Murder on the Champ de Mars (9 page)

He paused in the doorway. “Talk to Marie Fourcy, our public-health liaison.” As Aimée joined him at the door, he beckoned to a small-boned black-haired woman with an aquiline nose who was talking to staff in the hallway. The woman, who reminded Aimée of a sparrow, broke off from the group and joined them.

The young doctor hurried away as soon as he had introduced the two women and explained Aimée’s concerns.

“We’ve sent an alert to all facilities in the system for Drina Constantin,” Marie said, repeating the party line back in the doctor’s office. “As soon as she shows up, we’ll be notified.”

Aimée wondered what the chances of that were. “Have you spoken with her son, Nicu?”

“Her son? I haven’t seen him, Mademoiselle.” Marie glanced at the reports on the desk. “But from what the
flics
told me, you’ll get nothing out of him, unless it’s something he wants you to know. People like him send people like you in circles.”

No sympathy there. But Aimée’d get nowhere fast if she accused Marie of prejudice. She’d have to try something else.

“Marie, can you help me understand some things here? I don’t get why Nicu would have brought his mother to this hospital unless they lived in the
quartier.
”

“Gypsies, here in the seventh? With the prime minister?”

She’d wondered that too.

Marie rubbed her brow. “
Bien sûr
, we maintain our public ward, as all hospitals do. Laennec was founded as a hospital for incurables.” Marie shrugged. “My job’s coordinating public health outreach,” she said, by rote, it seemed to Aimée. “The more integrated and assimilated
manouches
are musicians or those working the markets.”

Markets. She remembered Drina Constantin’s market-vendor ID from last night.

“I need Drina Constantin’s address.”

“I can’t give you that, of course,” Marie said. “Her son hasn’t given it to you? I’m not surprised. Even the integrated Gypsies take off in a moment. Roaming’s in their blood.”

Some public-health liaison this Marie was. “The alarm wires to the back fire-exit door of Ward C were severed last night,” Aimée said, pretending to consult her Moleskine, which she’d opened to her to-do list. “One of Drina’s socks was found beside a wheelchair that had been abandoned near the emergency entrance at the back of the hospital. It’s clear that Drina Constantin was abducted by someone familiar with the ward layout, someone who blended in.” Or anyone who had cased out the hospital and its slipshod security, but she bit her tongue. “If that doesn’t point to staff, Marie …”

“Haven’t you consulted the
flics?
They questioned the staff who were on duty last night,” she said. “Each of them has accounted for their whereabouts last night pre- and post-shift.”

Yet no one had questioned Lana the ambulance driver.

“So how did the abductor get in?” Someone had probably watered the plants, as her father would say—bribery. “Perhaps a wad of francs to an orderly to disconnect the alarm? Maybe even to bring the patient out to the ambulance alley?”

“I personally vouch for the three orderlies on duty last night.” Marie’s small eyes narrowed. “One of my husband’s
cousins; the other two have worked here ten, fifteen years and will retire when we close.”

Alors
, Aimée thought: if it wasn’t a paid-off hospital employee, then a keen observer.

Behind Marie’s head a hospital directory was pasted on the wall by a list labeled
USEFUL NUMBERS
. That gave her an idea.

“Here’s my card,” said Aimée.

Professional courtesy demanded that Marie give hers in return. Didn’t it? Marie made no move.

“May I have your card in case I need to reach you?”

“
Désolée
, I’m all out.”

Liar. One was stuck above her head on the corkboard.

“Consult the
flics
if you have any further questions,” Marie said, an arch tone in her voice. She showed Aimée to the hall, closing the office door behind them. “I’ve got a meeting.”

So far she’d gotten little: Naftali overhearing Drina’s shouting about birds, and Nicu needing to know the truth; Lana’s recollection of a black car with tinted windows.

Aimée followed several paces behind Marie until she entered a ward; as soon as she did, Aimée backtracked down the hallway and slipped back into the office, praying the woman wouldn’t return. Standing behind the door for cover, Aimée took Marie’s card from the corkboard and consulted the wall directory, then on the desk phone dialed 09, the extension for Admissions.

“I’m Marie Fourcy, calling from Doctor Estienne’s Ward C station. We’re unable to locate a patient’s records. Drina Constantin. Can you give me her contact information?”

