Murder Below Montparnasse (35 page)

Now?

“I dug around,” Saj said, excited. “His parent company manufactures guidance-system onboard electronics—”

“Hold on, Saj,” she interrupted, “you mean like in airplanes?”

“All aircraft, including missiles,” Saj said. “Specializing in carbon-composite materials technology needed to manufacture those wafer-thin components. He’s wining and dining, aiming to seal the manufacturing contract for the Moscow parent company.”

Now it made sense. “Not only wining and dining, Saj. He’s got an account set up for bribes and kickbacks.”

“You can prove that?”

“Shouldn’t be hard with this deposit slip in my hot little hand.” She dictated the Swiss bank account and routing numbers on Marina’s check. “Think Rasputin can help you?”

“He hates apparatchiks like Beresekova taking advantage of the system,” Saj said. “That’s the plus side. Whether he agrees.…”

“What about René’s relay and delay switch for that mainframe? Same principle,
non?

“Worked this time, thank God,” Saj said.

She allowed herself an inner sigh of relief. Clutched her bag closer on the worn leather seat. Thought as she rubbed her sore calves.

“But if you and René work out how to delay the funds transfer, Dmitri Bereskova can’t pay his bribes.” She remembered Hervé now from the newspapers. “At least one of the culture ministers won’t get his nice cut.” A patter of raindrops beaded the taxi’s side windows. “Wouldn’t Rasputin like to expose the oligarch’s
faux
museum?”

“I’ll get René on it,” Saj said. “He’s closer to Rasputin than I am.”

But the SIM card from Marina’s phone had a limited life. Before Dmitri stopped service and canceled, she needed to save the call log and numbers.

“Any ideas how I can clone a SIM card in ten minutes?”

“Got the ESN and the MIN—the electronic serial number and the mobile identification number?”

“Right here.”

“You’re talking to the right person,” Saj said. “But it might take me a while. Say an hour?”

“Worth a shot. Meanwhile, I’ll copy down the numbers that come up most in the dialed log, just in case.” Budding tree branches shivered in the night wind on broad Avenue du Général Leclerc.

“What does all this have to do with the Modigliani?” Saj asked.

“Didn’t I explain?”

“That you’re chasing the people chasing the painting.…”

Until now. The buy was on. And she’d have to figure it out as it played.

“What else could I do?”

“You’re the detective,” Saj said. “Follow clues, question suspects, go over evidence.…”

She heard music in the background. Japanese. “What’s going on?”

“My acupuncturist made an office call. He does massage too. René needed a shiatsu treatment.”

She could use one right now as well, but the taxi was approaching the gates of the Parc Montsouris. Dombasle’s red Fiat was parked on the curb. An uneasy feeling came over her.

“D
ON’T TELL ME,”
Dombasle said. “You’re moonlighting as a maid? Or you’re an actress auditioning for a role?”

“I like to dress up, Raphael.” The smell of sodden chestnut leaves rose from the pavement.

“Undercover, that’s it,” he said.

“Where’s the buy?”

“Postponed.” He shook his head. “The
antiquaire
says tomorrow.”

“Didn’t you know that ten minutes ago?” Aimée said, frustrated. “Yet you insisted I come here.”

He shrugged.

“What’s going on?” The red taillights of the taxi disappeared in the mist. Too late to call it back.

“Come inside the café. Let me explain.”

Wet and tired, she agreed.

A glass of wine later, he was holding her hand. “Don’t get mad, but I wanted to see you. Hear you laugh.”

And waste her time.

“During an investigation?” One that seemed to be going nowhere fast, she wanted to add. First the Russian bodyguard, now Dombalse. Was she giving off some special scent tonight? Or should she blame it on the musk and ambergris in Chanel No. 5?

But she liked this semi-nerdy
intello
, unlike any
flic
she’d met. She couldn’t put a finger on why—the way he spoke about art, maybe. She sat back—wine now, on top of the champagne—at this corner table in the Montsouris café. The place was empty on this rainy night, apart from the owner reading
L’Equipe
, the sports and betting newspaper, behind the counter. Outside, on the narrow street, lamps illuminated the wet cobblestones like in a black-and-white Atget photograph.

After the rain stopped, Aimée and Dombasle walked uphill past the park shrouded in darkness, hearing the distant croak of frogs. She liked the way he asked her no questions and she told him no lies. How he kept her arm in his.

