The Red Brick Cellars: A Tolosa Mystery (11 page)

Some of the anger leaked out of Louis’s eyes, replaced by skepticism. He studied the picture in detail. “You want me involved in this? Why?”

She shoved the iPad back in her purse and raised a hand to shove a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She’d worn her hair down for exactly one day when she arrived in Toulouse, and endured all her new colleagues commenting on the Englishwoman with the
boucles anglaises
, English curls. Not needing another reminder that she was a foreigner, she’d confined her curls to a tight braid ever since. The irony of them being named
French
curls by the English was not lost on Catherine.

“I’d like to make up for the previous article as best I can,” she told Louis. “If you’re involved in the research, you shouldn’t get any surprises when it’s published. But my main reason is actually that I want your input.” She locked eyes with him, making every effort to convey her sincerity. “You know Toulouse extremely well. There are things I’m sure I’ll miss, but you won’t.”

“I haven’t lived in Toulouse for ten years,” Louis replied. He looked toward the metro entrance, clearly thinking of ditching her.

Catherine lifted one corner of her mouth in the beginnings of a smile. “But I have. See? We’re complementary.” She nodded toward the police station behind her. “The police aren’t getting anywhere finding your father’s murderer. They have these pictures.” She indicated her iPad. “But I think they annoy them more than anything else. Together, we could find something to help discover the people behind all this horror.”

Louis crossed his arms and chewed on his lip. Catherine’s heart skipped a beat. Why did he have to be so…French? The man was easy on the eyes, and it was killing her concentration. But she was a professional and intended to get through this.

“I’m not convinced,” Louis replied. “But I also don’t want to let you loose on your own. Can we discuss this further sometime later? I really need a shower right now.”

Yes!
Catherine grinned like a kid at Christmas and didn’t care if Louis saw it. Let him appreciate that this was important to her too.

“No problem,” Catherine said, feeling giddy. “Why don’t we meet up at one of the cafés on place du Capitole this afternoon? I’ll show you everything I have and we’ll take it from there.”

“All right,” Louis replied. He rested both hands in a tug on each tale of his dirty scarf against his chest. “You have my number. Send me a text with the exact time and place and I’ll be there.” He turned away and headed to the escalator leading down to the metro.

Catherine sighed as she watched him leave.

Thirteen

After a healthy breakfast, a long shower, and some clean clothes, Louis had collapsed on his bed and slept for five hours. Now he felt rested, but oddly cut off from himself. A news broadcast on the TV in his room provided background noise. Standing on the terrace off his master suite, Louis contemplated the rooftops of the neighboring houses. It was mostly red brick walls, orange roof tiles, and green treetops. The palm tree in their front garden reached the terrace, proof he’d been away for a long time. The plane trees lining the street almost reached the fifth floor of the apartment building next door. Trees actually grew quite a bit in ten years.

He couldn’t get the images of himself fighting the fire out of his head. The Twitter girl must have stayed behind when everyone else ran away and snapped more pictures. She had done exactly what he’d asked of her, but instead of proving he was worthless, accomplished the exact opposite.

The contrast between the acclaim in the article Catherine showed him and the attitude of the police was something of a joke. Despite the firefighter’s insistence that Louis couldn’t possibly be responsible for starting the fire, the police had brought him in for a second night in the police station in one week. His mother called their lawyer
again.
And Louis had entered the man’s name and number in his phone for future reference.

Louis shook his head to dispel the thoughts.

He had always loved being out here on the terrace. Faced with too little space in their house, his parents had decided to add an extra level when Louis was born. Contrary to what most people with this problem did in Toulouse, they didn’t add an entire floor. They transformed a part of the roof into a terrace and constructed what could be described as a wooden hut in the middle. The room in itself wasn’t very big, but it had plenty of natural lighting, distance from the rest of the family, and that enormous terrace. His parents also used the terrace to get some sun and air from time to time, but for the most part, the entire rooftop was his. It had originally been Audrey’s, but when she moved away from home, Louis had taken over. Though he’d been away for a decade, it was still his room, complete with dozens of posters of Zizou and a few other soccer players nobody remembered anymore. With a grimace, Louis acknowledged that his parents might have expected him to come back and join their work in politics and he’d disappointed them.

