Authors: Thomas Kirkwood
Michelet grunted.
“I quite sympathize with you, Monsieur, for this most embarrassing situation. However, I do not think it is fair to hold me totally responsible.”
Michelet wasn’t listening; he was staring at the photograph. “I’ve seen this son of a whore somewhere. Dressed the same way, blue jeans, a flowered shirt . . . no, impossible, where would I see a person like that? What were you saying?”
“That I am not responsible. I waited, Monsieur, until I had the evidence, and even then it was no small matter to get your ear. You outright refused to speak with me on the subject of your daughter, and you waited several days to open the newspaper I left you. Therefore, Monsieur – ”
“That will do,” Michelet said. “There is no reason to act in this hysterical fashion. I will set the situation straight. What is the man’s name, Madame? If he is here legally, it will be easy to track him down. If he is not, I shall find him through Nicole and have him deported. So tell me his name and spare me the rest, if you don’t mind.”
“His name is Steven LeConte.”
From his study, Michelet rang up a friend at Immigration.
“Ah, yes, Minister, we have the records of this individual. He has been in Paris for the past two years. Legally? Yes, I think one can say that. He’s often been late with his employment papers and residency documents, but otherwise nothing . . . his address? Of course, Monsieur Minister. Place Maubert, Twelve.”
***
Captain Bullock looked harshly at King. “What does Sergeant Elliot think?”
“Well, he thinks it would be a waste of money, thinks we’ll spend millions to get down there and either find Stein or not find Stein, and that it won’t make any difference one way or the other.”
“And you? How do you see it, King?”
“A crime was committed, possibly a murder. We’ve checked out all the stories the man claiming to be Stein told the cement contractors. They were all bogus. There was no city order requiring structural improvements to Stein’s shop. There was no payment made to Stein by Stein’s insurer.
“Also, sir, we know that the man who paid for the cement job in person was not Stein. We know that the car this man drove away matches the make and serial number of the car that turned up in New York stripped and abandoned – the car our computers say belonged to Stein.
“So, Captain, it seems clear to me that this man killed Stein. It seems clear that this man is hiding something under the cement in that basement – either Stein’s corpse or some other kind of incriminating evidence.
“Now, sir, if I understood my training lectures correctly, it is our duty as police officers to pursue such matters, period. If we drop investigations because of cost, then rich people can avoid justice by placing expensive obstacles such as this concrete bunker in our path.”
Captain Bullock gazed out at the downtown. His sad drooping eyes reminded King of a dog he’d had as a kid.
“You know, Officer,” the captain said, swiveling in his chair to face him, “there’s always a trade-off. We have a limited budget in this department. If I allocate a hundred grand to dig up your basement, that’s a hundred grand I don’t have to pursue rapists, drug dealers and dirt heads who blow away convenience store clerks for fifty bucks.
“So, yes, Officer King, we have an obligation. We have lots of obligations. But we can’t meet them all because we don’t have the money. Your obligation is expensive, and finding out who killed Stein – if, in fact, he is dead – will bring the department no relief. Catching the Renton Rapist, on the other hand, will get about fifteen hundred people – politicians, fathers, husbands, loud-mouthed journalists and shrieking women’s activists –
personally
off my ass. Therefore, Officer, the answer to your request that we pursue this particular obligation would logically have to be a resounding NO, wouldn’t it?”
“But, sir – ”
“Wait a minute, King. I haven’t finished. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I don’t want you to think you can come to me in the future with requests like this and have them funded. We are able to move on this thing because of an FBI directive that came down from Washington the other day.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir.”
“Neither do I, King, but it seems the Feds are looking for something. They gave us a list of criteria to be on the lookout for. Your crime meets three of these, if not more. Therefore, it qualifies for federal funding. Believe me, Officer, if it didn’t, we couldn’t pursue it.”
King’s heart was soaring. His first investigation, which had begun in a Polish deli, was now being funded by Washington!
“So, Officer,” Captain Bullock said, “go dig up that goddamn basement. Spend Washington’s money. Everyone else does.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Does that mean you’re putting me in charge?”
“Why not, King? You don’t have a reputation to lose.”
“Well . . . well, sir, I suppose that’s true. How should I start. I mean, I’m not really that familiar with – ”
“Relax, King. I’ll see that you have all the help you need.”
***
“Where are you calling from?” Steven said. “We’ve got a lousy connection.”
“It’s not the connection,” Nicole whispered. “I have to talk softly. I’m on the train. There are people around.”
