Murder on the Champ de Mars (25 page)

With only fifteen minutes until her appointment with the lawyer, Aimée looked down the tree-lined quai for a taxi.

“Mademoiselle Leduc, this way,
s’il vous plaît.”

A suit wearing dark sunglasses stood at the curb by a black Peugeot with tinted windows, the door open and the engine purring.

“There must be a mistake—I haven’t reserved a car,” she said, raising her hand to hail a passing taxi.

“The ministry’s internal security chief has a few questions,” he said. “I’ve been instructed to escort you.”

Pictures of the recent past flickered through her mind: the garden at the
clinique
, the sliver of light as Drina’s door opened, her sunken eyes, the nurse Aimée spoke to. The locker room and Roland’s pained expression.

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I’m late.”

He opened his suit jacket to reveal a badge on his hip.

The skin on her knuckles whitened as she clutched the strap of her Villeroi bag. “Impossible, I’ve got a meeting.” She stepped back, her heel catching in a cobble crack. Tried in vain to pull it out.

“Which you will of course reschedule, Mademoiselle.”

Her heel wouldn’t budge. Perspiration broke out on her neck. He bent down and with a practiced flick of his wrist unwedged her heel. Then took her arm. “One doesn’t keep the ministry waiting. Let’s go, shall we?”

“Where?”

“I’m sure you’ll find out.”

Those fencing politicians had tracked her down quickly.

F
OR THE SECOND
time in as many days, René knocked on Madame Rana’s caravan door. In front of the nearby UNESCO building—an ugly modernist hulk, in René’s opinion—rows of daffodils nodded in the breeze. At the Haussmannian limestone apartment building to his right, the concierge watered the red geraniums in her windowsill pots.

Impatient, he knocked again.

“Un moment.”

René paced by old dented Peugeots parked on the street.
C’est typique, ça
, he thought in disgust. Here in the 7th, people either drove a junk heap or were chauffeured around in company cars. Determined not to show off or invite scrutiny—so revealing of the hypocrites in this sealed world.

Two minutes later, the door opened on a man wearing a pinstriped suit and wraparound sunglasses. He descended the steps and got into a black Audi waiting on the curb. No doubt a ministry official or ambassador—nice to know the fate of the world lay in such hands and in Madame Rana’s crystal ball.

“A palm reading,
mon petit
?” Today she wore an aqua caftan.

“I brought you a present.”

Madame Rana smiled like a satisfied cat so that her eyeliner curved up at the edges.
“Entrez.”

She thought she’d hooked him. But he hadn’t come to have his palm read.

“I’m here for a translation,” he said, sitting down in the boudoir-like trailer. “Do you understand Romany?”

“Romany spoken in Albania, Romania? Or the German, Italian or Spanish dialects?” she asked. “If I don’t know, I know someone who does.”

“How about the dialect the Constantins use?”

“And what will I get for that?”

René opened the Monoprix bag hesitantly.

“You brought me a portable foot massager and spa?” said Madame Rana, smiling at the box. “Like my sister’s.
Merci
. My cousin’s wife is looking forward to the rice cooker, by the way.”

René set down the notepad bearing Drina’s last Romany words. “It’s written phonetically by someone who didn’t understand what was being said, so I hope it makes sense.”

She sighed and took his palm. Before he could pull it away, she clucked. “Oh,
mon petit
, you’re having second thoughts about that love potion?”

Then something occurred to him. Did her reading stop at palms? “Can you read this?” he said, tapping the notebook.

“I went to school,” she said, defensive now. “You think I’m a moron, slow-witted?”

The more agitated she became, the more her penciled brow furrowed.

“Django couldn’t read, and look at what amazing music he created,” René said, worried he’d alienated her. “I just need this translated so I can understand.”

After another glance at the notepad, Madame Rana looked up. She checked her Chanel watch. “You don’t want to know what this says,
mon petit.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, frustrated. “More? You need more money?”

She pushed the notepad back at him over the purple-draped table. And then the foot-massager-spa box as well.

René doubted much scared Madame Rana, but he saw terror
in those made-up eyes. “What’s the matter?” he said. “What does it say?”