The sound of his name made Louis turn toward the TV. On the screen, he could see OPJ Petit in front of the police station hosting another press conference. With a regretful glance at the palm tree blocking his view of the café on the other side of the street, Louis walked inside to see what the police had to say.

“Monsieur Sanchez has been brought to the police station for questioning,” Petit said to the camera. “I underline that he has not been arrested in relation to the murder of Monsieur Saint-Blancat. We have found evidence of bribery, which is why he was brought in.”

Louis sat down on the floor in front of the TV, hands in his lap. This was it. They were going to drag the Saint-Blancat name through the dirt and there was nothing he could do about it.

A question was asked too far from the microphone to be heard, but OPJ Petit nodded before replying. “Yes, money changed hands between Pierre Saint-Blancat and Monsieur Sanchez. It is believed it was to ensure the mayor’s collaboration in the construction of the tramway leading to the airport.”

Louis slammed a hand into the sofa next to him, then turned off the TV. The police clearly had no idea what they were doing and followed the only false lead they tripped over. And in so doing, were ruining his father’s reputation and insulting his memory instead of searching for his murderer.

Heart beating wildly in his chest, he got ready to leave. He was inspired by additional motivation for working with Catherine Marty: an opportunity to actually do something.

***

Louis spotted Catherine’s blond braid at the corner table of the café’s terrace. She was typing away on her laptop with a cup of tea forgotten behind its screen. Only an Englishwoman would drink tea in this heat.

“
Mademoiselle, bonjour
,” he said upon reaching the table. He bent down to do
la bise,
one kiss on each cheek. When he was centimeters away, confusion and a hint of panic entered her clear eyes, then she caught on to what he was doing and allowed him to greet her in the French way. Louis hadn’t been sure if their relationship was that close, but wasn’t about to shake her hand.

He plopped down in the wicker chair next to Catherine’s with his back to the café, facing the Capitole. They were under the cover of huge parasols protecting them from the blasting sun. The city hall stood across the square, stately and solid with its high windows, marble columns, and red bricks.

Despite the warm and sunny weather, the familiar setting, and attractive company, Louis felt glum. Could the police really have found proof of corruption in his father’s affairs? He had never bothered to follow the details of his father’s doings on the city council and thought he didn’t care about how Papa went about his business. But Louis realized that he always assumed his father followed all the rules, wasn’t tempted by money, and always put what was best for Toulouse first.

Louis brought his hand up to touch his scarf; a movement that had always calmed him, but it wasn’t there. For the second time in less than two weeks, he was without a scarf. His mother had kindly bought him a new one after they gave up on washing canal water out of the original one. There was still hope for washing the smell of fire out of the new one, but in the meantime, he had no scarf. His sister made fun of him for being an adult who carried his security-blanket around with him everywhere, but Louis saw no reason to get rid of it. It was a fashion statement, dammit. And he missed it.

A beautiful, petite, brown-haired waitress arrived at their table. “
Pour vous, Monsieur?
”

He smiled at the girl. “
Un diabolo menthe, s’il vous plaît
.” It had been awhile since he’d had the refreshing lemonade with mint syrup because this treat was not served in the States.

Louis turned to Catherine. “So what do you want from me, exactly?” he asked as the waitress moved away.

Catherine closed her laptop and picked up her tea. Looking at him through her eyelashes, she said in her English drawl, “I wasn’t sure if you’d even show up, what with the news this morning.”

Louis still wasn’t sure he could trust this woman, but it had nothing to do with the police or the news. Would she allow him to participate in the research and get a say on what would go into print? His reasons for being there were twofold: he wanted to learn what happened to his father and do damage-control on what the woman wrote.