“The train? Which train?”
“The TGV to Grenoble. I’ll be staying with Aunt Jeanne for a while.”
“Who?”
“Aunt Jeanne. You remember, Jules and Luc’s mom.”
“Nicole, why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”
“Because I didn’t know until a couple of hours ago. It wasn’t my idea. The photograph that kid took of us ended up in the
Inquisitor
.”
“
Merde
. Your father saw it?”
“Thanks to Françoise. He’s ordered her to accompany me to my aunt’s home. She’s in the toilet right now.”
“Jesus. Did he hurt you?”
“No. If you look at the photo a certain way, you get the impression I’m trying to fight you off. I told father that’s exactly what I was doing. I don’t know if he believed me. He didn’t seem that interested. He just said he wanted me out of Paris for a while.”
“How long?”
“Steven, I don’t know. All of this just happened.”
“Can I call you down there?”
“No! Françoise is staying with me. She’ll be watching me like a hawk.”
“I’m glad you let me know. The picture, was it on the front page?”
“Page eight last Friday. I doubt anyone in the government saw it. If they had, you can be sure father would have been a lot more abusive than he was. Steven – ”
“Yes?”
“It’s a rather nice picture.”
“Some consolation. What do you think he’ll do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing if we lie low for a while. He seems really preoccupied. What about your papers – visa, work permit, all that? You have them, don’t you?”
“Sure. I might be late on some renewals.”
“You’d better get everything current. I can’t imagine he’d confront you personally, but I can see him trying to cause you some bureaucratic headaches.”
“Nicole – ”
“Yes?”
“I want you to know I’m in this with you all the way. Forget what I said before. If we have to, I’ll find enough money for us to live somewhere else.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Thanks. Steven, I’d better get off.”
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know. As soon as possible. I’m all right, Steven. Promise me you won’t get crazy and try to contact me.”
“Okay, if you think that’s best.”
“I know it’s best. Get your papers in order. I love you.”
“I love you, too. But, Nicole, can’t we – ”
“Adieu. I have to run.”
He started to say something but the line went dead.
Chapter Thirty
No dogs, thought Steven, that’s what it was. He had felt something was unusual about Michelet’s country home the first time he was here, but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it until now.
No dogs! He couldn’t remember visiting a rural farm or estate in France – or anywhere else – that had no dogs, not even an old flop-eared hound sleeping in the barn yard.
Navigating the dense forests, he smiled. Nicole had chosen a good time to get herself sent to Grenoble. He hadn’t even had to lie to her about where he would be this Wednesday night. And sneaking in here without a pack of dogs at his throat was a joke.
It was the first week of October, an excellent fall day. In the late afternoon he stopped at the ponds where, the previous Friday, he and Nicole had enjoyed Isabelle’s picnic lunch and drunk the best bottle of red wine he’d ever tasted.
His Harley was stashed on the other side of the forest near an old tractor path he had discovered on their after-lunch stroll.
So far, so good.
He took in the surrounding countryside. Smoke rose in two plumes from the small vineyard about a half mile away. His eyes were keen; he could just make out Henri and Isabelle’s denim-clad forms as they raked the vine trimmings from the recent harvest into the fires. Unless they had developed superhuman eyesight to compensate for their poor hearing, they would not be able to see him.
No dogs, and the caretakers were hard at work a safe distance away. So what was he waiting for? It was time to move. In a few minutes he could be in the basement, mapping the furnace ducts that would pipe the sweet music of Michelet’s political secrets to his ears. The bastard might be looking for him right now, but Steven had beat him to the punch!
He started across the swath of open pasture that separated him from the shrubs and trees of the lawn. The approach to the manor was the part of the break-in he worried about most.
Well, he could stop worrying. No one but Henri and Isabelle ever came here except on Wednesday nights. It wasn’t Wednesday night yet. He wore the tans and greens of the land; he was camouflaged well. What difference did it make if he felt as though a thousand watchful eyes were upon him? They weren’t.
Keep moving. There was no trouble here.
The autumn sun blazed down; the vine smoke he had hoped would settle like ground fog rose into the opaque blue sky, sucked upward by some mighty inhalation of Nature. He had never seen the air so clear. Every bush, tree and blade of grass seemed to stand out in perfect relief.
A hundred yards to go. Should he run, or could movement alert old peasant eyes?
Should he get down like an infantry grunt and slither on his stomach the last stretch, or was that being ridiculous?