Murder in Montmartre

Thursday Morning

STREAKS OF THE MORNING’S first light filtered through the mist enveloping Pont Marie. Aimée slid Miles Davis’s tartan winter sweater over his hind legs, settled him in her bike’s wire basket, and cycled through the mist to Leduc Detective. Feeling guilty about being absent again, she’d arranged for Marcel, the one-armed Algerian war veteran who ran the kiosk on rue du Louvre, to dog-sit Miles for a few days.

In the office, she powered up their espresso machine and made a strong espresso double. She hoped for some responses from the three clubs where she’d left messages for Lucien Sarti. With any luck she’d find him and discover his link to Armata Corsa and why he’d left Conari’s party before being questioned. Her hunch was that he’d witnessed Jacques’s murder and had some connection to it or to the diagram Yann had found. Or worse.

In the meantime, she cranked open the window shutters to let in the damp gray air from rue du Louvre together with the smell of butter emanating from the nearby boulangerie. She put on a trance-techno tape she’d bought from a DJ last night. Moody, and with a steady beat. She booted up her computer and searched the Net for information on the data-encryption leaks that Bordereau had mentioned and to find out what she could about Big Ears.

She came up with Big Brother, the nickname for the U.S. and U.K.’s Echelon, the big ears of eavesdropping.

That sounded old-fashioned, dated by the Cold War, she thought, ancient history.

Au contraire, she discovered, as she dug deeper. Echelon, according to NSA, the National Security Agency based in the U.S., was responsible for the interception of international signals; all traffic from telephone links, to e-mails, to faxes, whether sent over land lines or by cell phones.

More than impressive.

Echelon, a network, operated on a filter system that utilized banks of powerful computers programmed to recognize key words in various languages and intercept messages containing those words for recording and subsequent analysis. All from a Helios-1A satellite beaming down to earth to wire and parabola-dish antennas.

She knew Helios-1A took high-definition photos for surveillance: spy stuff. How did that work? Searching further, she found a French military site. What she saw there made her sit up. France had its own version of Echelon: “Big Ears,” dubbed “Frenchelon.” She searched for twenty minutes until she discovered a short article in the left-leaning Le Nouvel Observateur indicating that Frenchelon had the capacity to process two million phone calls, faxes, and e-mails each month. Or more. It was even rumored to be capable of tracking individual bank accounts.

Her phone rang. “Leduc Detective,” she said.

“Bonjour, I’m calling from Varnet and we’re interested in your proposal. Can you answer some questions?”

She switched gears as she shuffled through the pile on her desk. “Of course. Your proposal’s right here and I’m delighted to help you.”

She spent the next half hour walking the Varnet manager through Leduc’s proposal, clarifying information as to the computer-security service they offered. And the next two hours run- ning the programs waiting in her laptop. By the time René appeared, she’d worked three hours and updated all the accounts on their database.

“We’re current, René,” she said. “Rent paid and twenty-three francs in the bank! How’s that for being in the black?”

“At least Saj will work for food,” René said, hanging up his camel wool coat on the rack.

Saj, from the Hacktaviste academy where René taught, hacked part-time for them.

“This should help,” he said, setting down a check from Cereus.

Wonderful. Thank God, it covered René’s paycheck. If their clients paid on time, they’d have six figures to join the twenty-three francs, but that would be a miracle.

“Varnet’s interested; I think we’ve got a new client.”

Instead of being relieved, he appeared worried.

“What’s the matter, René?”

“No sign of Paul or his mother at their apartment. I checked twice yesterday and last night.”

A bad feeling came over her.

“Did they do a runner?”

“Hard to say.”

“We need his statement. The autopsy found one bullet but your little friend Paul saw another flash. But for him to skip school—”

“Paul’s nine years old, he’s lonely, and his mother’s alcoholic!” he said. “Where would they go?”

“We look until we find them,” she said. “Dig up your Toulouse-Lautrec outfit.”

“He knows I’m not Toulouse-Lautrec, Aimée.”

“Don’t give up. We not only have to find them but we must convince his mother to let him talk to Maître Delambre.”

“I’ll need your help for that, Aimée,” he said.

“But our first priority is to review the lab findings on the gun residue found on Laure’s hands. Right now I have to corral Maître Delambre. Find out what’s holding up the lab report.”

René rolled his eyes.

“I need to do this for Laure. You with me, partner?”

“If we do it together,” he said.

