Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday, 6:30 P.M.

COMMISSAIRE MORBIER NODDED to the driver of the unmarked police car. “Relay to dispatch that I’m detained. Breaking revelations in the investigation, the usual.”

He’d miss another commissariat meeting he couldn’t afford to miss. Like every other hurry-up-and-wait bigwig caucus he’d missed in the throes of this damned investigation.

“Compris, Sergeant?”

Trained to cover Morbier’s ass, the driver nodded. Morbier glanced at his cell phone. Two calls from Aimée. Nothing he wanted to deal with now.

He powered off his phone and slammed the car door. Set his shoulders for this grief-therapy session that Honfleur, the police psychologist, mandated. Otherwise he’d face a week at the stress unit “intensive” outside Paris. The last thing he wanted.

His breath steamed in the cold, twilit air. He walked back a half block to the Sainte Elisabeth church in case the driver kept him in his rearview mirror. Morbier gripped the stair railing, taking each ice-slicked step one at a time. I’m just another old man, he thought, frustrated, terrified to break a hip. All of a sudden the thick, carved wooden doors slapped open. Two laughing boys ran out like rifle shots, just missing his leg.

Had he ever been that young, or moved so fast? He straightened up in the cold church vestibule. Melted candle wax and frankincense, smells so familiar, rooted in some saint’s day, he forgot which. The traditions of his childhood.

Deep notes sounded from the organ above. A refrain played again and again. Saturday evening organ practice, Morbier thought. “The Lord washes away our sins,” a staccato voice joined in.

No bets on that from his corner.

On the community notices tacked near the side chapel, under the flyer for Narcotiques Anonymes, he found “Grief Group Meeting, Room 2, Rear Stairs.”

Merde. More stairs.

The room held twelve or so men and women, gathered around the pastries and coffee on a refectory table. A wall poster invited parishioners to bring guitars to Sunday sing-along Mass. Surprised, he noticed people of all ages.

“The pastries come from the pâtisserie on rue du Temple,” he overheard a young woman saying, “off Place de la République. Wonderful pain au chocolat …”

She looked up. Clear, steady gaze. Warm smile. “We take turns providing refreshments,” she said, not showing surprise that an extra-old codger had just appeared. Morbier hadn’t signed up. Almost backed out at the last minute. “Welcome, I’m Jeanne. The coffee’s not bad. I made it myself.”

After a round of introductions—first names and how long they’d attended the grief group—Jeanne stood and smiled. “We’d like to welcome the newcomers to share if they wish. Speaking and getting support is what we’re all about here.”

Not that he had any intention of “sharing” with strangers. A typical bunch of whining types with time for a pity party. He noticed a patch of mildew on the wall below a simple wooden cross.

“For a year I couldn’t face this hole in my life,” Jeanne was saying, “always being reminded by the little things.”

Alors, just what he’d expected.

“I was so ashamed when I burst into tears at everyday, mundane things,” Jeanne said. “His tie I found behind the armoire, the one I’d forgotten to dry-clean. His crumpled Post-it about my library fine, which I found in the bottom of my bag. How I still listen to his voice on our answering machine.”

“Me, too.” Several heads nodded.

“My life’s like treading underwater and not breaking the surface,” a voice added.

“They dismissed my brother’s death as an industrial accident,” said another. “The elevator controls failed … nothing even left to bury.”

Morbier lapsed into his own thoughts, an opaque, dismal netherworld. The ache that hadn’t gone away since Xavierre’s murder. His survival was work. Good thing they’d kept him on the internal corruption investigation.

That or he would have shot himself.

And left a mess for Aimée to face. Coward that he was, he still hadn’t told her. About the past.

But if he did, she’d never speak to him again. Never forgive him.

“You said something, Monsieur?”

Had he? He felt the others turning toward him. He’d forgotten where he was.

“Please, continue.” Jeanne smiled. “This is a safe place.”

Feeling like a fool, he took a breath. Steeled himself and looked up. He saw sad faces, beaten expressions, a quiet desperation mingled with kindness. Better say something.

He cleared his throat. “I can’t talk about losing my … . It’s been over a month.”

“Grief holds no time line,” Jeanne said.

The middle-aged woman next to him reached out and squeezed his hand. “I couldn’t talk about losing my husband or hear his name for six months. Bottling up my grief made me ill. But I’m making up for things now. Learning. I won’t let my feelings go unsaid.”

Morbier chewed his lip. He felt a wetness on his cheeks. Tears dampening his wool scarf. And pain flooded him. “I’m afraid if I die I still won’t have said what I need to.” Then he couldn’t stop talking. The floodgates opened. “Xavierre, the woman I … I loved, was buried in Bayonne. With work … I can’t even visit her grave.”

And somehow, later, he found himself wiping his face with a borrowed handkerchief, drinking coffee, and agreeing to bring pastries the following week. Also arranging to meet Jeanne, who lived in his quartier, to talk over a glass of wine. Something to look forward to, instead of another long evening alone.

Emerging into the darkness, he descended the ice-slicked stairs feeling lighter. Knowing he could cope, at least for tonight. For the first time in a month, he took a deep breath and didn’t feel the slicing pain of regret.

A woman stood in his way by the church railing. She tossed a newspaper in the trash bin. Her figure, the posture, that slant of the head … familiar. Where did he know her from?

“Attending church now, Morbier? I thought you were an atheist.”

He hadn’t heard that voice in years. That American accent. His mouth parted in an O of amazement.

Different hairstyle, clothes. Cheekbones more prominent. A face-lift, he figured. Unrecognizable except for her voice. And the carmine-red lips.

“And I thought you were dead,” he said.

And buried.

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” A tight smile. A lost look flitted across her eyes, and then it was gone. “For now.”

She scanned the lit street. Then turned and in a deft movement slipped something in his overcoat pocket.

“Follow the instructions.”

“That ended years ago, Sydney.” He shook his head.

“I can’t shield my daughter now. Or protect her. Not anymore.”

“Protect her?” He snorted. “You abandoned Aimée.”

The wind sliced his face.

“You’re the last person … the only one I can turn to now, Morbier.”

His skin prickled.

“Aimée’s in danger.”

Then it all came back to him. He was stung to the bone. “You think I’ll fall for that again?”

She stepped back in the shadows.

“Then her blood’s on your hands.”