From the table behind them, several patrons sat smoking and drinking espresso. Such a perfect end to a meal! She could almost taste the tobacco, feel the jolt in her lungs. Instead of turning around and begging for a cigarette, she popped some Nicorette gum and forced herself to continue.
“A lot of retired
“Favors cost,” he said. “If I start nosing around Fresnes, they expect their backs scratched. On my turf.”
Now she was stroking his fur the right way. He always wanted a favor in return and would bargain until he got it. Being his goddaughter gave her no exemption.
“But you do it so well, Morbier,” she said, “and you always come out on top.”
Morbier reached into his pocket, found an empty packet of cigarettes, and crumpled the cellophane on the table. He reached again, pulling out a half-full packet.
“You quit, remember?”
He nodded, threw the packet on the table, and picked up another toothpick. A glimmer of a smile passed over his face.
“Include yourself, Leduc,” he said. “At payback time.”
Morbier ran true to form. Nothing came free.
“I’ll make some calls, but no promises,” he said, hitching up his suspenders.
He’d lost weight. A lot.
“You’ve slimmed down,” she said. “Gone for your annual checkup, Morbier?”
“I’ll ignore the last part and take that as a compliment.”
She doubted but asked anyway. “On a diet?”
“Grapefruit, seaweed, and raisin capsules!” he said. “Drains the toxins, fatty lipids, eliminates cellulite buildup.”
Morbier … talking about cellulite?
“You might try it,” he said.
She’d struggled with the zipper in her leather skirt that morning.
“My new concierge, Madame Guegnon, told me. She buys them in bulk at the Carrefour.”
Before she could recover he stood up. “I must get the train tickets; I’m taking Marc to Brittany for
A doting grandfather? Morbier certainly was full of surprises.
Guilt flooded her. Morbier’s daughter, Samia, a young half-Algerian prostitute, had been killed by the underground before Aimee could protect her. The image of Samia’s eyes open to the rain in the Belleville alley, the red bullet hole in her peach-colored twinset, flashed before her.
Marc, her honey-faced son, attended Catholic boarding school and had made his first Communion under the proud eyes of his grandfather, Morbier.
Her face reddened. Determined, she pushed her guilt aside. “I’ll keep my cell phone on,” she said. “You know the number.”
BACK IN the Leduc Detective office she tried Etienne Mabry again.
Still no answer. And none at Christian Figeac’s apartment.
Worried, she wondered if he was still in custody.
She looked up from her computer terminal as Rene entered, wearing a tailored straw-colored linen suit, wiping perspiration from his large forehead.
“Diuretics!” he said. “The humidity’s equal to the temperature and the doctor prescribed diuretics!” He unbuttoned the linen jacket, tailored to his four-foot height. “I need another glass of Evian!”
She passed him bottled water and one of the Baccarat tumblers, the only glasses they had left from her grandfather’s time.
“I heard you borrowed money from Michel. But I’ve learned that his uncle Nessim needs extra laundry service,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We need to play it safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nessim’s wholesale fabric business needs outlets besides the Deauville casinos in which to launder money.” Rene shrugged. “And Michel’s couture is one of them.”
“But I want to help Michel.”
“So do I,” he said. “A lot of questionable bankruptcies are declared in the Sentier. I wouldn’t want Michel to be a victim of his uncle. We should see what security his computer system needs.”
Rene pushed up his shirtsleeves. “The Societe Generale’s account is overdue. They owe us but the manager keeps stalling me.”
Insurance companies were the worst when it came to paying for contracted services.
“It takes two weeks to authorize issuance of a check.” Rene tugged on his goatee, something he did when worried. He mounted his orthopedic chair and swiveled to face his computer screen.
She gathered up papers and stuffed them in her black leather backpack.
“In the meantime, rent’s due,” Rene said, looking at the pile of bills on her desk. “What’s our Media 9 contract status?”
“Pending,” she said, pointing to the thick folder labeled MEDIA 9 on his desk.
“
“There’s tons of legalese. I’ll have to decipher it after I return.”
“Return?” He peered at the dated Post-Its on the pile. “This was due yesterday.”
She paused, feeling guilty. “
He tugged his goatee. “It’s more than that, about your father, Aimee. All that time poking around government departments, then the trip to Berlin. I thought you’d pick up the slack when you returned. Now, this new wild goose chase …”
“Rene, I know I need to be here more, helping you out.”
Remorse assailed her. But she couldn’t postpone investigating this lead to her mother.
She stood up, paced to their office window overlooking rue du Louvre. Below, leafy lime trees shifted in an arid breeze, throwing shadows over a roadwork crew. Her hands shook. She didn’t want Rene to see.
But he did. “What’s wrong?”
Aimee hesitated. “It’s worse than bad.” She told him about Jutta Hald, her suspicions concerning Romain Figeac’s suicide, and her mother. “I can’t stop now, Rene. This woman was murdered almost in front of me. And there’s news about my mother. After all these years, I have a chance to find out what happened to her.”
“I know, but …” He looked away. “But you borrowed money from Michel and
“Yes, of course we do,” she said, conflicted. With Jutta gone she might as well use the money, think of it as a temporary business loan. “And we’ll use it for the business. We’ll survive, we always do.” She pulled out all but five thousand francs of the fifty she’d borrowed from Michel. “Here, this should help.” She stuffed her laptop in her bag, then made for the door. But she had to make him understand. She turned around. “Rene, you know I have given everything I have to the business. But for once, this has to come first.”
Rene’s eyes flashed. “Dot-coms court me, Aimee,” he said. “All the time. Offering me nice sign-up packages, stock options. The works.”
Shocked, she sat down. She’d had no idea. She felt stupid. Of course they would, but she’d been too distracted to notice.
“What are you saying, Rene?”
He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, his goatee quivering.
He slid down from his orthopedic chair, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the office door. She’d never seen him so upset.
“Rene!”
No answer. She ran into the hallway after him. The wire-cage lift rumbled and creaked below her. She ran down the spiral steps, her high-heeled sandals clattering, meeting Rene as he opened the curlicue-work metal door.
“Look, Rene,” she said. “We’re in this together, I need you. Please understand….” She wasn’t prepared to tell him she simply couldn’t focus on anything else.