Her eye fell on the underground Paris map tacked to the office wall. Orange and pink delineated the old quarries and limestone formations in the eighteenth and fourteenth arrondissements. She pulled out her cell phone. Affixed the broken antenna.

René’s mouth turned down. “That’s the third phone in—”

“I’ve got a mirror in it.”

“Always the fashionista!”

“Listen, last night I spoke to the prostitute on that beat. According to her, a Corsican goes into that building regularly.” She pointed to the diagram she’d made. “He’s crude and she doesn’t like him. She saw this Corsican talking with Jacques in Zette’s bar. There’s some connection.”

“Connection? Most likely she was telling you what she thought you wanted to hear.”

She shrugged. “And I think Sarti, the musician, who went to Conari’s party and left before being questioned, knows something.”

“Suspicions, ideas. That’s all you’ve got,” René said.

Aimée stared at the map of the wall, at the limestone formations of Montmartre, orange and kidney shaped, that spread over the area. “Sarti stood right here, I saw him.” She pointed, lost in thought, looking for a link. “Yet the diagram Yann Marant found—”

“Marant, the systems analyst from Conari’s party?” René interrupted.

Aimée nodded. “Good memory, René. He is the consultant to Conari’s construction firm. He found a diagram, like a floor plan, in a nearby Dumpster.”

“Since when do systems analysts work with contractors?” René took out a linen handkerchief with his initials, RF, embroidered on the edge, and blew his nose. “The sure way to catch a cold, coming out of the Metro to a hot office!” He blew his nose again. “Conari’s firm must have Ministry contracts.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Having a systems analyst is a government requirement. Look in the guidelines. We’d need one, too, if we did Ministry work.”

“René! You’re not suggesting we angle for Ministry work?”

Before he could answer, she pointed to the piles of paper on her desk. “Look, we have work, and will have more work from the proposals we’ve sent out. You know our problem’s with negligent clients who take forever to pay.” Corporations were notorious for delaying payment to independent contractors.

“It’s either collect or do a créance,” René said. “Which invites another kind of trouble.”

She knew all too well that the créance, a loan made by a bank against the borrower’s pledge of accounts receivable plus a ten percent commission, spelled trouble. When a bank collected, firms would notice and figure it reflected Leduc Detective’s financial difficulties.

“True, René, but we’re not there yet.”

Not quite. She took a deep breath, counted to five. They had to get back on track. She drew a quick sketch, replicating the diagram she’d turned over to Bordereau.

“Look at what Yann’s diagram showed. Supposedly, the bombs were set here, in the Mairie, by Corsican Separatists, where there are Xs on this diagram.”

René’s mouth dropped. “Bombs?”

“Defused before they could go off. My DST contact confirmed it. What if Jacques had an informer who knew about the plan or—”

“Defused when?”

“Sunday night.”

“Jacques was murdered Monday night,” René said. “Nice try.”

Deflated, Aimée stared at the map. Thought hard.

“Correct.” She wouldn’t give up that quickly. “Suppose Jacques knew of a backup terrorist plan and met an informer to try to discover the next target. My DST connection also mentioned a data-encryption leak,” she said. “Suppose there’s a connection.”

“Flics don’t buy suppositions,” René said.

Aimée nodded.

“I fished around for Big Ears and data-encryption leaks and found Frenchelon. Want to help me?”

“Ask Saj,” René said. “Last year, he designed those ‘nasty little ciphers,’ as the Ministry called them, to retool security in the Bankverein Swiss bank scam. Remember?”

Bankverein Swiss had lost millions of francs to hackers but kept it quiet to avoid customer panic. And covered it with their reserves. A mere dent, financial analysts concluded, in the bank’s hefty assets.

She’d call Saj later.

René took the Varnet folder. “Shall I follow up with a visit?”

“Before they change their mind? Good idea. Take this contract form with you and sign them up.” She paused. “What happened with your date?”

He looked away. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Meanwhile, here’s the refund notice from the tax office. Finally!”

“Bravo, René!”

He surprised her all the time. It had taken a year and René’s tenacious determination to wade through paperwork issued by a string of offices to obtain their refund.

“Don’t celebrate yet. Now I have to reach the bureaucrat who dispenses refunds. He’s been out with gallbladder problems. But then we will be able to afford the new laptops we need.”

She stood up and hugged him, caught the pride in his eyes and the pink on his cheeks before he turned away. René blushing?

“Get the refund, partner, and they’re yours. And more. You can impress your girlfriend.”