“You give power to words when you say them,” she said. “And I will never say them. It’s a curse.” And before he knew it, she’d pushed him out the door with his present.

“W
E’RE INFORMAL HERE
, Mademoiselle Leduc; there’s nothing official about it.” A dimpled smile as he handed her his card—Daniel Pons, Chef de Sécurité, Hôtel Matignon. On the tall side, early forties, russet hair parted in the middle. His round face reminded her of a potato. “Off the record.
Un café?”

She nodded, stifling her unease. Pons poured from the
cafetière
into a demitasse cup. At her feet sat a wooden crate, leeks spilling out of it onto the floor. Next to it was a Styrofoam container marked
COQUILLAGES DE BRETAGNE—ON ICE
.

“Off the record? Is that why we’re sitting in the prime minister’s kitchen?”

“
Exactement
. Napoléon said an army marches on its stomach. So do the ministries.”

Backroom intrigues weren’t her thing.

Pons pushed the sugar bowl toward her.
“Du sucre?”

“Merci,”
she said, checking her watch. “I hope this won’t take long. I’m late for an appointment.” She wished to God she’d gotten through to the lawyer. She’d called, frantic, but the line had been busy. Now she was a no-show.

Pons shook his head, an understanding look in his eye. “You’re just here to clarify a few things, you understand.”

She helped herself from the bowl of mixed brown and white cubes. Bipartisan sugar, she thought; it covered both bases—politically correct. In front of her was a chalkboard
mounted on a cabinet with the day’s dinner menu. The prime minister’s upcoming five-course meal made her mouth water.

Another man entered, grey haired and slightly stooped.

“My colleague Grévot,” Pons said.

First rule: play dumb. Not difficult. “What’s this about?”

“At the prime minister’s residence at Hôtel Matignon,” said Pons, “we like to stay on top of things.”

“Why am I here?” She wished he’d spit it out. A bad feeling thrummed in her stomach. She thought of the front page of
Le Parisien
—had they somehow connected Radu Constantin’s protest and the activists who marched here to her?

Pons set several grainy black-and-white photos on the stainless-steel counter. Photos of her running down the side street toward rue Oudinot last night.

Pons thought he could prove something? Blurred printouts taken from CCTV? Something told her to hold back for once, to stay calm and bite her tongue.

“I apologize for the poor quality: it’s from CCTV coverage,” said Pons. “But you know how that is, Mademoiselle, from your line of work. It’s hard to make an identification based only on such photos.”

She focused on what looked like a gravy stain on the wall telephone. “Why are you showing me these photos?”

“Word has reached us that you’re a person of interest, Mademoiselle, who visited a patient in the nearby medical facility on rue Oudinot. And for security reasons—”

“What security reasons?”

“We’re not at liberty to release that information, Mademoiselle,” said Grévot, leaning forward.

It clicked now. Drina’s abduction from the Laennec, the nurse at the
clinique
noting her words down … She remembered the
monsieur
the nurse had mentioned, who was waiting on Drina’s incriminating last words. Was she looking at the
monsieur
now? What if this went higher up the food chain than she had ever imagined?

She had to get out of here.

“We know you were at the
clinique.
”

“
Moi?
Because you saw a blurred figure in the CCTV footage?”

Her father’s rules ran through her head: Don’t manufacture an alibi or you’ll look guilty. Keep them off target, make them tell you what they know. Save an alibi as your last resort.

No one at the
clinique
knew her real name—she’d given Marie’s card from Hôpital Laennec to Madame Uzes, and had lied to the receptionist at billing, at Dr. Estienne’s clinic and to Drina’s nurse.

She shook her head. “Wrong person, Monsieur.” She stood. “If that’s all?”

Pons and Grévot exchanged glances. The fragrant bouquet garni simmering on the stove made her stomach growl. Hadn’t she just eaten?

“I’m afraid not. We have a witness from the
clinique
who can identify you, Mademoiselle Leduc.”

The receptionist? Drina’s nurse?

“Back up, Monsieur Pons. A witness to what? A crime?”

“Take a look,
s’il vous plaît.
” He spread out that day’s
Le Parisien
. “The clinic suffered a near riot last night. We know because it happens to neighbor the Ministère de l’Outre-Mer.”