He gestured to rue Nansouty, a hilly, treelined lane of brick and timber and stone houses. Once the countryside, now exclusive and home to the wealthy. “That’s my place.”

A
flic
with a trust fund? “Art
flics
do all right,” she said.

“My grandfather was a
mutilé de guerre, une gueule cassée
.”

Aimée shivered. A “broken face”—the men disfigured in the trenches of the Sommes, in Ypres, half their faces blown away. When she was a child, the butcher’s father around the
corner on Île Saint-Louis wore a mask to cover his half-face, a grotesque, scarred map.

“A philanthropist built the houses for wounded soldiers and their families after the war. I grew up here.” He grinned. “Last one of the original families. A unique mingling of walking war-wounded and artists. Everyone a bit crazy. My father and grandfather knew Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, Soutine, and Dalí. All neighbors down the street. My grandfather let Braque sketch him, during his Cubist phase. That’s why my father took up painting, he’d say, to find the beauty in pain. Pain lived in our house.”

Part of Aimée ached to tell him of Dmitri Bereskova’s paper museum. She knew she should, but held back. Not sure why.

“Huppert said you know about the fixer. Maybe if I ask with a ‘pretty please’ and sweeten it with.…”

His arms enveloped her. “With this?”

The wet wool of his coat against her cheek, a curl of his hair against her lashes. His lips on hers. She didn’t want him to stop.

Bright headlights pierced the mist. For a moment she felt paralyzed, like a deer caught on a country road. What was she doing here with Dombasle? The bright light shocked sense into her. The white sign on the roof signaled that it was free.

“Taxi!” she yelled, struggling out of his arms. Brakes squealed. “I’ve got to go,” Aimée said, and ran to the waiting taxi.

B
ACK AT HER
apartment, the imprint of his kiss lingered. His warm lips, the way she hadn’t wanted to pull away. The canopy of leaves and vines leading to his rain-freshened doorstep on rue Nansouty. The peaceful sea of foliage in the park.

Confused, she curled under the duvet, her laptop at her side and Miles Davis at her feet. Had Dombasle turned the tables on her, seduction being part of his strategy?

So far, chasing the Modigliani and her mother had only led
her to a dead end. What kind of detective would her father call her?

Something was staring her in the face, but what? Over and over, she asked herself what she was missing.

Start over
, her father always said.
Go back to the beginning, reexamine every detail. Reassemble the pieces of the big picture
.

She fell asleep to the night sounds outside her mansard window—the Seine lapping against the stone bank and the tapping of the rain. Her dreams were a murky haze of running and never catching up.

A
IMÉE WOKE UP
to a sweet, woody fragrance wafting from the yellow and orange petals sprinkled over her duvet. Miles Davis’s wet nose nudged her ears. He sported a red collar with a rosebud.

What in the world?

She grabbed her father’s old wool robe and followed the aroma of coffee to her kitchen. Dozens of orange, yellow, and red roses in vases filled the counter.

“Your landline’s been ringing off the hook, sleepy head.” Melac, tousled hair and barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, sipped from a steaming demitasse of espresso. Beside him was a plate of fresh-baked brioches with raspberry confiture and a slab of rich Brittany butter. Her stomach growled.

“So you raided a florist’s?”

“I missed you too.” He picked her up, engulfing her with his arms and kissing her neck, sweet and sticky raspberry breath in her ear.

Her heart dropped. Last night she’d almost slept with Dombasle. She felt a stab of guilt. But hadn’t she seen Melac with the blonde?

This was his way of making it up to her—flowers and affection, always a man’s telltale signs of guilt. He’d deny everything.

“You wasted your money, Melac. Send them back to the florist.”

“But our sting op ended by the flower market. The florist’s a
friend.” He gestured to the small green ivy topiary and miniature lemon trees.

“You think I’ve got an
orangerie?
”

“Use the
jardin d’hiver
, you’ve got enough room.”

The old glassed-in terrace full of ancient rattan chairs she never used.

His gray eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you return my calls last night?”

“I was busy.” He didn’t deserve to know. “I broke my rule, never mix with
flics
.”

“Not this again,” he said, moistening his thumb and picking up brioche crumbs.

