Murder in the Rue de Paradis Page 7

  In the sleeping area, she fell to her knees by the duvet. Pain choked her. She couldn’t hold back her sobs. She fell onto the sheets smelling of Yves’s musky scent.

  There was no way she could envision him meeting a junkie male prostitute for sex. She lay there watching dust motes spiral in the sun’s rays glinting through the window, until her tears subsided. Spent, she took a deep breath and opened the closets containing women’s clothes, the linen chest with sheets and towels. No bag, no newspaper, just his black suit and white shirt with empty pockets. And the empty green bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

  She turned over the mattress and a newspaper fell onto the wood floor. Her eye rested on the front page, on the article Yves had circled concerning various groups suspected by the flics of the Metro bombing.

  He’d drawn a box around the phrase “an insidious network.”

  Her hands trembled. What did it mean?

  She shoved it in her bag, put everything back as she’d found it, and closed the loft door.

  Downstairs, near the bamboo, Lolo stood with his arms tucked into the kimono sleeves and folded across his chest. He had to know more than he’d told her, Aimée hoped.

  “Lolo, what time did Yves pick up the keys last night?”

  “I’d just tossed the endive salad.” Lolo thought. “Say nine thirty.”

  The Gare du Nord was fifteen minutes away. What had Yves done, who had he seen before he met her in the Microimages courtyard? Or did this ticket stub belong to someone else? But he’d connected for the champagne from the African coiffeur in the quartier. Did that mean he’d stayed in the neighborhood before?

  “My partner, Philippe, can’t sleep in the heat. He’s restless, but that’s a whole other story. At least we get the breeze from the Canal. This is a ghost compound; everyone has left for vacation,” he said gesturing around the building.

  Her chance of questioning other tenants crumbled. Battling her deepening disappointment, she scanned the shuttered windows. “You’re sure?”

  “Tout le monde,” he said. Lolo waved his hand to encompass them all.

  “If anything strikes you later or Philippe can add anything, I’d appreciate a call.”

  A useless conversation. She turned to leave and then paused in mid-step. “Do your windows face the quai?”

  “Of course; that’s why the loft cost so much!”

  They faced in the same direction as the loft windows Yves had looked from last night.

  He yawned. “The noise woke me up before dawn.”

  “What noise?” Her ears perked up. Exhausted, she hadn’t heard a thing.

  “Like a hailstorm in August. On the windows.”

  “Did either of you see what made the noise?”

  “It stopped and we went back to sleep.”

  She’d learned something. And if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d find out more on the quai.

  SHE STOOD BY the Canal as it shimmered in the heat. Napoleon’s “gift to the people of Paris” was completed after his death on Saint Helena. And like his code of law, the little tyrant’s gift kept on giving. Even now.

  Gravel popped under her sandals as she walked along the quai. The nineteenth-century Hôtel des Douanes, the customs house, loomed further down. She was trying to figure out what could have made that noise.

  And then she stood under the loft windows. On the pavement lay some leaves curled in the heat and a few pebbles scattered on the light beige dust. “Like a hailstorm,” Lolo had said.

  Her first boyfriend had tossed pebbles at her window at night as a signal that he was there. She’d creep past her father’s room, listening for his snores, then meet her boyfriend outside on the quai. They’d spend hours necking on the embankment.

  Scenarios ran through her mind. Say Yves’s contact tried to reach him. If Yves had turned off his cell phone, this could have been the only way to signal him. Or maybe it had been a pre-arranged signal from a contact too scared to phone him. . . . Her thoughts spun. Suppose this contact had thrown pebbles at the window to get his attention, to signal a meeting, or to summon him to the rue de Paradis for a rendezvous.All plausible; but, again, why?

  Further on by the gutter, she barely avoided a clump of dried dog droppings, a St. Bernard by the size of it. Nice calling card. And in the heat it gave off a pungent aroma. A scuffle of green leaves blew over the stone. So far all she had were pebbles, the Eurostar ticket stub, and Yves’s marked-up copy of Le Monde.

