Murder in the Palais Royal (3 page)

Authors: Cara Black

Morbier sat, sighing, and nodded to the officer. Then he pulled off his black-tasseled loafers, wincing.

The officer unlocked the cuffs. Aimée rubbed her sore wrists. Little red indentations marred her skin.

“Two espress, officer,
s’il vous plaît,
” said Morbier.

Since when did Morbier say “please”?

“What happened this time, Leduc?”

He unbuttoned the shirt collar, stretched his neck. Then held up his hand. “
Non,
don’t tell me. That’s the Brigade’s turf, not mine. Not for a long time now. You know that, Leduc. I hoped this was a social call.”

“Melac suspects me of the shooting.” She paused and took a breath.

“
Did
you shoot René?”

She shook her head.

“Start at the beginning, Leduc,” he said, his face expressionless.

So she did.

“So René was shot at your office with your gun?” Morbier flicked a kitchen match against the edge of his desk; the match flared, and he lit an unfiltered Gauloise. His eyes narrowed. “And you want my help?”

Where was that coffee? Her heavy eyelids drooped.

“You gave me that Beretta, Morbier. Remember?”

He shifted in his chair. “And I hope you licensed it.”

“But it could belong to anyone. None of this makes sense.” She rubbed her eyes. “Would I shoot René with my Beretta, then walk in here and tell you about it?”

“Stranger things happen.”

“Who the hell shot René, and why does everyone think it’s me?” She tried to slow down, control the rising panic in her voice. “I want to give my statement and move on to more important things. Like finding who did this.”

“As I said, I can’t help you.”

“Then who can?”

The aroma of freshly brewed espress filled Morbier’s office. The female officer set a tray down on his desk.

“
Merci.”

Aimée looked around her. Hanging on his coat rack, the white scarf was out of place beside his mouse-brown raincoat and worn blue wool duffel coat. A few framed photos hung on Morbier’s walls; his desk was littered with files and stray papers. There was not much here, but it all spoke of Morbier.

She dropped two brown sugar cubes in the demitasse and stirred.

“How is René?” Morbier took a sip and set his demitasse down.

“His right lung was punctured. I still can’t believe anyone would shoot him.”

She noticed the black-framed photo on the wall: Morbier at the Elysée Palace with the president. “Since when do you hobnob with Chirac?”

“It’s me and twenty others in the photo, Leduc. Another retirement reception. That’s all I go to these days. Retirement functions. Mine too, soon.”

He’d said that for years. But he kept his mouth closed about his work on the Brigade Criminelle’s third floor in
Groupe R
, which had been upped to a few days a week. She observed the age spots on his hands, the wrinkled neck below his jowls, the weariness in his expression. Yet he’d come to work still wearing his tuxedo. His loyalty to the job came first, she’d give him that.

And she’d use it.

The steaming espress, bitter and strong, sent a jolt to her head.

“You haven’t answered me, Morbier. I want you to get Melac off my back and steer this investigation the right way.”

“You know it’s not in my hands.”

“A word in the right ear, Morbier, that’s all I ask.” She gave him the biggest smile she could muster. “Melac’s off duty. They bagged my hands for GSR, but it’s been two hours and no one’s taken my statement. They haven’t processed any admits all morning.” She leaned forward. “Who’d want to hurt René? Can’t you request that this investigation be placed in the right hands? Who’s the golden boy detective right now?”

“You really want to know, Leduc?”

“I want the pro. The best. René deserves it.”

“And you don’t, of course,” Morbier said.

“Why are they wasting time, Morbier? I’ve got an alibi.”

“No doubt you rubbed someone the wrong way, Leduc. And if you don’t behave, they’ll keep you longer.”

“Like twenty-four hours in
garde à vue?
You’re my godfather, Morbier. Would you let them?”

“Melac’s the best, Leduc.”

“What?” A sinking feeling came over her.

