Murder in the Sentier

me on your knee!”

That should make him feel old. And dried up, like he looked under the tan and his GQ fashion attempt.

“What do you want?”

“Papa’s vindication,” she said. “And what you know about my mother.”

He shrugged. “I’m retired. What makes you think I know anything?” She’d saved the best for last, hoping he’d nibble. Well, he’d sort of nibbled.

“But I know about the Modigliani paintings, you see,” she said, pulling the Figaro article out. “They weren’t lost at all. You signed for their consignment to the police repository. But here they are in a 1984 London exhibition.”

He stood up. “I’m not the bad guy,” Teynard said.

“Maybe from your perspective … what did you and Dray do with the money?”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“But the prosecutor will,” she said. “Especially when I reopen the inquiry. You’re in deep, Teynard. Deep and dirty.”

“How? There’s no proof,” he said. But for the first time his eyes were unsure.

“Looks like proof to me,” she said. “Laborde’s stolen paintings confiscated from the Left Bank Gallery by you, then showing up in London … sold to willing buyers. One work was acquired for 379,000 FF^* in a Paris sale in June 1985. The other was bought for 1,737,000 FF^** in March 1991, again at auction.”

Teynard’s shoulders sagged.

^*(US$ 54,930)

^**(US$ 251,739)

“Chump change Teynard … they’d be worth so much more now,” she said. “You should have held onto them.”

He sat down. He looked much older.

“What have you done with the money?” she asked.

“I’ve been tracking Jules Bourdon for years,” he said, his voice flat. “He’s here and I get a bad feeling you’ll try to screw it up.”

“Screw what up?”

“None of your business.”

Is that why Stefan had surfaced?

“My mother went to Africa with him, didn’t she?”

“Fool!” Teynard said. He shoved the espresso away. “There’s more. Much more.”

“More?”

“Diamonds. Investment-quality diamonds from Africa.”

Diamonds … is that what Jutta and Gisela were after? Was that what this had all been about? Were the diamonds what had been in Liane Barolet’s mother’s coffin?

“When the terrorists kidnapped Laborde he was fat with investment diamonds,” Teynard said. “They had perfect planning or a stroke of dumb luck, who knows, but the minister and Laborde’s old Milice comrades were coming for their cut. Laborde had bribed his friends in the government for concessions. They were happy to use the old colonial network and keep the spoils among friends.”

But nothing for the Africans who lived there, Aimee thought.

“That’s why Bourdon’s here, risking his life,” said Teynard.

And she saw it in his eyes, alive and predatory.

“Bourdon’s what you want, isn’t he?” she asked. “Some kind of vendetta?”

“Call it payback time.” Teynard rolled his pant cuff up to midcalf. Above his sock, she saw a flesh-colored prosthesis. “He shot my kneecap to bits. They removed my leg to my thigh and called me lucky. Now it’s my turn to make him lucky.”

“I see,” she said.

“Do you?” Teynard had warmed up. “They’re lice. Punks who called it a political statement when they blew people up or threw bank-robbery money from the Metro windows. Calling it capitalism for the masses. But Jules Bourdon, he was a smart arnaqueur, a con who used the idiots. And he’s never stopped.”

“So Jules Bourdon fled to Senegal … why?”

“Not a lot of options when you’re wanted on several continents,” Teynard said. “He worked there as a mercenary.”

“What does Romain Figeac have to do with it?”

“Figeac had a score to settle, too. Seems his wife’s baby was Bourdon’s. Not his. He wanted the world to know what a con man Bourdon really was.”

“So Jules Bourdon killed Figeac before Figeac could expose him? And Ousmane was killed because he hid Idrissa?”

Teynard’s eyes narrowed. “Something like that. I could have sworn time stood still when I saw you,” Teynard said. His voice had changed. It was low and full of something. Some dark emotion riding near the surface.

“Why?” But she knew.

“She took my breath away,” he said.

Aimee’s hand shook. The way he said it made her sick. Like he had some claim on her.

He took in her reaction. “Has she been in contact with you?”

So he was looking for her mother, too.

Aimee shook her head.

“And you wouldn’t tell me if she had,” Teynard said.

STEFAN RUBBED HIS EYES. His back hurt from sleeping in the stiff chair. He’d ordered a meal from the cafe opposite, had it brought up. He’d spent the whole night and day watching. A woman had gone into the building. The only things visible now were silhouettes in the Action-Reaction window.

Stefan wished he had company. But he was alone as orange dusk painted the red tile rooftops. He wanted to talk; talk about the past, his feelings, the things he wanted to do. Outline his plan to own a garage specializing in Mercedes restoration.

He fingered the card she’d given him. Turned it over in his grease lined palm, remembered her engaging silence and how she was the spitting image of her mother.

He reached for the old-fashioned black phone.

Friday Afternoon

“OUI.” AIMEE ANSWERED her cell phone, turning away from Teynard. She winked, signaling the cafe owner for two more espressos.

Silence. Was it Etienne?

“Allo?”

“Have some time to talk?” asked Stefan.

“Tell me where and when.” She stood and walked to the counter, away from Teynard.

A pause.

She repeated it; maybe he hadn’t heard her.

“My therapist said I should talk it out.”

Aimee bit back her surprise. “Please do, Stefan, I’m listening.”

“For years I’ve wanted to talk with someone,” he said. “I have to share the burden.”

He sounded broken, older than he was. It dawned on her that she’d have to protect him.

“People are chasing me.”

“Who?” She wondered who else besides Europol and the DST. Teynard?