She paused, shook her head, seeing the image of Jacques’s snow-fringed eyelashes, his blood seeping onto the snow. She struggled with the feeling that he had tried to tell her something.
Rene stared. “I’m sorry, Aimee.”
The steam heater sputtered, sending forth waves of heat that evaporated somewhere at the level of the high ceiling. She made herself continue. “Later, on the adjoining roof, Sebastian and I discovered a broken skylight and wet footprints on the rug underneath. That spelled escape to me.”
“Escape?”
“The killer’s escape. Then
Rene let out a sigh. “You promised to stop all that, didn’t you? Let the
He sounded like Guy. But Guy wasn’t around to say those words anymore. She combed her chipped copper lacquered fingernails through her spiky hair.
“Laure may face prison.” She didn’t like to think of the overcrowded eighteenth-century prison La Sante; the unheated cells and the reaction of the inmates when they discovered Laure was a
“
“Laure has to keep trying to prove herself, to follow in her father’s footsteps. Of course, she’d do whatever Jacques asked. Not like me.”
“No one’s like you, Aimee,” Rene said, rolling his eyes. “Thank the Lord.”
“Rene, Laure’s the closest I’ll ever have to a little sister. She’s self-conscious, sensitive about her cleft palate. I know her; she’ll break if she goes inside.”
Break into little pieces.
Aimee sniffed, aware of a floral scent from somewhere in the office. “Anyway, I caught up. I did three- quarters of the proposals last night.” And missed Guy’s reception as a result.
“Morbier left you a message,” Rene said, “something about keeping your paws clean. Maybe you owe him an apology.”
“What can I do?”
“You’re asking my advice?” Rene expressed mock horror. “It will cost you. Say you’re sorry with flowers. He’s a romantic.”
“Are we talking about the same person?”
She surveyed the office. A jam jar with sprays of paperwhite narcissus sat on the printer stand, filling the air with fragrance. A harbinger of spring.
“Celebrating spring already? Or is this a special day?” she asked, trying to find out where they’d come from without asking outright. “What’s the occasion? Good news?” She let her sentence dangle, hoping he’d say Guy had sent them.
“Pull up the Salys data,” was his only reply as his fingers raced over the keyboard. “We need to draft a proposal. By noon.”
Her heart thumped. Guy hadn’t sent them.
The way Rene avoided answering, his appearance . . . that twisting feeling in her gut . . . could it be jealousy? Had he met someone? How could she be jealous? Why, it was wonderful Rene had been bitten by the bug! She watched him. It was all over his face. She should be happy for him, ecstatic. Why wasn’t she? Just because Guy had left her didn’t mean Rene couldn’t find love.
“Who is she, partner?”
“Did I say that?”
She grinned. “You don’t have to.”
“There’s work to check, lots of it.”
“Better tell me,” she said, adding more water to the narcissus. “Or I’ll nag you until you do.” She pulled out her chair and thumbed through the mail.
“I had a drink with someone after a full-moon party,” he said.
“You mean you went to a rave?”
“That’s for tonight,” he said. “Eh,
Rene was full of surprises.
“What’s her name?”
He mumbled something.
“Couldn’t catch that.”
“Magali. Now pull up the Salys account.”
“I finished that proposal last night.”
He stared at her.
“While you were out dancing. Makes a change, eh?”
Chastened, Rene sighed. “We just met. Now don’t start with you and Guy wanting to—”
“Meet her? Don’t worry.”
She’d keep it to herself about Guy. No reason to burden Rene when he was so happy. Outside, melting ice spattered in silver droplets on the window overlooking rue du Louvre.
“Rene, I need help with a surveillance. I questioned a woman in an upper apartment overlooking the site where Jacques was shot. But there’s a prostitute on the street across from her building whom I couldn’t find.”
His eyebrows shot up. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m meeting with the Salys account in half an hour. At least they pay on time.”
And a nice fat account it was, too. “After that, please go on an assignment for Laure.”
“Find the
“Reincarnate Toulouse-Lautrec and walk around with a palette of paints for the tourists?”
She smiled. “That’s an idea.”
“In this field, you use what you have, don’t you?” he said half-seriously and paused, his fingers on the keyboard.
She leaned forward. “The building’s under renovation; someone knew an upper-floor apartment was empty. Say the killer lured Jacques from this empty apartment, then took advantage of Laure’s appearance to frame her. He knew the layout and escaped over the connecting roof. It’s a theory.”
“I’ve said it before: you have an overactive imagination. Put it to work on our new account with Salys.”
He was right, of course. “I already have.” She clicked on the keys and pulled up the Salys file on her laptop. “I submitted the proposal last night; they’ll be ready for you.”
She spread the rough diagram of the buildings and courtyard she’d made at the Commissariat across her desk. “I saw lights and heard music from a party there,” she said, pointing to an apartment. “I’m trying to get ahold of the owner, a Monsieur Conari.”
“The
“You can look for the prostitute after your meeting with Salys. Question her and whoever else you see go into any of the buildings next to or opposite the one where Jacques was shot. The clock’s ticking. I’ll concentrate on the one where the party was held.”
“You really want me to go undercover?”
Was there a scintilla of interest in his voice?
“Haven’t you always wanted to, partner?”
AIMEE WORKED on some computer virus checks. Two hours later, her impatience took over and she called Maitre Delambre again.
“I expect him any minute,” his secretary told her.
She had to catch him before he left for another court session. She grabbed her leather coat. Without the police report, she was pedaling without wheels.
“Please tell him Aimee Leduc’s en route to talk with him.”