“You’ve got the files,” the admissions clerk said.

Great. “Her chart’s missing, that’s the problem.”

“Your problem. We processed the patient yesterday upon admission and sent the records down to you at … eighteen hundred hours.”

She had to get something. Thought back to Nicu pulling out the market work permit. “
Bon
, what’s the patient’s address?”

“Address? You should have it.”

“But of course you’ve kept a copy in Admissions,
non
?”

A sigh. “When the messenger comes I’ll send it …”

“Merci beaucoup,”
Aimée interrupted. Noises came from the hall. The rubber wheels of a trolley, approaching voices—
merde!
Couldn’t the woman just hurry up and cooperate? “But the
flics
in the hallway want her address.”

“This is their second request.” Her voice rose in irritation. “I’ve got to process pending admissions, I told them.”

Aimée heard footsteps outside the door. “
Bon
, just give me an address so I can keep them happy.”

“Attendez,”
she said. “There’s a pile here to go through.”

The footsteps came closer.

“
Voilà
. Thirty-nine Boulevard des Invalides.”

“Merci.”

“What are you doing here?” asked a nurse.

Aimée hung up the phone as noiselessly as she could and turned around. Managed a shrug. “Stupid me, I left my sunglasses on the doctor’s desk.”

A moment later she’d escaped into the corridor, not looking back.

W
ITH AN IDEA
forming in her mind, she headed to the service rooms she’d noticed. The laundry steam seeped through a wall vent. She followed the ramp through swinging doors labeled
LAVERIE
and
UNIFORM PICKUP
.

Inside she saw lockers and canvas carts heaped with soiled sheets. Detergent and stale coffee smells wafted from a table in the corner with a
cafetière
on it. She could hear loud voices from the changing room for male staff.

Aimée reached for a staff newsletter on the table by the coffee stains.
“Excusez-moi,”
she called into the locker area. “I’m
with Department of Requisition checking on stock. Reports have reached us about thefts in staff locker rooms and in the laundry.”

“Tell me about it,” said a man who stuck his head out. “Lost my windbreaker, my uniform, even my ID.”

She nodded, controlled her excitement. “As recently as last night or today?”

He shrugged. “I come back to work today after two days off, my locker’s been cleaned out and I have no uniform. It’s making me late for my shift. Why don’t you people investigate?”

“Oh, I will,” she said.

H
ER PHONE VIBRATED
in her pocket. A number she didn’t recognize. Nicu, finally!

But it was the lawyer’s secretary calling to book her appointment. “She has an opening tomorrow afternoon.”

“Nothing sooner?”

“Call it lucky a client cancelled and I can fit you in, Mademoiselle.”

“D’accord, merci.”
Aimée scratched the details into her Moleskine. “My baby’s biological father is making custody claims.”

“Oh, she knows.”

She did? “But how?”

“The
commissaire,
” said the secretary. “Just to alert you, the biological father’s attorney has contacted Maître Benosh.”

Aimée’s heart dropped. Already? “But I’m just making the appointment. How could he know?”

“You’ll need to confer with Maître Benosh.”

What was Melac plottng?

“Tell her he hasn’t recognized his daughter. His name’s not on the birth certificate.”

“That’s another thing,” the secretary said. “Maître Benosh requests you bring your daughter’s birth certificate and
livret de famille.
”

And hand them over to Melac’s lawyer? No way. “I don’t understand. I’m her client. Isn’t she supposed to work for me?”

“The paperwork’s standard. Again, you’ll need to discuss the details with Maître Benosh,” said the secretary. “Or do you want to cancel?”

Torn, she paced. Her fingers gripped the cell phone so tight in anger she almost cancelled the appointment then and there. But she needed a lawyer, fast—and Morbier said this lawyer was the best. She knew better than to ignore a tip from the
commissaire
.

“Keep the appointment,” she said, her insides churning.

“Maître Benosh insists that you have no contact with the biological father before your appointment.” The phone clicked off.

Her cold hands clamped together in fear. Melac meant business.

Then her phone rang again—Nicu this time. Within a minute she had arranged a meeting and headed to her scooter. Her hands were shaking. For now she had to put Melac aside, stuff down her fear of custody over Chloé. She could deal with this. Couldn’t she?