“Then I better get going,” René said, reaching back for his coat.

“Me, too.”

Out in the hallway she realized she’d forgotten to stop at the accounting firm next door for an envelope that had been left there according to the delivery notice.

“Go ahead, René,” she told him.

“How are you, Diza?” Aimée said to the receptionist. “Got something for me?”

Diza, wearing a tight green wool skirt, fuchsia floral-print silk shirt, and knockoff agnès b. jacket, balanced a tray of espressos from the café below. Though she was in her forties, she dressed young and carried it off. Most of the time.

“On my desk, Mademoiselle Aimée,” she said, grinning. “Coffee time for the boys.”

The “boys” she referred to were none of them under sixty.

Aimée slit open a manila envelope with her name printed on it in block letters. Several grainy black-and-white photos fell out. The kind made at night with a long-distance telephoto lens. They showed two women standing on a street. She looked closer and recognized Cloclo and herself in conversation. Her stomach clenched. Two more photos showed René with a woman with spiky hair. Herself or . . . ?

“Such a nice photo of you and Monsieur René,” Diza said, peering over her shoulder. “You two were having fun. That’s good. Nice to see Monsieur René smiling.”

“Alors, Diza, it’s not me.”

“Looks just like you, Mademoiselle Aimée,” Diza said.

“So she does, Diza,” Aimée said, nonplussed. Spikey hair, heels and all: René’s new girlfriend, Magali, resembled her!

“Diza, how did this envelope arrive?”

“By messenger. You know, the ones who ride like madmen on their bikes. One almost ran me over yesterday.”

“Can you describe him?”

Diza grinned. “Let’s see, black cap, down jacket, you know the big kind that puffs out, jeans. Like all of them.”

“Yellow teeth?”

“Come to think of it,” she said, dropping a sugar cube into one of the espressos, “yes.”

The mec from the phone booth who’d chased her through the Marché Saint Pierre! The photos meant, We know who you are and we’re watching you.

Aimée ran down the stairs out onto rain-slicked rue du Louvre. She caught René before he stepped into a waiting taxi at the curb.

“René, look at these photos. We’re being watched.”

René set his briefcase on the taxi seat and thumbed through them, a tight smile on his face.

“I didn’t think stalkers went after men,” he said.

AIMÉE PACED in the cavernous marble-floored Tribunal. It was crowded with scurrying lawyers, their black robes trailing, and with defendants knotted in earnest discussion; the smell of cold stone and wet wool lingered in the corners. She peeked through the oval window of the courtroom’s oak door. Four robed judges sat on a dais—more oak—one leaned back, her eyes closed.

A minute later, Maître Delambre came through the door. His cheek was swollen and his arms loaded with dossiers. He’d survived the dentist’s chair, it seemed.

He pursed his lips when he saw her.

“Those mecs are still following me,” she said, keeping her voice calm with effort.

“Better mind your own business, Mademoiselle Leduc. A difficult task for you, I’m sure,” he said, shifting the pile of dossiers to his other arm. “Laure’s case looks open and shut. Guilty.”

“What do you mean? You don’t even have the lab report.”

“It came this morning,” he interrupted her, pulling out a sheet. “The report confirms the preliminary finding of gunshot residue on her hands. None on yours, however.”

It didn’t make sense. How could Laure? Why would she?

“Why the delay?” She thought fast. “Wouldn’t that indicate issues as to inaccuracy or as to procedures? May I see this report?”

He handed it to her. “According to the lab, they’ve experienced an unusually high frequency of cases. A big backlog. But the GSR test results are clear, and damning.”

She scanned the report, shaking her head.

“That’s all?”

“It’s in black and white. What more do you want?”

She looked closer. “It says here the detailed lab analysis will follow. Where is it?”

Maître Delambre expelled a breath of disgust, then rifled in his briefcase. “Hmmm, percentages, element and metal composition. Voilà.”

Aimée studied the paper. Checked the numbers. Her mind reeled. “Gunshot residue’s composed of lead, barium, and antimony.”

“So you’re an expert on this, too,” Maître Delambre said. “Mademoiselle Leduc of the many talents.”

“I own a gun—licensed, of course,” she said. “All bullets contain lead, barium, and antimony.” She pointed to one of the columns of numbers. “Few bullets contain this.”

He leaned over her shoulder. “The expert found a problem?”

She ignored his sarcasm.