The ministry responsible for a few centuries of French colonialism.

“L’Hôtel Matignon was mentioned—”

“I just saw that,” she interrupted. “Now you’re worried about your reputation. Picking me to blame. Why?”

She waited for them to pick up her challenge. Silence. She glanced at her Tintin watch. She’d fight her way out of here, even if she had to start throwing the copper pans and fancy Le Creuset cookware.

“I think that security which deals with the ministries got caught with its pants down for abducting a dying Gypsy woman,” she said, taking her bag. “Her family should press criminal charges against all involved, if they haven’t already.”

Pons exchanged a look with Grévot.

“Robbery, Mademoiselle, is a crime.”

Her fingers clenched on her bag strap. The notepad.
“Alors,”
she said, thinking fast, “I’m a little confused. In our judicial system, the police investigate robberies, not the prime minister’s security office. Then again, if this woman was kidnapped by a ministry, she must have had important secrets.”

“No doubt she did, Mademoiselle. But that’s not our
terrain
; we had no knowledge of this woman until last night,” said Grévot. “You’ve got us wrong. We don’t like what’s been stuck on the soles of our shoes, if you get my meaning.”

Surprised at his candor, she swallowed hard. She believed him.

Her collar was sticking to her neck. “The time stamp on your blurry photo says ten
P.M.
I was home feeding my six-month-old.”

With René driving like a speed demon, they’d walked into her apartment at 10:17. She knew because she’d paid Babette extra for staying past ten.

Silence except for the sounds of the pot bubbling and the sparking of the gas burner on the professional stove. She’d talked too much. She’d given an alibi.

Pons pulled a ringing cell phone from his pocket. Answered.

She wished she’d just replied to their questions. Kept it simple. Now her hands were shaking.

A balding man rushed into the kitchen, tying an apron around his middle. “Holding a convention in
ma cuisine
?
Sortez!”

She’d use this diversion to escape. “
Pardonnez-moi
, but I’m late.”

Pons clicked his phone off and blocked her before she could
reach the door. “Of course. We apologize and appreciate your cooperation,” Pons said.

Grévot picked up the thread. “However, you understand that we work in the spirit of inter-ministerial cooperation.”

Like hell. You lick the heels of whoever’s top of the heap
, she almost shouted, itching to leave.

She gave her bag a purposeful yank higher up her shoulders. Pons showed her to the door, but not the one she’d come in through.

“
Désolé
, Mademoiselle—one more thing,” said Grévot. “We’d like you to leave through the
salle à manger
. Just to eliminate you from the inquiry. Clarification only.”

Her knees shook. Did they have a witness? Staff who would recognize her, nail her? Her lies must be written all over her face. What could she do?

“Nervous tic, Mademoiselle?” said Pons, guiding her into the
salle à manger
.

She’d shielded her eyes, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the pale green anteroom. Her mind raced, thinking, trying to come up with a way to alter her looks.

“The light hurts my contacts. I’ve got to take them out.” She turned away, rubbing her eyes, then fished around in her bag. She always kept a quick disguise. A moment later she’d put on the large, black-framed glasses again.

“I usually wear these.” A sigh. “But today I’ve got a meeting, so I went for contacts. The curse of astigmatism.”

Lame, but the best she could do on short notice.

In the
salle à manger
, a nurse wearing a white uniform stood near a serving table crowned by a silver tureen. So nineteenth century—she was even holding her nurse’s cap in her hand like a supplicating commoner in the palace.

Perspiration broke above Aimée’s upper lip.

“Ninette’s from the
clinique
,” said Pons and turned toward
her. “Ninette, does she look anything like the woman who, to quote your statement …?” Monsieur Pons pulled out a piece of paper from his lapel pocket. “…  threatened to report and arrest you if you didn’t cooperate and stole a patient’s medical papers, despite your protestations? Who told you that your previous orders were changed and that, quote, ‘I’m handling this now.’ Is that correct?”

Word for word. Aimée swallowed. A dry, hard swallow that stuck in her throat.

“Something’s different,” said Ninette, the nurse. “Her glasses.”