  She walked downwind, opened the Citroën’s door, and sat, the hot leather burning her thighs. In the glove compartment she found René’s oversize blue Plan de Paris, the taxi driver’s street bible, and opened to the tenth arrondissement. With a pencil she marked the canal loft location; Microimage, where she’d met Yves; the Gare du Nord; and then the rue de Paradis. She drew lines connecting them. Two lines intersected, making a right angle. Almost a triangle. Yet it told her nothing. She wished his colleagues from Agence France-Presse would call; they had to know what Yves was working on.

  She turned the key in the ignition and drove along the canal. The silver rippling V of a duck’s progress marred the green-brown water’s surface. It was the only progress she saw.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  A MESS, RENÉ thought. The hum and clack of the rails, the shunt of steam from the old locomotive accompanied his thoughts. It took three hours and three trains to reach the nodding, cypress-lined Loire river valley where he could just make out a glint from a château’s blue-tiled roof on the horizon.

  Looking out the window at the light brown dappled herds of Charolais cows grazing on wheat and the purple-hued grasses, he berated himself. He felt guilty for leaving Aimée.

  He hadn’t seen her so shaken since her father’s death. He couldn’t understand how Yves, a fling when he breezed into town, a bad-boy type who wouldn’t commit, could affect her so. She wasted her time on those types. But who was he to think ill of the dead. He’d only seen a corpse once, never hoped to again. Was he jealous of Yves? Non, he knew his place. That didn’t mean he liked it or didn’t hope deep down in some little corner of his heart that it would change.

  More cows now dotted the green fields. Eh, ça va la vache, the palindrome with letters the same back to front, wound through his head. That second message on Aimée’s phone— what if he’d guessed right and the killer had hit Yves’s redial and knew Aimée’s number? She wasn’t safe.

  He punched in her number and got a busy signal. He called Saj, his former student, a hacker, who’d taken over for him while he was away. He needed to check in; he had to attend to the business.

  “Allô, Saj?”

  “René, you’re on vacation, non?” He heard something in Saj’s voice. Seagulls squalled in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “La Rochelle,” said Saj. “But don’t worry, I’m monitoring the systems.”

  “Everything okay?”

  There was a pause. The seagulls’ cries were louder.

  “I guess you should know, the Fountainbleu account’s compromised,” said Saj. “Sorry. I traced it to loose lips.”

  Only gone a few hours and already trouble! René’s shoulders sagged. He planned all he could; set up appropriate fire-walls, barriers, password encryption; but it only took one savvy caller requesting confirmation of account data and a newbie to take the bait and give away sensitive information. He saw it all the time.

  “I’m on it,” Saj said. “I’ve already installed new protections on the firewall. But I guess it’s best that you’re not surprised on your return.”

  These attackers did their homework; culled names and e-mail addresses from company directories, contract service suppliers, and social-engineered information. Often they called at lunchtime when only a single harried analyst manned the fort who would succumb to the line “I’m about to place your departments’ order but Lynette’s gone, and I’m out of the office. Shoot me the password.”

  It worked more often than not. And it just took one mistake
to reveal sensitive account data. Education, René thought, you had to educate them.

  “We can’t stop attacks, but we can insist that no one confirms data online without permission. Thanks for letting me know, Saj.”

  “I’m on it, don’t worry,” he said.

  “Meantime Saj, keep me updated, okay?”

  He tried Aimée again, got her voicemail, and left a message cautioning her to change her number and call back with her new one.

  By the time he hung up, the train was pulling into Amboise station where his mother stood on the platform with an eager smile.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  NADIRA CHECKED HER watch, then Paul’s rapt expression as he watched the darkened Theatre Gymnase’s children’s performance. In this 1820 jewel of a theater, under a dome whose interior was decorated with murals, they sat upon red plush seats, surrounded by gilt-edged curlicues like cake decorations. Paul’s attention focused only on the hip-booted pirate onstage brandishing a sword.

  Perfect. On plan.

  She nudged Paul. “I’m going to call your maman.”

  Paul nodded, his eyes never leaving the stage.