“A very high tin content. Ninety-eight percent. That’s unusual,” she said. “Do you have another copy of this report?”

He handed her one.

She studied it. “Demand a retest. These lab findings are crucial!”

Maître Delambre ran his fingers through his sparse hair. “Look, I’m sorry. The lab performed its function, which is to show the presence, or absence, of GSR. And from these findings, a GSR presence has been clearly demonstrated. As far as the flics are concerned, and I’d have to concur, this indicates she fired the gun that killed her partner. Internal Affairs has an open-and-shut case. I can’t help her.”

Something was very wrong. “That’s not good enough. Nothing makes sense unless she was set up,” Aimée said. “The gunshot residue must have come from another gun, one with high tin content in its ammunition.”

“You raise an interesting point. But it’s moot.”

“Ask yourself this: she could have taken care of her partner much more easily and made it seem like an accident, so who set her up and why?”

“As far as I can see it’s over,” he told her. “She and her partner argued in the presence of a whole barful of witnesses. Internal Affairs gave her the option of working with me, an outside lawyer, an unheard-of courtesy, but in the light of this evidence, they’re taking over. As they should have in the beginning. Someone pulled some strings to get her outside representation but this is now internal police business. Not mine.”

So Morbier had tried to help Laure.

“Please, demand another lab test to be carried out in your presence. Ask questions about the high tin content of the residue. I doubt if anyone’s been convicted on the evidence of gun residue alone. Find out. You don’t want to lose one of your first cases, do you?”

He rocked on the heels of his shiny black shoes.

Aimée persevered. “The ammo from a flic’s weapon is composed of three elements. No tin. Any flic will tell you that. You have to demand another test, compare these results with a bullet fired from a Manhurin.”

“I know she’s your friend but I’m afraid—”

“Delambre, what a coup for you!” she said. “What appeared an open-and-shut case turned upside down by the lawyer who insisted on a thorough ballistics test. You’d make your reputation.”

He blinked. She could tell he hadn’t thought of that.

“You’d show the old-school types a thing or two,” she said. “La Proc’s always looking for new go-getters for her team, believe me.”

She didn’t know that for sure but figured it sounded good.

He was wavering.

“Boris Viard runs the lab. He’s good. Talk to him.” She’d almost convinced Delambre, she smelled it. “What have you got to lose but a case that no one thinks you’ll win anyway? Try Viard.”

“Let me think about it,” he said.

“Did you use the police reports I found?”

“According to the Code Civil they belonged in my client’s dossier,” he said. “Article . . . well, that’s legalese. You’re right. But their appearance caused surprise in several quarters.”

She balled her hands in her pockets feeling the absence of Guy’s ring. “Which ones?”

“Let’s talk over here,” he said, gesturing her behind a pillar.

Drafts whipped past her black stockings. She shivered, wishing the cold from the stone floor didn’t travel up her legs.

Maître Delambre cocked his head. “Internal Affairs expressed halfhearted dismay, but soon shut up.”

“In surprise or dismay?”

He grinned. “Why, since I hadn’t noticed these before, as I informed the inspector, I commended the bureau for its efficiency in updating me.”

Not so green after all.

“Isn’t Ludovic Jubert head of Internal Affairs now?” she said, trying a hunch.

Maître Delambre paused and shook his head. “No, but that name sounds familiar.”

She’d checked several branches in the RG and Ministry directory but none listed officers’ names. She’d run into a dead end at every turn.

“I’m convinced another gun was fired that night.”

A black-robed magistrate clapped Delambre on the shoulder as he walked past.

“We have a witness,” she told the lawyer.

“Then this witness needs to come forward.” He shook his head. “Still, as the gunshot residue was found on her hands, I don’t know how effective such testimony would be in the Internal Affairs investigation.”

Panic hit her. “The witness is a boy. He’s still in school.”

“Minors can be subpoenaed under the law.”

“Wait,” she said. “He’ll come to you of his own accord.”

“And finding a second gun would help,” Delambre said.

Of course it would. And knowing the identities of the men who had been on the roof, too.

“I’m working on it.”

He bundled the files in his briefcase. “Time for my next trial, excuse me.”

“Please call the lab to request another test. All it would take is a phone call.”

He rubbed his cheek and winced. “I’ve stuck my neck out far enough already.” He checked his watch. “My next client’s waiting. I’m sorry.”

Disappointed, she fingered the office keys in her pocket and shook her head. “Me, too.”

She’d have to do it all herself.