And a dying woman who’d begged to see her about her father’s murder—missing. She noticed the time on the wall clock as she left the building: 9:40
A.M.
Drina had been missing for more than twelve hours.

A
IMÉE PARKED HER
scooter on the curb outside side La Pagode, where she’d arranged to meet Nicu. La Pagode, a rose-colored nineteenth-century Japanese pagoda, had been built by the director of Le Bon Marché as a “folly” for his wife. A few months later, the wife left him for a chauffeur.

Now La Pagode was an art-house cinema with ivy trailing the walls. Drooping willows canopied the tea tables nestled in the Japanese garden. It lay quiet and deserted, apart from
Michel, the projectionist, who waved to her while sweeping the lobby. Maïs, the house cat, slinked past the pair of ceramic dragons guarding the stained-glass door to the cinema.

Nicu wasn’t there. She tried to take deep breaths under the paulownia tree’s curved branches. Did her best not to worry that Melac was running more than one step ahead of her. This
jardin de rêves
, an exquisite jewel of the Japonisme craze that had swept that epoch’s
haute bourgeoisie
, had been her haunt during maternity leave. She’d brought Chloé in a sling on her chest to two o’clock matinees and a silent-film festival with accompanying piano. Music put her baby to sleep, even in a theater.

Wistfulness filled her. Her mind went back to drinking green tea in the garden as Chloé gummed a teething biscuit, entranced by a butterfly hovering over a stone lantern. A faded memory of coming here years ago with her mother floated through her mind.

She’d fight Melac if it took everything she had.

And then she remembered, this was her first day back in the office. Time to quit daydreaming. No way she’d make it to Leduc Detective in fifteen minutes to open up.
Merde!
But she could handle it, couldn’t she? Still plenty of time to prepare for the late lunch meeting. She called the office and left Maxence a message that she would be working from home until the lunch meeting with René. But where was Nicu?

Nicu’s voice jolted her out of her thoughts. He was wearing the jeans and hoodie from last night; dark circles pooled under his eyes.

“Over here,” she said, pulling out a chair for him.

Nicu sat down. “The
flics
tried to frame me for murdering my mother, accused me of performing a mercy killing. Set me up as the suspect, showed me a body in the morgue. It looked like an eighty-year-old woman, and they claimed she’d been found with Drina’s chart.”

Planting evidence on a corpse. Incompetence or desperation? In either case, worse than she’d thought. The
flics
would never find Drina in time.

She checked her Tintin watch. More than thirteen hours since Drina’s abduction.

“Listen, Nicu.” She recounted what she’d discovered last night: the alarm wires that had been cut on the hospital’s exit door, Drina’s sock lodged in the spoke of a wheelchair by the ambulance alley, the ambulance driver who had observed a dark car blocking the
allée
, Naftali hearing a woman screaming in Romany, the theft of a staff uniform from the locker room.

“Et alors?”
said Nicu, his voice thick. “The
flics
do nothing.”

“That’s the work of a pro, Nicu.” She took Nicu’s shaking hand over the tea table. “Who was Drina frightened of? Who can you think of?”

“I don’t know.”

Nicu, no more than a kid, was in shock.

She had to reel him in, get him to focus. “You need to think. We don’t have much time, Nicu,” she said. If Drina was even alive. “That man you said had been following you. Can you remember anything? Clothing, an accent, tattoos?”

He rubbed his eyes, distracted. “
Maman
kept jabbering.”

“Jabbering what?”

“I don’t know,” said Nicu, his lip quivering. “ ‘Sister,’ she kept saying. Her sister, maybe?”

“Her sister, your aunt?” Aimée asked. “Where is she?”

“Passed on a long time ago. Death’s a taboo, we don’t speak of the dead. But she said she couldn’t meet God without telling me …”

Exasperated, she tried to get him back on track. “Think back to the person who was following you, Nicu.”

“The
gadjo
came back, she said. He came back. That’s all.”

The metal garden chair bit into her spine. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then coughed at the mingling smells of
fetid drain and drifting pollen. Think, she had to think how to investigate from here. “Nicu, we’ll start with Drina’s apartment on Boulevard des Invalides. Go from there.” And look for what? But she had to start somewhere.