“I’m here,” Louis said with a huff. “But don’t read too much into it.”

Catherine picked up her spoon and stirred her tea. “So you’re not angry about my article lighting a fire under the police’s asses?”

Louis hadn’t even thought of it that way. He had been more than annoyed by that article, but not because of the allegations it made against his father. At the time, he’d been confident the police would soon discard that theory. No, he’d been focused on the paragraph about himself and the impact it had on his family’s expectations. He waved a hand to dismiss the issue. “Don’t worry about it. I’d like to think the police would have done their job, regardless.”

A small grimace and tilt of her head showed Catherine apparently didn’t have much confidence in the Toulouse police force. Louis wasn’t impressed with what he’d seen so far either, but was determined to remain optimistic.

Time to get down to business. Fixing Catherine with a hard stare, Louis laid out the ground rules. “I don’t want to be quoted or referenced in any way in the newspaper. And I have to admit, if you don’t get that, I don’t see what’s in this for you.”

Catherine clenched her jaw and took a sip of her tea. “I like to get my facts straight and not make a fool of myself to my boss or the public. I know the city of Toulouse pretty well, but you know it better. And this concerns your father, so you could have valuable input in that regard as well.” Clearly responding to Louis’s increasing glower, she added, “I won’t use your name, promise. I think we should work together on this. I’d get an article that would be good for my career. You’d get the possibility of going after your father’s murderer.”

Louis pondered this as he chewed the inside of his cheek. “How would this work, exactly?”

After another sip of her tea, Catherine’s lips lifted in the beginnings of a smile. “I guess we start by going through all the information we have and see where we can go from there.” She set down her cup and flipped her laptop open.

Louis watched as a taxi drove by in front of the café. Since most of the city center was closed to everyone but residents—and taxis—the experience of enjoying a cup of coffee on the central square was greatly improved. It was still far from calm with hundreds of people chatting in the various cafés and restaurants, the din of vendors drawing customers, and the slow trickle of tourists coming to visit the Capitole.

Perhaps that taxi was about to pick up a tourist, as the taxis weren’t greatly appreciated by the locals. They had been able to hold off any public transport going to the airport for years, despite the airport’s increasing size and the fact that Airbus was located by the runways, meaning thousands of people went there to work every day. The argument was that if there was public transport going there, the taxis would lose most of their clients. Of course, if they had been applying affordable prices like in Paris, people would have used them anyway. But a 20 euro fare for a ten minute ride to the airport was unacceptable.

The waitress arrived with his bright green cold drink and Louis paid her. He took a sip, letting the mint fill his mouth and tease his nose, reminding him of summer vacations with his family. He’d always been so proud to get a drink with colors as bright as the grownups’ alcoholic beverages.

As a thought came to him, Louis set his dew-covered glass down on the table. “The taxis,” he said, and leaned back to watch the taillights of the one he’d seen driving down rue Gambetta.

“What about them?” Catherine asked in an annoyed tone. She’d been in the process of talking and he hadn’t heard a word. A brilliant start to their collaboration.

“I’m sorry, I was distracted. It just struck me that the taxis would have a motive for getting rid of my father.” He slumped back into his chair, wincing. It sounded better in his head.

Catherine, however, was all ears. “How so?”

“The police said they found proof of bribes from the public transport company. But unless that was actually blackmail…” He scowled. “And my father was not doing blackmail.”

Catherine raised her hands and put on an angelic face that must serve her well and often. “I didn’t say he did.”

Louis continued his explanation. “Who are the losers if the public transport get what they want? Who have been pitched against them for more than a decade in a fight over the transportation of people to the airport?”

Arms crossed, Catherine curled a lip in doubt. “The tramway that’s about to be opened to the airport has been in the pipes for years.”

“How long have you lived in Toulouse?” Louis countered.

Keeping her closed-up attitude, a defensive tone crept into her voice. “A little more than three years.”