  She leaned over to Carla, who organized the four-year-old playgroup’s events. Carla’s skintight V-neck shirt plunged. Nadira recalled the Koran’s words: Women are to lower their gazes . . . be modest, and draw their veils over their bosoms. Nadira was glad that the darkness covered her momentary expression of disgust.

  “Must make an important phone call,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “But I’ll need your help if one of the children needs to go to the bathroom,” Carla said. “Remember, they drank so much juice.”

  “Of course,” Nadira smiled. “But Madame Delbard had some last-minute changes in her schedule.”

  “Shhh.” Several of the children put their fingers over their lips.

  Before Carla could respond, Nadira pointed to her cell phone and rolled her eyes mouthing “Madame Delbard.” If Madame Delbard ever phoned, it was to ask her to run an errand to the drycleaners. But Carla didn’t know that.

  Out in the lobby lined with plaques commemorating the pantheon of former performers—Sarah Bernhardt, Cocteau, and Yves Montand—Nadira checked the exit, then the time again. Twenty-nine minutes until the end of the act. Another seven to ten for the children to assemble in the lobby. To accomplish her mission, she would have to hurry.

  She went through the arched glass doors and, walking at a fast pace, covered the seven blocks of rue du Faubourg Poissonnière. It was time for prayers, but she couldn’t perform the ablutions of washing her face, feet, and hands, rinsing her mouth, and running a wet hand through her hair. She’d make do. She pulled out a moist towelette, wiped her hands, bent as if she’d dropped something and ran it across her sandalled feet. Passersby jostled her.

  As she walked, she inclined her head. To those on the street, it looked like she was window-shopping. But she’d calculated the direction of Mecca, and in her heart, she prayed. She prayed to strengthen her resolve in following Allah’s way, enlightened by her mullah. Say the prayers in your heart, the mullah instructed, and accomplish your mission.

  She entered the courtyard on rue Lafayette. In a doorway she donned a gray scarf and long sleeved blouse, and felt more comfortably clothed. She opened the door of the Institut Kurd.

  “I’d like to join the center,” she said, gazing to the side in respect to the woman behind the reception desk.

  “Welcome! You’d like a student membership?” asked the woman. Leyla, Resource Manager, it said on her name tag. She wore a summery flower-print dress with no scarf. She grasped Nadira’s hand.

  Startled, Nadira recoiled.

  Leyla might have been the twin of the nurse who’d discovered her, a shell-shocked nine-year-old, in tattered rags, searching the rubble for her parents’ bodies. The past opened up for Nadira. Leyla’s open smile, that same cinammon tinge to her complexion, her plump cheeks, those brown warm eyes crinkling in the corners. Nadira bit her lip, remembering the nurse’s calm voice as she removed the shrapnel from Nadira’s leg and daubed her wounds with antiseptic to prevent infection, which nevertheless spread. The Western-trained doctors saved her from the gangrene that threatened her life.

  Nadira hadn’t thought of that in years. Nor of the little charm the nurse had given her, an enameled blue horse. The one thing she still had.

  “You bit your lip; here’s a tissue,” Leyla said.

  Such kind eyes.

  Flustered, Nadira felt rooted to the floor. Somehow she managed to speak. “Does membership entitle me use of the library?” she said, handing over a Sorbonne student ID with the name Shareen Labout.

  Leyla smiled. “Of course. But we offer many cultural programs and events as well. Tomorrow Jalenka Malat’s speech is titled ‘To veil or not to veil: Muslim women’s modern role in today’s society.’”

  Nadira averted her eyes, then managed a grin. “But I know of her work. How lucky.”

  “The Kurdish Woman’s group asked Jalenka to address them earlier,” Leyla said, leaning forward. “We’re hoping she’ll find time to speak to this smaller group too, so there will be a chance to meet her. Do check back. We’re not publicizing it.”

  Nadira nodded, her training kicking in. Even better. “Merci.”

  She marshaled her thoughts. Leyla, with her direct gaze, French clothing, and perfume, wasn’t at all like that nurse, she decided. After Nadira’s leg healed, the nurse had brought her to the mosque’s orphanage school for girls and introduced her to the mullah. The nurse was dedicated to jihad and had helped her understand the mullah’s teachings.