“Forget Melac’s attitude,” Morbier said. “He’s the one I’d want if I were a suspect.”

“A suspect? But I had a man over for dinner last night. He can confirm it. I couldn’t have shot René.”

“You cooked?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Until the GSR reports come back negative and your alibi’s confirmed, you’re Melac’s point of attack.”

“Meanwhile, evidence will be lost or contaminated,” she said. “Melac’s not like you. And you call him the best?”

The air in the office was thick with cigarette smoke. Only the distant ringing of telephones in the outer offices broke the silence.

“We’re all different, Leduc. Look below the surface,” Morbier finally said. “Besides, it’s a new world now. Computers, forensics, this DNA. And the young ones who know how to use these things. They call me a dinosaur.”

She did too, but not to his face. Yet no computer could replace Morbier’s brain as it catalogued names and facts and put them together. And he never forgot a thing.

“What’s this job gotten me, Leduc, but a life sentence?”

He had no family except for a grandson in Morocco who he’d lost custody of. His job was his life. His only life.

The red lights of Morbier’s phone console lit up like cherries, all in a row. He lifted the receiver. “
Oui?
They’ve been asking about her?
Bon,
she’s ready.”

Morbier hung up. “They’re ready to take your statement.” He sighed. “I’ve bailed you out one too many times. It’s not my job any more; I’ve ruffled too many feathers.”

“Has that ever stopped you?”

With Morbier, it always came down to a deal. What could she offer?

“You want me to cooperate, Morbier?” she said. “I will.”

“That’s a first.” He lit another Gauloise. The smoke spiraled in a gray trail to the ceiling. His eyes narrowed. “You promise?”

Like hell she would. “Count on it, Morbier.”

“It’s Melac’s call, Leduc. But behave and I’ll see what I can do.”

Morbier reached in his drawer and put a fifty-franc note in her hand. “Buy René some flowers.”

René needed a lot more than flowers.

She joined the police escort at his door. Paused. “
Merci
.”

All the way down the wide stone staircase, past the black-suited magistrates huddled in conversation, a thought nagged at her. Morbier had referred her to the New York detective, yet he had neglected to mention it now. So unlike him. He never forgot a favor owed.

* * *

I
N THE FIRST - FLOOR cubicle, Aimée stared at Vichon, the duty detective. Late thirties, shaven head, and barrel-like chest, he dwarfed the small metal desk. He inserted a sheet, aligned the paper, and pecked at the ancient typewriter keyboard with two fingers.

“
W
HERE’S YOUR COMPUTER?” Aimée asked. “It’s 1997.”

“Blame it on your tax francs
not
at work,” Vichon said. “They hook the new system up next week. Or so they say.”

He had that right, she thought. Half of the Commissariat’s computer systems were incompatible with the others. Red-faced, the Brigade Criminelle had tried to hide the fact that its budget didn’t provide for enough computers to handle Britain’s MI5’s communications, an embarrassment in the more than a month since Princess Diana’s car crash in the Pont de l’Alma tunnel. Referred to as ‘
La Crim,’
the Brigade Criminelle’s investigation into the phantom Fiat Uno seen speeding away still had turned up nothing.

“You’ve got security on my partner’s hospital room,
non?
”

“Now you’re telling me how to do my job, Mademoiselle?”

Somebody needed to, but she swallowed her words.

The Brigade Criminelle was allowed to hold her in
garde à vue
for up to twenty-four hours. Better to shut up, not push Vichon. She couldn’t find the person who’d shot René from a jail cell.

A knock sounded on his cubicle window.

“
Oui?”
Vichon heaved himself up and conducted a conversation in the hallway with a blue-uniformed
flic.
The only word she caught was
indicateur,
an informer.

Aimée saw a blonde in zebra-striped hot pants, lace-up stiletto boots, and matching black leather bustier. Her hands were cuffed behind her. Attractive, apart from the black eye and the dried blood on her cheek.

