Murder in Clichy

Thursday Afternoon

MORBIER, WEARING A SUIT and tie and carrying a briefcase, locked the door of his Bastille district apartment. The briefcase was one her father had given him long ago. She’d only seen him in a suit once before.

“Why didn’t you let me know Sophie’d left?”

Startled, Morbier turned around.

“Leduc, don’t sneak up on me like that. We’ll talk later, I’m late for the Tribunal,” he said. “Turns out Marc’s other grandparents have called for a mediation to extend their visitation rights.”

“Morbier, you were supposed to call me!”

“Et alors, Sophie said she’d told you!”

She clenched her hands. The bile rose in her stomach.

“You believed her, Morbier?”

He glanced at his watch, an old one with a frayed leather band. “She’s in London by now.”

Incredulous, she stared at Morbier. “Why did you let her go?”

“You. You didn’t tell me to cuff her to the chair, did you?” he said. “I would have. Sophie said there was nothing you could do.” He shrugged. “No one can babysit her if she doesn’t want it.”

True. A scared Sophie might be safer in England, but it left Aimée in the dark.

“Didn’t you ask her about Thadée, question her about the jade?”

“Stubbornness runs in your veins and those of your ‘friends,’ too!” Morbier said. “She said she didn’t know anything. And you know what, I believed her. Then she made coffee, complimented me on my taste in Havana cigarillos, and left.”

Aimée wanted to steady her shaking hands. Couldn’t. Not since Thadée Baret had landed in her arms. But she wouldn’t let Morbier see them. Couldn’t let him know the stress had gotten to her.

“Morbier, do you think I can’t handle this now because of . . . my eyes?”

“Leduc, I recommend you stick to what you do best. Computers.”

“But René. . . .”

“Have they called back?”

She shook her head. “I told Commissaire Ronsard.”

“Good,” Morbier said.

“But he thinks I lured Thadée into the street so he could be killed.”

“The kidnappers will call. Ronsard knows his stuff. He’ll get them.”

She had to convince Morbier. Persuade him now. Like milk, he soured quickly.

“Morbier, you have to speak with Ronsard. Persuade him I had nothing to do with shooting Baret or abducting Sophie. And that René’s in great danger.”

“I’ll try.”

And with that, he locked his door and ushered her out.

AIMÉE WOVE her way among the bicycles and buses stalled on rue de Rivoli. The stench of exhaust and beeping of horns wore on her nerves.

She tried René’s number again, then listened to her messages. Nothing.

The faint hope she’d nursed with respect to Guy died. Guy hadn’t been one to burn up the phone lines. But he’d written her letters from Geneva, putting into words his impressions and feelings about life, and for her. A sketch in the corner, a line of poetry here and there . . . she’d read them over and over. An old-fashioned part of her loved the words he’d penned and even the crisp paper he’d touched.

She missed him. She hesitated, but she knew she had to explain. She called his office. “Doctor Lambert, please,” she said. “It’s Aimée Leduc.”

“He’s with patients,” Marie said, her voice clipped and frosty. “I’ll relay the message.”

Was Guy refusing to take her calls?

With a heavy heart she mounted the spiral staircase and opened the door of Leduc Detective. Startled, she saw a young man in his early twenties, with light brown dreadlocks to his waist, eating tandoori chicken next to an open laptop. Turmeric and curry smells filled the office.

“Mind telling me how you got into my office and what you’re doing here?” she said.

“Sorry, I’m Saj de Rosnay,” he said with a sheepish grin, wiping the corners of his mouth. “René gave me a key, I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

René’s encryption genius certainly knew how to make himself at home. Saj sat crosslegged in her chair, his laptop and files strewn over her desk. He wore beige cotton Indian pants, vest, and flowing tunic. Tibetan turquoise hung from his neck. But with his pale complexion and amber eyes he looked all French.

“René asked me to prepare some data for you,” Saj said, pointing to the spreadsheets all over the recamier. “Sorry, but I’m not quite there.”

René trusted him. And right now she needed his help to keep the business running. She’d reserve judgment until she saw what he could do.

“I’m Aimée,” she said, biting back her comments about his work habits. She hung up her coat and shook his hand. Her stomach growled; she hadn’t eaten this morning.

“No problem,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

“Try a pakora,” he said, gesturing to the open cartons. He pulled an Indian shawl around his shoulders, recrossed his legs as he sat on her chair. “I found something interesting when I factored large numbers and then . . . look!”

Threads of numbers stretched over the laptop screen. Impressive.

She nodded and grabbed a warm, crisp, potato-filled pakora.

“I’m curious about you, Saj.” She figured he was a hacker, like most of them, who enjoyed the thrill of penetrating a system, leaving a calling card, but not destroying it.

“Fire away,” he said, stretching his arms and doing neck rolls.

“You’re on loan from the Ministry, n’est-ce pas?” she said. “One of the hackers they train for use in the computer division, instead of sending them to prison.”

Something in his eyes shifted. Had she gone up a notch in his estimation?

“Rehabilitation, they call it,” he smiled.

She opened her laptop at René’s desk, booted up.

“What makes you so important to them, Saj?”

“Things I can do make it too scary to have me as an opponent,” Saj said. “They didn’t know what to do with me so they sent me to the hacker academy to keep tabs on me. But I’m into meditation for the world good. And I refuse to crack Swiss bank databases any more.”

She grinned, rubbing her eyes. Meditation! That’s what had gotten her into this mess.

“Should we wait for René?” he asked.

Her stomach clenched. Would he want to work, to get involved, after he heard about René? “Can I speak in confidence?” she asked.

He nodded, his dreadlocks hitting his elbows.

“He’s been kidnapped. I’m waiting for a phone call from men who took him.”

“For real?” Saj’s eyes widened.

She gave Saj a brief account, leaving out the part concerning the jade.

“A ham radio operator’s ready to triangulate the call,” she said, connecting her phone to the charger. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved since the Ministry’s on your tail. But I need help, and so does René.”

Saj shook his head, his brow furrowed. “René’s an artiste, deft and intuitive. I respect him, he’s taught me so much in the short time I’ve known him.”

Aimée turned away, fighting back tears. Saj painted René perfectly. Even if he had taken over her desk.

“René would want us to work, not stew. I deal better with tension by working.”

“Me, too,” he said.

Three hours later, they’d finished the statistics, drafted a security proposal, and consumed the entire contents of the cartons of Indian takeout.

“Nice work,” she said.

She’d deliberately limited her comments to work. Saj was good. Very good. And he’d seemed to take to heart the news about René.

Every time the office phone rang she jumped and looked at the clock. Eighteen hours had passed and still no phone call.

“I’d like to help you,” Saj said. “Especially since René . . . well, he’s helped me.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” she said. “Give me your number, we’ll have more to do tomorrow.”

He handed her a card. “Namaste,” he said, putting his hands together in a gesture of peace. He gathered his laptop and left.

If she took the medication and used screen reading software, she’d avoid straining her eyes. Then she thought about the rent, her renovation contractor, Miles Davis’s grooming bill, René’s salary, and new equipment.

The phone/fax line rang. Her fingers tensed on the keyboard. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t blow it with the kidnappers this time.