AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

She felt a cool breeze and realized she must have forgotten to shut the salon window.

“Hold on,” she said. But when she checked, she noticed the baby blanket hanging from the chair, not on the recamier where she’d left it, neatly folded. And the box of wipes was on the floor, not on the table. Papers had been moved. Yet Rene hadn’t been here; he didn’t even have a key.

She sensed a stranger’s presence. Someone had entered her apartment and not to sniff her underwear. Whoever it was now knew the baby had been here. It wasn’t safe here for Stella any longer. She couldn’t bring Stella back here. Aimee stuck her phone in her pocket, ran back to the kitchen, and picked up Miles Davis.

“We have to go. Now.” She grabbed Krzysztof’s arm and pulled him down the hallway.

His eyes widened. “What the hell?”

She had to appear calm. He was already a bundle of nerves; she knew if she told him any more he’d bolt.

“Claude left a message. He’s found more video footage.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to check Claude’s video of the march,” she said, grabbing her bag and the first jacket she found, the damp tuxedo, as she led him out the door.

“Good,” he said, his tense mouth relaxing. “You’ll see the proof that we were set up.”

On the staircase, she punched in the speed-dial button for taxi service. “Twelve rue Saint Louis en L’Isle, please.”

Downstairs, Madame Cachou stood in the doorway of the concierge’s loge, reading glasses pushed up on top of her head, chewing a pencil.

“Come to complain, have you?” she asked.

“Mais non, I want to thank you for bringing up the boxes,” Aimee said, tugging Miles Davis by his leash.

“There’s more, you know.”

“Miles Davis loved staying with you. Could I impose again?”

Miles Davis cooperated by wagging his tail and licking Madame’s outstretched hand.

Her face softened and she stuck the pencil behind her ear. “Such a good boy.”

Aimee put a hundred francs in her waiting palm. “Merci.”

IN THE TAXI speeding through the dark Left Bank streets, Krzysztof sat beside her, his fingers twisting the loose yarn on his sweater’s sleeve. She rubbed a clear spot on the fogged window so she could look back at the quiet streets. No one seemed to be behind them.

She couldn’t put Stella in more danger. Whoever had sifted through her apartment had seen the diapers and knew she’d kept the baby. She couldn’t lead them to Martine’s either. As long as Stella was safe, Aimee’s time was better spent getting Claude’s video, which might give her a lead to Nelie’s whereabouts.

With the bombs and Vavin’s murder, the stakes had shot sky-high. She drummed her fingers on the window, wishing the taxi would go faster. Her fear was that the Halkyut operatives had already found Nelie. She tried to put that thought aside.

“You must tell me everything, Krzysztof,” she said. “About Orla, the Alstrom files that Nelie found. And why Nelie’s hiding. Who is she hiding from?”

“I don’t understand your involvement,” Krzysztof said. “You work for Regnault and they work for Alstrom. How can I trust you?”

“And I want to know why, when you saw Orla’s body at the morgue, you didn’t identify her. I have to have your answer before I can trust you,” she said.

“I couldn’t take the risk. It wouldn’t have helped Orla anyway. If I had opened my mouth, the flics would have locked me up. I’m wanted. MondeFocus told the flics that I planted the bottle bombs at the demonstration. There was even an article about me in the newspaper.” He rubbed his forehead. “All lies. We were just trying to stop the oil agreement.”

“Nelie’s uncle was my boss at Regnault.”

“Is that why you had Regnault files? Did you find the reports about Alstrom’s pollution of the North Sea?”

“My partner’s working on it,” she said.

“You still wonder about me, don’t you?” Krzysztof said. “I assure you, I know we cannot achieve peace with bombs.”

She had to trust him; he’d saved her life.

“I want to know why Vavin and Orla were murdered.”

Terror painted his face. “Nelie’s uncle was murdered?”

“Like I said, I want some answers.”

He hesitated. “Nelie’s afraid.”

“You mean she’s afraid the authorities will take away her baby because she’s wanted for her part in the demonstration at La Hague?”

“If her evidence isn’t publicized, the oil agreement will go through,” Krzysztof said.

“So the person who killed Orla was trying to get to Nelie, right?”

“But if she has the reports, why hasn’t she given them to me?” Krzysztof asked.

And why had Nelie left her baby with Aimee? Vavin couldn’t have been ignorant of Stella’s existence; he was Nelie’s uncle. Why not choose Vavin? Or was Aimee supposed to have met Vavin at the antique shop and turn the baby over to him to take to Nelie? He’d been murdered nearby. Again, another person murdered in place of Nelie.

Aimee tried to piece it together. Was Vavin killed because he wouldn’t reveal Nelie’s whereabouts? All she had was suppositions.

Krzysztof stared at her. “They’re going to kill me, too.”

“Who?”

“Halkyut,” Krzysztof said. “I saw Gabriel at our march. He was standing on the sidelines, watching.”

“And he killed Orla? Is that what you mean?” She wanted to pry a straight answer from him.

“Maybe the killer was the baby’s father,” he said.

She hadn’t thought of that before. As the taxi sped along the quai, she checked again. No headlights behind them.

“Maybe the baby’s a pawn, think about that. He could threaten to obtain custody unless she shuts up about what she knows.”

Was that what this was all about? Domestic drama? Aimee didn’t think so, but who knew?

“You mean so Nelie won’t divulge what it says in the Alstrom report?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Then why do you think they want to kill you?”

“Nelie had a difficult pregnancy,” he said. “She missed a lot of classes. Orla helped her.”

What did that have to do with it, she wanted to ask. Instead, she said, “You mean Orla was protective of her?”

“Orla had to take care of the baby when it was born,” he said. “Nelie bled too much.”

She thought back to the bloodstains in the baby bag. “Is she in the hospital?”

“She refused to go back to see the surgeon after her Cesarean. He had her name and she was terrified he’d turn her in. Nelie said she broke up with the father when he found out she was pregnant.”

The rosebud mouth, mauve-pink eyelids . . . those minuscule fingers gripping hers. How could anyone not want Stella?

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said, her frustration mounting. “Would the father threaten to obtain custody if he didn’t want the baby?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, if it gave him leverage over Nelie. The last thing she said was that the father would be able to trace her if she went back to the surgeon.”

Krzysztof was clutching at straws like she was.

“Who is the baby’s father . . . can’t you guess?”

“Nelie had nothing to do with him after she got pregnant. According to her, he was out of her life. She never