AL05 - Murder in Clichy

his cell phone. As he turned back to buy a phone card at the tabac he noticed the man was still reading the newspaper. But he was holding Le Monde Diplomatique upside down.

After Rene bought a card and left, the man folded his paper. Rene watched the reflection in the store windows from the corner of his eye. Saw the man keeping a short distance between them. Rene kept walking. He glanced over his shoulder several times. The man kept in step a few paces behind. Afraid his short legs would give out before he got far, he thought of what Aimee would do, and hailed a taxi.

At the Metro station, he paid the driver, climbed out and ran down the steps. He changed at Republique, then again in the cavernous Chatelet station. By the time he left, using the Louvre-Rivoli exit, he felt sure no one was following him. Still, he sat in the cafe below their office and had a snifter of brandy. When he had calmed down, he paid and left a big tip.

On the rain-slicked pavement outside Leduc Detective, a smiling couple asked him directions to the Saint Eustache church. He pointed the way, then hit the digicode. Inside their building, the wire-frame birdcage of an elevator was out of service—out of service more often than in service. He faced a climb of three high floors on the dark, narrow spiral staircase to the office. He paused, wondering how the world would look from two feet higher up.

His hip ached and he dreaded a discussion with Aimee. Right now his cowardly side wanted some way out. He’d ignored the flutter he’d felt deep down the last time she’d hugged him. The hope that soared and flew away as he reminded himself that for her, it was platonic.

At the second flight of stairs, he paused. His leg throbbed and only a hot epsom salt bath would ease the bone-chill in his marrow.

“Monsieur Friant . . . Monsieur Rene Friant?” a man’s voice called from above.

“Oui.”

“There’s been an accident,” he said, footsteps clattered down the stairs. “Mademoiselle Leduc’s in Emergency.”

“Nom de Dieu! What happened?” His pulse raced. Something to do with her eyes? A car accident? He pumped his legs faster. Had she been trying to call him on his dead cell phone?

He never saw their faces as they blocked the light, only felt the net over his face and arms, hands pinning him down as he struggled.

Wednesday Morning

AIMEE SAW TWO BLUE and white police cars parked on the pavement of rue de Chazelles in front of Guy’s office.

“Not a professional job,” the flic was saying to Marie, the receptionist.

She saw the broken door lock and overturned chairs. Heard the static of police walkie-talkies.

“I don’t understand,” Marie said, shaking her head. “The small narcotic supply we keep under lock and key wasn’t touched. Dr. Lambert and his partners have just renovated this office. New cabinets, redone the examining rooms . . . tout! ”

The flic nodded, writing in his notebook. “Knocking off a pharmacy makes more sense. There’ve been several break-ins this month.”

“Excuse me, I’m Dr. Lambert’s patient and I forgot my bag. I’ve come for it.”

“There’s nothing here,” Marie said. “We’ve had a robbery.”

Aimee felt guilty. She should have stashed it somewhere else. “May I just check the examining room?”

“We’re dusting for fingerprints,” the flic said. “You’ll have to wait.”

Just then Guy walked into the office, his coat beaded with rain. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her.

“Dr. Lambert, I’ve already called the insurance company,” said the receptionist. “The claims adjuster’s on the way.”

“Good job, Marie,” he said, taking in the damage with a glance. “I left at six-thirty. I was on call and had rounds at l’hopital des Quinzes-Vingts. They must have broken in after that.”

“Thank you doctor, I’ll talk with you in a moment.”

Aimee took Guy aside.

“I feel sick that this happened.”

Guy’s eyes softened.

“Does your arm hurt?”

Aimee shook her head. “Not much.” Only when she breathed. The fingerprinter, carrying his metal case, edged past them into the reception area.

“Didn’t you go to the police last night?” he asked.

“Guy, I left something in that room . . .”

“What? ”

“I have to get in there,” she said edging toward the examining room. “Please!”

“You don’t mean . . .”

“Just block the door. For one minute.”

She slipped past him into the antiseptic white room. A rain of stainless steel instruments and surgical gloves littered the linoleum floor. The cabinets lay open and gaping. She bent down. Under the sink, the bacterial soaps had been pushed aside, the particle board was askew. The backpack with the jade was gone.

She stood up. Stumbled. Guy grabbed her arm. Concern and anger warred in his eyes.

“You owe me an explanation,” he said.

“I meant to tell you. It’s my fault, I thought it would be safe here.”

She looked around the trashed office, sick. Patients arrived and Marie ushered them into the hallway.

“Of course, I’ll pay you for all the damage,” she said. “Guy, I’m so sorry.”

“What hurts, Aimee, is that you didn’t tell me.” He shook his head. “Even after. . . .” He stared at the examining table. “Why didn’t you go to the police? ”

“Guy, I knew you wouldn’t want me to keep it, and I couldn’t turn it over to them. . . .”

“Why not?”

Guy had never broken a law in his life. She doubted he’d even gotten a traffic ticket: A rare Frenchman who never parked illegally, drove too fast, or cheated on his taxes. He didn’t know the other side, the world outside the law, where things didn’t work like that.

“Last night, the RG were waiting outside my apartment,” she said. “They threatened me that I’d never work again if I didn’t turn the bag over to them. They had ransacked my place, too. There’s a lot more behind this than I suspected.”

He shook his head. “I thought you had changed, that you wanted a new start, not a job that endangered your eyesight and your life,” he said, his gray eyes hard. “But you haven’t changed. You never will.”

“Please, Guy, it’s not like that. Try to understand!”

“Dr. Lambert, we’ll take your statement now,” the flic said, as he entered the examining room. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

“Of course,” he said.

The policeman’s back was turned and she put her finger over her lips, then mouthed “Please” to Guy. But she couldn’t read his expression.

Out in the reception area, she heard Marie. “Dr. Lambert, the adjuster’s here to estimate damages.”

Aimee edged past the policemen to Marie’s desk. “Please tell Dr. Lambert I’ll call him later.”

She left the office, emerging into rue de Chazelles. What had she done? She called the temple, left a message for Linh that she was en route, and took the Metro to the Cao Dai temple.

By the temple’s storefront window, Linh came into view, her eyes bright under a hooded burnt orange shawl, her hands placed together in greeting. Aimee’s heart sank. There was no way around it; she had to tell Linh the truth. She took a deep breath and even though she wanted to run in the opposite direction, said, “Linh, I’m sorry. There’s no other way to say it,” she said. “The jade’s been stolen.”