“First tell me what you found, Martine.”
“Not much,” she said, looking away. “It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Bad?” Aimee stood up, grabbed the champagne. “Guess this will make the news go down better.”
“It’s all exaggerated. Nasty stuff. Sure you want to hear it?”
“Better hearing it this way than by hints and rumors.”
“I delved pretty deep,” Martine said. “The night desk faxed me the hard copy.” Martine lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring. She pulled the foam from between her toes, tapped her coral pink polish to see if it had dried. “It’s not pretty.”
“That my mother ran drugs, got involved with terrorists, and escaped to Africa?” She didn’t know that for sure, but Georges had intimated as much. She figured it was a good guess.
Martine’s eyes widened. Then she blinked.
“Worse? She’s a mercenary?” Aimee asked.
“Drink your bubbly, we’ll talk in the morning.”
“What did she do?” Aimee reached for Martine’s cigarette. She took a deep drag, exhaled, and gulped her champagne. “I can take it.”
Martine sighed. “Nothing’s conclusive, the article’s full of conjecture.”
“Like I said, I can take it.”
“The article says things about your papa … I’m sorry.”
Martine gestured toward the silk-upholstered Directoire chair by the long windows. Some faxes sat on the arm. Beyond the dark black of the woods shone the distant glow of Neuilly. Aimee grabbed a paper and skimmed the article.
“Some investigation with my father … I don’t understand.”
“Rumor was terrorists blew him up. Seems there was a
“Makes no sense,” Aimee said, her hand shaking. “The
“Some mistake … they made a mistake, the reports are exaggerated,” Martine said, her eyes down. “It’s late, let’s find you a room.”
And then Aimee understood.
“They thought Papa was dirty, a bent
Her father’s half-smile floated before her. She imagined his patient eyes and the way he combed his thinning hair over his bald spot. How she’d find him asleep in his uniform in the hard chair by her bed after an all-night stakeout. How he called her his little princess.
“They said he was dirty, didn’t they?” She stood up, knocking over the champagne, which fizzed over the rug. “Never!” she shouted. “Papa worked hard. His men respected him. Not Papa!”
“Of course,” Martine said. She lit another cigarette, passed it to Aimee. “Look at how it’s written. All hearsay. Nasty innu-endo.”
“Every department has
AIMEE READ the article standing by Martine’s guest bedroom window overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. The year she’d been an exchange student in New York had been a busy one for her parents. According to the article entitled A COUPLE IN CAHOOTS? by Jacques Caillot in
She remembered the kidnapped Paul Laborde and his Modigliani collection. And that her mother had written Modigliani backwards in the notebook. But the
She’d assumed her father had joined her grandfather at Leduc Detective because he’d had enough of bureaucracy. Maybe there had been more to it.
So that’s why Morbier never talked about her father, his old colleague from the police academy. He suspected he was crooked.
Desolation swept over her.
She finally fell asleep, Miles Davis beside her.
Her dreams were filled with bright-hued iguanas, scales swollen and pulsating, trampling through the artists’ squat. Then the nightmare again. This time … her father crawling over the cobblestones, his face melted, her hands bloody from the explosion, only this time the doors led to bricked-in walls … doors to nowhere. Some were blood- smeared, others covered with peeling WANTED posters.
THURSDAY
AIMEE WOKE UP with a start in Martine’s guest room. Dust motes danced in the slanting sunlight on her pillow. Why hadn’t she thought of it before … the old Interpol wanted posters! She’d find this Jules!
But before that she had to ask the reporter, Jacques Caillot, about the article he’d written. Specifically, how he had obtained his information.
She gulped a bowl of cafe au lait. Her head was hazy so she followed it with an espresso to help her wake up.
She called the visiting office at Fresnes to find when she could see Liane Barolet again.
“Lockdown,” the officer said. “No visitors or mail.”
“For how long?”
“Depends on the warden’s mood,” he said. “Big riot last night. It could last a week.”
A disappointment. But she’d become suspicious of Liane’s having any letters from her mother. Liane was too good a liar. Still, she’d send the papers proving payment to Liane’s lawyer, as she’d promised.
After several calls she discovered Jacques Caillot no longer worked at
“Sorry,” the switchboard operator said. “Monsieur Caillot only takes appointments with press staff. Our archive is limited to journalists, correspondents, and news wire organizations.”
Saying she was a researcher, Aimee made an appointment. Martine handed over her laminated clip-on
“Credentials, s’il vous plait,” the wiry security man said from the booth at Agence France-Presse’s door. His partner watched the monitors fed by surveillance cameras panning the small glassed-in sixties lobby. Outside, the Bourse and the graffiti-covered squat opposite glimmered in the midmorning heat.
Aimee flashed him Martine’s ID and a large smile.
“Archives, please,” she said.
He studied the card, turned it over. She held her breath, hoping he didn’t ask for another piece of ID.
“Through these doors, Mademoiselle, take the second staircase to the basement.”
She rushed ahead.
“Mademoiselle!”
She stopped. Afraid.
