“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone to Sudan to work with Doctors Without Borders.”
“Sudan?”
“To save the blind of Africa,” she said. “To get as far away from me as he can, and still work medical wonders.”
Rene kept staring. “He saved your vision, Aimee.”
Her lip trembled. If Rene didn’t shut up she’d burst into tears. She lowered her gaze.
“Like I didn’t know that, Rene!”
“Another thing you didn’t tell me,” Rene said, hurt and something else mingling in his voice.
“Isn’t it enough that I burden you with my love life . . . or my nonexistent love life, most of the time?” she asked. “It would be selfish. You’ve found someone and seem so happy; it’s not fair to dump on you.”
Instead of the acknowledgment she expected, more anger flashed in his eyes. “I thought we were closer, Aimee.”
“You’re my best friend! But do I have to reveal the squalid details of how I let Guy down?”
Pride, yes, her pride prevented her from revealing that Guy had left her. Left her because of who she wasn’t.
Rene shook his head in disgust.
All wrong, she got everything wrong with Rene whichever way she turned.
“Didn’t you throw yourself into this investigation to fill the void, Aimee? As usual?”
She slumped in the chair. Was he right?
He stood up, brushed off his black wool jacket, and handed her a card with the address of the Convent des Recollets. “Paul and Isabelle’s accommodation. The convent offers assistance to families in transition.”
He took his briefcase and walked down the hall.
What had she done now?
She called after him, “Rene, you’re so happy, I didn’t want to—”
He turned. “So I gather.”
How could it all go so wrong and all at the same time? Rene upset, Laure in a coma, Guy on another continent leaving Byron to console her: three thin lines. And Jubert with his gray snake eyes, now high up in Internal Affairs. The list grew. And the gnawing fear that Jacques’s murder was part of something bigger. The tape in her head replayed Lucien Sarti’s voice, the sensation of his thigh brushing hers, and his warm lips’ imprint on her cheek.
The door opened, and the floor creaked under Isabelle’s feet.
“Mademoiselle Leduc, a moment please.” Edith Mesard spoke from her office.
Aimee crunched her plastic espresso cup and tossed it into the wire trash bin.
Edith Mesard and Jubert stood by a grouping of wingback chairs. A cigarette butt smoldered in an otherwise clean ashtray on the windowsill.
“No need to sit down, Mademoiselle. I’ll make it brief and to the point,” Edith Mesard said. She buttoned her tailored jacket. “Besides the municipal code infractions I could charge you with, not to mention a misdemeanor charge of evidence tampering and some hijinks with the police intranet system—” she paused. “You’re compromising a joint
Aimee was startled. She hadn’t expected this.
“What do you mean?”
“As Monsieur Jubert pointed out, it’s too late in the game. The covert operation is too far advanced for us to switch directions.”
“You’re asking me to cease trying to clear Laure Rousseau? I won’t. I’ve handed you exculpatory evidence on a plate. Heaping full. There’s no way to ignore it.”
“I’d suggest you listen, Mademoiselle,” La Proc said. “For a change.”
Aimee felt as if she were back at school being reprimanded for talking out of turn. Jubert watched her without a word.
“If Laure’s off the hook,” she said. “I’m all ears.”
“Do you forget, Mademoiselle, we operate in the real world according to regulations, Le Code Civil, and the judicial system?”
“So you’re saying you won’t—”
Jubert spoke for the first time, his voice calm and even. “She’s saying, Mademoiselle, all pertinent and legally obtained evidence will be presented at the hearing of the charges against Officer Rousseau.”
Right. She trusted him no further than she could spit.
“Do you agree that the bullet I obtained will be accepted into evidence?”
Jubert pulled at his chin with his thumb and forefinger.
“Mademoiselle, I see you don’t mince words,” he said. “Refreshing, I’m sure, in your line of work.”
Her line of work? Like she strong-armed witnesses? While he worked the old-boy network of favors asked and granted, shrouded by payoffs, implied and unspoken.
“We’d like your assistance,” he went on.
“My assistance?” She blinked.
“Your persistence has been noted. Instead of compromising our operation, which you seem bent on doing, we want you to work with us.”
Right. Her father had worked for the RG and it got him killed. She hated their everyday world of lies, deceit, and cover-ups.
“My report card said, ‘Doesn’t play well with others.’ I haven’t changed,” she told him.
But she had the sinking feeling that working with “them” was the price for Laure’s vindication. A complex RG and DST sting operation, orchestrated by the Ministry, was the last thing she wanted to be involved in. Her dealings with the secret world had blown up, literally in her face, in Place Vendome and taken her father’s life.
“You’re thinking of your father. A tragedy, yes,” Jubert said. “Nothing to do with this operation or this branch. The circumstances were totally different.”
“I’d like to know who was responsible,” Aimee said, her gaze fixed on Jubert.
“That branch closed down. If any files exist, they’re classified,” Jubert said. “Live in the present; think of this as your contribution to guarding and preserving the security of France.”
Appealing to the patriot in her with their hollow jingoism? Think again, she wanted to say. Their offer smelled, but they didn’t leave her many options.
“Will you guarantee that Laure Rousseau’s suspension will be lifted and she’ll be cleared of all charges?”
“Under the law, in Internal Affairs investigations, officers charged with a crime remain suspended until the hearing officer reaches a decision.”
They would do nothing for Laure.
“You can’t ignore the witness who saw figures on the roof, the three flashes, the high-tin GSR content.”
“Duly noted, Mademoiselle,” Jubert said. “Of course, by using my name you prioritized a test—a fancy, expensive one, I believe—but I will authorize it after the fact, given your cooperation.”
Aimee stared at Edith Mesard with her perfectly applied makeup, a hint of blush, not too much.
“That’s all you can say?”
Edith Mesard returned her stare, reaching for her overcoat. “I will see justice done, Mademoiselle. Count on it. My record speaks for me. It’s why I serve.”
Edith Mesard clutched her Lancel briefcase. “I believe, in the Sentier case, our dealings proved that?”
In that case, Mesard had gotten parole for Stefan, an old German radical who’d known Aimee’s mother.
“Now, do I need to charge you with infractions of the code and a serious misdemeanor? Under the Security Services Protective Act, a consultant under contract in an ongoing investigation is exempt from prosecution.” She paused, clipping her cell phone to her side pocket. “But you tell me.”
Mesard was good. Still, she’d revealed how much they needed Aimee. Needed her like the country needed