Was this what they did to informers? Aimée’s shoulders tensed. Vichon stepped back into the cubicle.

Aimée passed him a slip of paper with Mathieu’s phone number on it. “Call him. He’ll confirm that we had dinner last night at my apartment. He stayed there until the call came from the hospital.”

Vichon shrugged. “All in good time.”

Twenty minutes later, she’d signed her two-page typewritten statement and pushed it over his desk.

And then it hit her. He’d typed out her statement, but not on the standard Proce`s-verbal form. And she knew why. Filing the Proce`s-verbal kicked the administrative wheels into action: duration of custody, her right to an attorney, and assignment of a procurator and
Juge d’Instruction.
A loss of power for the police. The elitists at
La Crim
hated being on the
juge d’instruction’s
leash. Termed “hunters,” they preferred to investigate in their own way, to remain “unofficial” until they were certain before documenting their investigation “officially.”

A bad sign. Since Napoleon’s time—and before—the police had spied on French citizens. That hadn’t changed. They could tap her phone, follow her, give her rope with which to hang herself.

Vichon thumbed the pages in the report, scratching his chin, ignoring her statement.

Aimée drummed her chipped Byte-me Blue lacquered nails on the desk. “
Alors,
I’ve got an alibi. Besides, I have no reason to shoot my partner. He’s my best friend.”

“Witnesses at the scene identified you.”

Surprised, she leaned forward. “But I left my office at five P.M. to pick up the rosemary chicken. Ask the Fauchon clerk at Place de la Madeleine.”

“One witness was very clear in his statement,” Vichon said, ignoring her words. “The one who saw you running away down the stairs.”

“Saw me? You mean the drunken Italians down the hall? What was I wearing?”

“Forget the fashion questions, Mademoiselle.”

The stale air in Vichon’s cubicle was getting to her. She stood, smoothing down her skirt. What else had the Italians said? What had Vichon left out? “The Italians weren’t the only tenants on our floor partying when I left. Ask the ad agency.”

“Until we get a confirmation of your alibi,” Vichon said in a measured tone, “you’re the suspect we’re working with, Mademoiselle. Why are you in such a hurry?”

She dropped back into the chair, staring at him. “I know procedure and, of course, I want to assist in any way I can.” She didn’t mention that she was tired, hungry, in need of more espress, and wanted to brush her teeth. “I can help you, Vichon. I do computer security, but my background’s criminal investigation; I’m a licensed PI. Whatever I find out will go right to you. Procedure followed and adhered to.” She watched him. “And you’ll get the credit.”

“But you’re not my type.”

She wanted to hit the sexist
salaud.
Instead she bit her lip. “How does that enter into an investigation?”

“This is
La Crim’s
case.” He leaned back in his chair. “No amateur help needed, especially an amateur with a plane ticket out of the country and her bags packed.”

“But Commissaire Morbier will vouch for me,” she said. “Not half an hour ago in his office upstairs he commended Inspector Melac. He told me Melac was the best.”

Vichon sat up. “He said that?”

“And you’d like him to speak of you that way, wouldn’t you, Vichon? Not express concern over pointlessly detaining me, his goddaughter, in the
garde à vue
.”

Vichon’s fists clenched.

“Now, do we need to call my godfather,” she said, “or may I have my bag?”

* * *

O
UTSIDE
L
EDUC
D
ETECTIVE, Aimée stood on the scuffed wood floor of the landing. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed her frosted glass office door, which was ajar. She pushed it open.

Inside, she saw a figure with an orange POLICE armband opening his metal fingerprint kit. Through the window came the whine of a siren, the hum of midday traffic, and cooing from a pigeon perched on the black iron grillework.

As usual.

But it wasn’t.

Graphite powder dusted the woodwork and file cabinets. The contents of her desk drawer—a tube of mascara, software encryption manuals, keys, and stop-smoking patches—littered the floor.

“Didn’t you notice the tape? No entry,” said the fingerprint technician.