“That blonde, the drunk sports star at la Rotonde,” she said. “Don’t deny it. I saw you.”

Melac’s eyes clouded. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Can’t talk about it? You expect me to believe—?”

“A honeypot sting,” he interrupted.

“And I’m Madame de Pompadour,” she said.

Melac grinned. “Better.
Zut
, Aimée, she’s an agent.”

Of course he’d say that. “Liar, no one kisses like that.…”

“We needed him jealous.” Melac shook his head. “The operation got more complicated than usual. Let’s just say the footballer opened certain doors for us. Suzanne, the blonde, is married to my colleague. They’ve got three kids.” He shrugged. Took the wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open to a photo: on a sailboat, the blonde, windblown and smiling with three blond children, and Melac with his arm around a man she recognized. He sighed. “That’s Paul. You met him last month, remember? None of us can wait to finish this operation.”

Aimée knew that look in his eyes. It had been just another day at the office for him.

“Desolée.”
Her voice came out small. Now she hated herself for doubting him. For what might have happened if that taxi hadn’t appeared.

“What’s wrong, Aimée?”

Was she being that obvious?

He pulled her to him. Held her. She breathed in his citrus scent.

“Aimée, I’ve got a tuxedo, so I can escort you to Sebastien’s wedding. I’ve blocked the date. They can’t call me in.”

She stared down at Miles Davis’s battered Limoges food bowl. Should she tell him about Dombasle? Would he understand something she didn’t understand herself? Could they work through this?

If she didn’t, it would fester and never be right between them.

Melac picked a bottle of champagne from his sports bag and put it in her suitcase-sized fridge. “Shall we order in tonight, so you can make it up to me?”

She dropped the demitasse spoon. “Make it up to you?” Now she felt racked by guilt.

“For not returning my calls.” He grinned. “Seems your cell phone’s off. Saj has called five times.”

Suddenly worried, she nodded. Saj was a priority. But first she had to tell him.

“
Alors
, last night.…”

Melac’s cell phone rang. He reached in his pocket and pulled out two. “It’s Sandrine. Give me a second.” His daughter.
“Oui, ma chérie?”
His eyes shuttered. “Calm down, Nathalie.” His ex-wife.

Another custody issue?

“What happened? You’re where?” Pause. “Sandrine, in the school bus? Speak slower for God’s sake.… How long ago?” He reached for his gym bag, his face ashen. “What hospital?”

F
ROM HER COURTYARD
, she watched Melac pull away in an unmarked Peugeot, sirens screaming down the quai. A sliver of blue lined the zinc rooftops under a cloud-filled sky.
She stood under the budding branches of the old pear tree and prayed his daughter would make it.

Madame Cachou, her concierge, poked her head out of the round window in the courtyard loge.

“The way men come and go around here!” Her penciled eyebrows had climbed up her forehead.

“His daughter’s one of thirty children injured in the school bus crash with the TGV,” Aimée said.

“That train catastrophe in Brittany? It’s all over the
télé
newsflash.
Mon Dieu
.” Madame Cachou made a sign of the cross. “I’ll tell the
curé
. We’ll say a novena.”

From Melac’s terse description, she’d need to say a novena and more.

Miles Davis pawed the paving stone.

“Wants his walk, the little man,” Madame Cachou said, coming out with his leash. She zipped up a bright aquamarine hoodie that fit her now—she’d lost five kilos doing yoga. And looked ten years younger.

“We’ll stop at the church. Shall I keep Miles Davis tonight?”

Aimée nodded.
“Merci.”
She pulled her scooter off the kickstand. Walked it over the damp cobbles. Paused. “What men, Madame Cachou?”

“Un Russe,”
she said.

Aimée spine stiffened. The former KGB chauffeur had tracked her down already? But how?

Madame Cachou made a sniffing sound. “Vodka seeping from his pores. Couldn’t fool me. The old coot stank to heaven.” She reached back behind the loge door. “He left something for you.”

A Trotsyskist newspaper. It must have been the old man with the red-veined nose, drunk to the world, at Marevna’s
resto
. But he’d already left one for her with Marevna.

“He said you’d understand.”

Understand?

Taped to the second page was a postcard-sized blue note card.

Sainte Anne Hospital, Allée de Kafka. Friday, 5
P.M
.