wailing at the clinic, the final goodbye,” said René. “It’ll be a circus, all right.”

Aimée could just see it.

“Martine’s on board,” she said. “She’s pitching all her contacts. Her angle is going to be calling out the Ministry of Health, the medical issues, the implications with the hospital boards.” She leaned back and stretched. Bad idea. Her rib hurt and she climbed onto the couch. “She’s even going to tap her contact at
Le Monde.
”

They’d filled each other in while Aimée took notes in her Moleskine—René’s visit to La Bouteille, Radu’s reactions, the fortune-teller; Aimée’s hunt for Madame Uzes and trip to the
clinique
; Drina’s last words. They had hashed out the implications over green tea—someone very high-profile seemed ready to do anything to prevent a scandal. But what scandal?

René had come up with a strategy to bring Radu Constantin into the mix and alert the media, which could create a safety net of sorts around them. Everything was in place. But there were still so many things Aimée didn’t understand.

“One thing bothers me, René,” she said, pulling out Chloé’s teething biscuits from between the cushions she’d sat on. “Nicu was dead to the family. But I saw Radu and Nicu arguing at Hôpital Laennec. They didn’t look estranged.” She paused. “How did Radu react to the news Nicu had been murdered?”