  Nadira completed the application form. They were alone in the bright reception area. While Leyla typed up her card, Nadira looked around at the photos of Kurdistan on the wall.

  “Will Jalenka speak in here?”

  Leyla gestured toward a pair of closed doors. “It’s the largest space we have, only a little theater, but . . .” Leyla smiled. “We’ll fit in as many as we can.”

  “Would you mind if I look at the library?” Nadira asked. “I have to hurry to babysit, but I’d like to check on a book.”

  “Upstairs and to the right.”

  Nadira climbed the stairs and paused. She heard Leyla’s voice on the phone. Instead of entering the library, she followed a narrow dark wood-paneled hallway to the left, glad she’d worn sneakers that made no sound on the carpet. She passed a man working in an office but she kept going, winding to the left. She found the door labelled WC. Inside the cubicle was a porcelain chain toilet, toilet brush, and extra roll of pink toilet paper. She reached into her bag for a knife. At first, the metal-framed window resisted. After several tries, and a generous application of WD40, she pried it open. She pulled the toilet chain so the sound of the flush would cover the creaking of the window.

  She stood on the seat. On the floor below, she saw a bank of three windows, all open, facing the small courtyard. The farthest window had a clear view of the stage and podium. Perfect.

  She studied the angle then took out her tape measure, calculated the distance from the window ledge to the door, then peered up to the roof. Always have an alternate plan. She closed the window, brushed off the window ledge, swept the old paint chips into her palm and stuffed the chips in her pocket.

  At the desk downstairs, Leyla handed her a membership card, now printed and laminated.

  Nadira said, “They didn’t have the volume I need. But tomorrow I’ll try again. Merci.”

  Twenty-nine minutes later, Nadira stood in the theater lobby again, in her hand a bag from the nearby boulangerie. “Who’s hungry?”

  A swarm of four-year-olds with open hands engulfed her.

  Nadira held out the bag of still warm pain au chocolats.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” said Carla.

  Nadira just smiled.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  THE POLICE HELICOPTER hovering overhead whipped up a vortex of leaves at the Metro
Louis Blanc. Aimée tasted hot dust, dry grit stung her ankles. People in the crowd spilling onto the pavement shielded their faces. It was 3:00 P.M., and she was here to meet Rouffillac. Citing an emergency, he’d called and changed their meeting place.

  Ambulances blocked the street. The helicopter dipped, then its thupts trailed off. A reek of burnt rubber and smoke clung in the oppressive heat. Horrified, her eyes were transfixed by the bloodstains smearing the green metal art nouveau Metro posts.

  Another Metro bombing, the second since July. Low moans and mumbling in Arabic came from an old woman with a torn head scarf. Her face contorted in fear, her gnarled brown hands gripped a shopping bag to her chest as she hunched by the Metro kiosk. A female flic put her hand on the woman’s shoulder, spoke in her ear, and then gently took her arm and led her to an ambulance.

  From the look of things—black powder burns on the pavement and scurrying bomb-squad technicians—much of the scene had been secured.

  A man stood by a unmarked Peugeot staring at her. A short, wiry man with brown-gray hair curling around his ears, who emitted a tensile energy.

  “Mademoiselle Leduc?”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll talk there,” he said, motioning toward a florist shop behind her.

  She followed him, stepping over the pink and orange rose petals fallen in the entry, and past a gigantic arrangement of blue delphiniums.

  “Monsieur?” The florist looked up, setting down her clippers. She wore a smock; sprays of roses sat next to strips of gauze bandage on her work table. “Do the last roses of summer interest you?”

  “Brigade Criminelle business. May I use your shop, Madame?”

  “Bien sur,” she said, her look expectant. “The medics needed some bandages cut. . . .”

  “In privacy, if you don’t mind?”

  Without a word, she picked up the bandage strips and left the shop. The mingling of floral scents and damp earth filled Aimée’s nose.

  “What happened?” Aimée asked.