AL06 - Murder in Montmartre

She drained her glass.

“Those were real gunshots, not the tele. Have you realized your son could have been hit by a stray bullet?”

She looked away.

How could he reach her? He took another sip of wine, wishing his hip didn’t hurt so much. Poured more in her glass. “Isabelle, say this flic was corrupt and an angry contact shot him. We need your help to find the guilty man.”

“You’re undercover, right? Some special detective unit.”

Rene took a big sip. Let her think that. He nodded.

Isabelle stared straight ahead, then locked eyes with his. She pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. “There were three shots. I saw it all.”

“Three?” Rene’s stomach flip-flopped. Whether from the wine or her words, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. “Paul said . . .”

She shook her head. “Paul didn’t see the third one. The last shot.”

“Did you see who fired?”

“I don’t want Paul involved, you understand,” Isabelle said.

Negotiate, like it said in chapter eight, page eighty-seven. Reluctant witnesses would try to negotiate. Agree, but obtain your objective.

Rene nodded. “If you agree to meet the lawyer and give evidence, Paul can be kept out of it.”

“Then it’s a deal, little man?”

No one had ever called him that in his life and gotten away with it.

“Count on it. And my name’s Rene.”

She pushed aside her half-full wineglass. “Et donc, Rene, I was sitting right here, writing my uncle for help. Paul was asleep in his alcove behind the curtain. Or so I thought. That’s why I noticed. It was black outside, like coal; a storm was brewing. Then, all of a sudden, something flashed right across my line of sight from that roof. I heard a bark like a gunshot. It startled me so much I spilled the ink.” She pointed to a splotch on the table’s surface.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“Dark figures were moving on the roof. I turned down the radio. In five minutes, maybe more, I saw another flash.”

It could make sense. Had they ambushed Laure, used her gun on Jacques, then put their gun in her hand and fired again?

“How much of that had you drunk, Isabelle?” He gestured to the empty green bottles on the floor by the fridge.

“I got my check Tuesday.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“No money on Monday, Rene. I ran short. Paul had to have food,” she said. “But I stock up on food when I get my check. Always. Then I can’t spend it on my friends.”

He stared at the bottles. To a lonely woman, wine was a friend.

“My boy’s a monkey. He goes up on the roof all the time. I blame that old fool downstairs who lets Paul help him,” she said. “I heard the door creak open and then I saw the third flash. Paul set his schoolbag on the table and crept into the sleeping alcove. Eh, you can be sure I gave him a talking-to. Told him we’d have trouble if he opened his mouth. He promised, after I put the fear of God in him.”

Something bothered Rene.

“Peering out into the dark from your window, how could you see figures?”

“Before the storm came in full force, I could make out shapes. There were two dark figures.”

“Isabelle, think of how it looked from the other side. If you had a light on, wouldn’t they have seen you?”

“I keep the light on over the sink so as not to disturb Paul,” she said. “Low, like this.”

Isabelle stood and turned off the overhead light. A soft pink glow bathed the corner. “I could see out but, sitting here, they wouldn’t see me.”

Rene glanced at his watch and stiffened. “It’s late, shouldn’t Paul be in bed? Where is he?”

“Hiding, as usual. But he always comes home, sooner or later.”

“Isabelle, he could be in danger. Have you thought of that? Was the light on when he put the bookbag on the table?”

Something registered in her eyes. She’d had a new thought.

“What is it, Isabelle?”

Whether it was the wine or the warmth dribbling from the oven or both, she rubbed her cheek and volunteered more information.

“This mec asked my neighbor where Paul was. He’s rough, arrogant, pushes his way around the quartier. Why did he want Paul?”

Rene’s heart sank. “Maybe Paul’s hiding from someone. Maybe that’s why he’s so late.”

Or maybe he’d been caught. Where the hell was Aimee?

She grabbed the wineglass. Her hand trembled, sloshing red driblets on the tabletop. Like blood, Rene thought.

“We’ll have to move,” she said.

“You can’t run away,” he told her. “Call the police.”

“Police? No.”

“If he’s in danger, you have to. After he’s found, and you can tell the lawyer what you know, you’ll both be safe. I promise.” At least he hoped so.

She hesitated. “I stay away from the flics. I have a record.”

“What happened in the past doesn’t matter,” he said. “Think of Paul.”

He saw the struggle in her face.

“He could come home any minute.”

Rene hoped so. Otherwise he’d have to look for him.

“Now, tell me where he might be hiding.”

Thursday Night

“SO , MUSICIAN, WHY’ S THE mec following you, or is it the other way round?” Aimee said. Her breath, a vapor trail, dissipated in the night air over the lighted outdoor ice rink at Rotonde de la Villette. “I need to know.”

“You and me both,” Lucien Sarti said, leaning on the rail, looking down.

A few skaters, mostly couples at this time of night, crossed the ice. The music almost drowned out the distant screeching of brakes from the overhead Metro line at Stalingrad.

“He’s the one trying to frame me.”

“For terrorism?” she asked. “Is he part of your Separatist cell, gone rogue?”

He shook his head.

Behind them loomed the domed rotunda of La Villette, a circular arcade fronted by Doric columns, a barracks during the Commune, later a salt depot. Ahead lay the wide dark-water basin that funneled below them and narrowed into Canal Saint Martin.

They were in an open public place at least, although only a few figures, huddled against the bone-chilling cold, waited in line at the creperie stall.

Her cold thigh still felt the warmth of his pressing against her. Instinct screamed that it must be the other mec who Cloclo had meant. Hadn’t Lucien Sarti defended her? But “Never assume,” had been her father’s dictum.

He pulled the knife from his pocket, holding it low. A worn wooden hilt, a serated blade. “A fish gutter,” he said. “The weapon of choice on the Bastia docks.”

She knew they were also used in restaurant kitchens. Then her cell phone trilled. Rene? She pressed