packet and saw a slip of paper insid.
Great. More cold and damp. She downed her espresso and pulled her long, black leather coat tighter. Left a five-franc tip.
Several blocks away, theatergoers spilled over the series of steps leading to Boulevard du Temple, once referred to as Boulevard du Crime. Not that long ago, either. Now few under forty attended the theater. She stood shivering, wishing this were over, that she could go home.
Fog shrouded Place de la Republique and muted the noise of night buses.
“Intermission and right on time,” said a familiar voice. The same blonde woman, smiling. Clad in a blue cocktail dress and matching shawl, she walked down the steps and opened her evening bag. “I’m dying for a smoke.”
“We meet again,” Aimee said, gritting her teeth.
“Like one? Or still not smoking?”
“I like to live dangerously,” Aimee said, accepting a filtered Gauloises. And a light. She felt a jolt to her lungs. The rush of nicotine.
“Keep the pack.”
“Don’t you have something for me?”
Aimee felt a matchbox in her hand. She slid the box open. Stared at the writing on a cigarette paper. “A website?”
“The proof’s there. And don’t forget to smile.”
Smile? “You bugged my scooter. Don’t even think of following me.”
But the blonde woman had mingled with theatergoers who were descending the steps, pulling out lighters and sucking smoke. A moment later she’d disappeared into the crowd.
Furious, Aimee ground out the cigarette with a high heel, put the matchbox in her pocket, and headed past the theater toward her cousin Sebastien’s atelier. She wished she’d kept the ice on her wrist longer.
At least she could get warm and use his computer.
But Sebastien’s framing atelier was dark. She hit his number on her cell phone. His phone rang and rang. No answer. Not even voice mail.
She paced the cobbles by Sebastien’s and noticed the stained glass atelier next door. Thinking about the chapter in Samour’s book gave her an idea. She’d talk to the stained-glass artist tomorrow. What else could she do?
Still no word from Prevost. She needed to protect Meizi, make good on her promise to Mademoiselle Samoukashian, and ensure Prevost’s cooperation in the Chinatown surveillance raid. She headed down the dark street toward the bus stop a few blocks over and hit Prevost’s number.
“
“Officer Prevost,
“At a meeting,” said a young voice. A yawn. “Leave your number and he’ll get the message.”
“Too late. His informer’s in trouble,” she said. “Patch me through to him.”
“Who’s this?”
“Big trouble,
Pause.
“Now!”
She heard a click. Buzz.
Prevost answered on the first ring. “
Finally.
In the background she heard what sounded like the click of chips, the slap of cards. Gambling. Hadn’t that gotten him into trouble before? But she could use that.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Aimee Leduc,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About your statement?” She heard surprise in his voice.
“I mean the surveillance mounted in—”
“What’s that got to do with you? Keep your nose out of this.”
“But you wouldn’t want another mark on your record, would you?”
“What?” Voices rose in the background. Chinese voices. A chair scraped over the floor.
“Gambling again?” she said.
“What the hell … listen, we’ll talk tomorrow.” Quiet now. He’d left the table.
“So you’ll shine me on again?” she said. “I can lead you to the snakehead who controls boutiques, sweatshops in a three-block radius. Big promotion for you, Prevost. And I wouldn’t need to mention your love of cards.”
Pause. “You’re guessing.”
“You want more?”
The street was quiet. Too quiet. She kept her voice low, hurried around the corner. Another deserted street lit by misted globes. Footsteps sounded behind her.
The hair rose on the back of her neck.
She sped up. Three more winding blocks to the bus that would drop her close to Ile Saint-Louis.
“More like a source, Mademoiselle Leduc. Hard evidence.”
“How about nameless bodies lying in the paupers section at the Ivry cemetery,” she said. “Front page to the right investigative reporter. Especially since the funeral parlor’s right under your nose in the quartier. Or maybe they finance your chips.”
She heard a car door slam, footsteps behind her again.
She made her feet go faster, one eye out for ice while she scanned the darkened windows and the parked cars for movement. Whoever they were, they were good.
“What do you want?”
Right now, dry shoes and a warm fire. And quick. But she saw no taxi in sight.
“A woman protected,” she said. “The date of the raid.”
“We’ll talk. But not now.”
Pause. Voices.
“Getting the snakehead and his boss, that’s gold, Prevost.”
More voices. She had to convince him. Give him something to get information. She took a stab in the dark. “There’s a witness to Samour’s murder. Haven’t you questioned him?”
“Who?”
“Clodo, the homeless man in the stairs.”
Pause. “Not anymore.”
Footsteps sounded close behind her. She didn’t like this. Without turning around she walked faster. Her gut told her to get the hell to the Metro.
“He’s in custody? Then he’s told you—”
“Pushed on the Metro tracks. At Hotel-Dieu.”
“But have you questioned him?”
“Clodo’s not in any condition to tell anyone anything soon. If ever.”
Her blood ran cold. “The murderer tried to kill his witness, Prevost.”
“More like he fell on the rails drunk or during a fight. A coincidence.”
“No coincidence, Prevost,” she said.
“What judge would listen to him? I need proof.”
Proof? Prevost might need evidence to make a case. She didn’t.
Hampered by regulations, paperwork, the endless questioning and rehashing of witness statements—vital time lost. No wonder, despite the cloud of suspicion trailing him, her father was glad to leave the force.
“You want evidence? How about the cell phone Clodo took from the murder site?”
Pause. “Cell phone?”
She hoped the homeless weatherman would come through.
