Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Similar to the one she’d found in his atelier tower. “So?”

“Take out the card in the box and smile.”

She opened the card. A postcard-sized black-and-white photo of a woman, slightly out of focus, her arms folded, standing on Pont Neuf. Aimee’s hand quivered.

“Approximate date on that’s within the last six months.” He shrugged. “From a freelancer. No time-date on his camera. We assume it’s your mother.”

Her heart thudded. “But you’ve no proof. A freelancer?”

“Surveillance paparazzi who sell to the highest bidder,” Sacault said. “They photograph known hot spots, people of interest, the works. I found this in a file last night. We sift for anything useful. Make a purchase. He’s in prison now.”

Sacault didn’t often say so many sentences together. She believed him.

She swallowed hard, her gaze unable to leave the photo. The woman leaning on the Pont Neuf, across from her apartment on Ile Saint-Louis. Did it explain that sense she felt in the street, coming out of a shop, or running to the bus—that feeling of being watched? But it didn’t explain why her mother hadn’t come forward, made contact. If this was her.

“That’s it?”

“The most current. Make of it what you will. We’d be interested in talking with her, if she ever contacts you.”

Startled, she sat back. “So you can put her in prison?”

“To keep her from prison. She’s more valuable outside. Trust me.” He tapped his spoon on the demitasse. “Now what did you find about Samour?”

Trust him? She trusted him as far as she could spit. No reason for him to know they’d discovered a strand of fiber optics in Samour’s tower atelier.

Yet.

Clodo’s phone burned a hole in her bag—her trump card with Prevost. She wanted to copy the numbers and listen to it.

But she had to give Sacault something to keep him off her tail.

“I’ve digitized a century of holdings at the Musee. Documents, machines,” she said. “Two more centuries to go. So far, Samour’s Internet fingerprints are all over what I’ve cataloged and probably what I haven’t. He was searching.” She flicked the pink fiber-optic strands of her gift. “For something to do with this?”

Sacault said nothing.

“Didn’t you just say he worked on fiber optics? I don’t get it.”

“It’s not for you to get.”

“First you hint this relates to fiber optics, now you backpedal. Wouldn’t it make more sense to clue me in on what I’m looking for?”

“So you found his laptop?”

“Did I say that?”

“How can you verify his ‘fingerprints’?”

She thought quickly. “I traced it back to his office computer account at the Conservatoire. Spill, Sacault, make my hunting effective.”

“Ministry sources are interested in a developing fiber-optic project Samour worked on. It’s gone. With him.”

She sat up. Had Samour stolen Jean-Luc’s info at Bouygues to further his project? “Isn’t that in private firm domain? Or do you all cozy up together?”

“Something like that,” Sacault said. “All you need to remember is he worked for us. Died doing duty for his country.”

“But how …”

Sacault stood. “See you here tomorrow night. Bring something concrete.”

AIMEE HUDDLED BY the medieval well in the old wall under the cafe tabac awning. Her knees trembled.

If her mother was alive …

Her cell phone trilled. Jolted out of her reverie, she recognized Rene’s number.

“Aimee, Meizi called,” he said, worried. “She’s frightened. You promised to help her.”

Damn Prevost. He hadn’t called, hadn’t alerted her to the raid. It could be going down tonight.

She had to find him. “Order her room service at the hotel,” she said. “Keep her occupied.”

“She’s threatening to meet with Tso.”

Meet him? “But she can’t, Rene. Not in person. She’s to call him, once I’ve found out the time of the raid. Tell her everything will work if she stays patient.”

She scanned the street. Stepped into a puddle in the gutter. Cursed and hailed a taxi.

“No need to swear, Aimee,” Rene said.

“Any joy from the laptop?” she said, opening the taxi door. “And any way you could tell if this formula’s stolen?”

“Stolen? Anyone’s guess. But I’d say Pascal fabricated a tool that conducts light like the ancient guild’s window.”

And he hung up.

Now it was all making sense.

“The commissariat at Chateau-Landon, s’il vous plait,” she told the taxi driver.

She hit Prevost’s number again.

“I’m en route to your office, Prevost.”

Blaring horns sounded in the background. “Count that a wasted trip.”

“Where are you?”

More blaring horns. “Liberation. On the rooftop. But give me ten minutes, I’m in a meeting …”

She clicked off.

“Change of plans, Monsieur,” she said, touching the taxi driver’s shoulder. “Liberation on rue Beranger. Fast as you can.”

He nodded, shifted into fourth gear. “Once a good newspaper, when it was Sartre and the sixty-eighters. But now …” A shrug. “Too conservative for me.”

She let his patter drift over her, not paying attention.

“You’re a reporter, eh?” They passed Samour’s building. “Working on a story?” he asked as he pulled up.

“You could say that,” she said, reaching in her worn Vuitton wallet for a tip.

“Tell the story of the little guy, the ordinary mec,” he said. “You know, that’s what your paper was all about. Back when writing meant something.”

He declined the tip. “Buy yourself a coffee, write something meaningful. Change things for people who need it, eh?”

“I’ll do my best.” She squeezed his shoulder, thought of Martine’s idea for an expose on Chinatown sweatshops. “It won’t be for lack of trying, Monsieur. Merci.”

Liberation took up eight floors of a former parking garage. She showed Martine’s old press pass and the guard waved her on.

Instead of waiting for the elevator, she spiraled up the ramp, passing offices, photo archives, various news desks. She was dizzy by the time she reached the top. A few scattered reporters worked at computers. “I’m looking for Officer Prevost.”

“The flic?” a head popped up from a terminal. “He’s enjoying our view. Best in Paris.”

She had to hurry. At the nearest empty news desk, she took a memo pad, dusted off the cigarette ash from it, scrolled Clodo’s cell phone and copied the numbers. Two messages on it, the voices fuzzy, indistinct. Merde! She rifled through the desk drawers for a tape recorder. Martine always carried