Murder at the Lanterne Rouge (17 page)

A geek with searing intelligence, a highly trained technical engineer from a
grande école
, a loner. A man who taught at an adult trade school when his fellow graduates took jobs in high positions at companies like Frelnex.

Pascal, afraid for his life, had left a message two weeks ago instructing its recipient to find a green file, come to his apartment, and talk to Becquerel. But Becquerel had died. Hence, she figured, his repeated messages to Coulade yesterday.

And no green file. Or fourteenth-century document.

But why make it all so mysterious? Why not give concrete details? Unless …

Something happened yesterday. Unable to update Coulade, he’d seeded info in several locations. Pieces of a damned puzzle.

Yet, to find what?

A project his great-aunt had mentioned—concerning a museum file he’d told Coulade he’d discovered.

Frustrated, Aimée righted a chair by the window and noticed blue dust on her fingers. She smelled it. Chalk dust.

She paused at the lead-framed window and, with her gloved hands, opened it and pushed the shutters back. The view gave way to scattered low buildings, the crescent edge of a courtyard, a glass-roofed atelier below. The approaching dusk darkened exposed patches of earth. Unusual to find open space in a dense quartier like this, where every meter was utilized.

But more unusual were the diagrams in blue chalk on the curved stone wall below. Blue chalk lines intersected and arced in what reminded her of a star chart. An amateur astronomer, a stargazer? But she saw no telescope, no binoculars.

A configuration. But of what she had no clue.

Pascal would be a puzzle lover, she figured. A dreamer, Coulade had said.

But driven and edgy in his work? If this was a guide, a map, she wondered again why he’d made it so difficult. Especially since he’d suspected the danger.

Too clever for his own good? Or afraid of discovery and running out of time?

She breathed in the cold air. Her mind cleared. The diagram was so familiar. But from where?

She pulled out her palm-sized digital camera, René’s latest must-carry gadget, shot photos of the wall diagrams, a few of the room layout, the view from the window. If she hadn’t found answers here, she’d picked up a sense of how to look for them.

She locked the apartment door behind her and descended to the ground level.

Her breath caught.

Prévost, a blue-uniformed
flic
, and a
mec
she recognized from Brigade Criminelle strode across the courtyard.

She ducked into a cove containing garbage bins, crouched on the damp flagged floor behind a broken chair. Odors of last night’s fish clung in the corners.

Prévost huddled in conversation with the plainclothes, who wore a bomber jacket just like Melac’s—a definite undercover trademark. After a long moment, the
mec
handed Prévost an envelope and jerked his thumb upward. Prévost turned on his heel and the man headed toward the tower entrance. And toward her.

Pascal had left her the key, and his great-aunt had hired her to investigate. By all rights they’d given her access to the apartment. But try explaining that to
la Crim
or a
flic
. One she didn’t trust.

They could accuse her of violating procedure, regulations, the order of the law, or of ransacking a victim’s apartment. With no time or desire to engage in semantics, she kept her head down, hoping her knees didn’t give out.

Five minutes later, after the last footsteps sounded on the staircase above, she crossed the courtyard. She checked for Prévost or police presence on rue Béranger. None.

Turning left, she headed toward her parked scooter and called René. René was better at puzzles, loved a challenge. His phone rang and rang. Too late, she remembered the hotel …

“Can’t you give us some time, Aimée?” René answered, irritated.

“
Desolée
, but it’s important,” she said, checking her Tintin watch. “You’re going to get a call.”

“From who?”

“I’m volunteering and you’re going to give me a stellar reference, René.”

“Gone crazy, have you?” A sigh. “Consider our accounts, our security projects out for bid. Accounts who’ll pay real money.”

“The volunteer coordinator from the Musée des Arts et Métiers will call, can you remember that? I’m volunteering to
assist in digitizing the museum holdings during their renovation,” she said. “Pro bono, of course, a service to the community. Tell her how Leduc Detective welcomes opportunities to preserve history and culture for the next generations—”

His line ticked.

“Right on time.” She prayed this worked out. “A glowing recommendation, René.”

She heard the click of heels behind her. A woman walked into an art gallery. “Call me back. I’m en route there now.”

She shouldered her bag, double-looped her scarf, and turned the key in her scooter’s ignition.

“Seems they’re desperate since the last volunteer left. You got the job,” René said, ten minutes later. “Digitizing the catalog collection, sorting through centuries.”

She figured as much.

“She wants to meet you. I said you’ve made time in your busy day, et cetera.” Pause. “This involves Pascal Samour,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“
Bien sûr
. It’s the only way to find out.”

“Find out who murdered him by volunteering at the museum?”

“Long story, René.” The image of Pascal Samour’s corpse flashed in her mind. “I took the job. Five thousand francs retainer.” Not to mention Tso’s cash “retainer,” but she kept that to herself. “You in, René?”

“The old lady reminds you of your grandfather,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Maybe she did.

“And Meizi’s still a suspect,” Aimée said.

Pause. “I’m in. See you at the office in a few hours.”

“O
UR MUSEUM DEPARTMENT
appreciates your donation of time and expertise,” said Madame Chomette, the curator, a tall, slender woman with white hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, which highlighted the silver teardrop pendant hanging from her neck. “I think that’s all, Mademoiselle Leduc. It’s been a long day.”

All? Aimée stared at three centuries of the Musée des Arts et Métiers’ cataloged holdings to digitize.

“We hope you don’t mind the accommodation, as we can’t transport the documents. Legal issues.”

Madame Chomette gestured to the alcove office carved out behind a Gothic strut pillar. Worn Latin was just visible in the floor paver. The extensive renovation of the museum revealed that the walls stripped down to eleventh-century stone. Thoroughly medieval, apart from the power strips and space heater.

“Tomorrow we’ll have a desktop operational for you and functioning within the museum network.”

Aimée wouldn’t hold her breath. After one look at the antiquated system, she’d decided to bring a laptop or three for backup.

Now to the meat, and finding Samour’s project. “To prevent duplicating Monsieur Samour’s efforts, perhaps you could tell me where he left off?”

She wondered if Madame Chomette was in on this, or a friend of Samour’s. Or both.

“So sad. Such a loss.” The conservator paused. “But I’m new, on loan from the archives to finish things up by the reopening deadline.” She gave a small shrug. “I met Samour last week for five minutes. But each person who worked on this logged the details.”

“Who did he work with?”

Another shrug. Madame Chomette glanced at her watch. “He was a wonderful help, that’s the memo I got. I’m late for a meeting.
Desolée
.”

Did this woman really not know? Aimée tried again. “I’m looking for a fourteenth century document.”

“The museum building was a church until the sixteenth century, so our holdings don’t go back that far,” Madame Chomette said. “We concentrate on inventions and machines from the eighteenth century on.”

“Could there have been another collection? A mistake? Or might it have been misfiled?”

Madame Chomette shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

Was Aimée some pawn in an elaborate setup? She wondered at how eagerly they’d accepted her services. Or was this more paranoia?

“But open one of our storage cellars and you’d be amazed at what’s in there,” Madame Chomette said, perhaps noting the dismay on Aimée’s face. “Believe it or not, the Archives Nationales kept things here during the Occupation. It wouldn’t surprise me if some were left. In most cases no one’s looked at these things in a hundred years. We’re overwhelmed and so grateful for your generous offer. It’s a true gift, this expertise you’ll furnish.”

Aimée believed the woman. Felt a brush of guilt for her ulterior motive, but groaned inside. It sounded like an exercise in futility. Still, she had to begin somewhere.

“I’ll program a laptop and start tomorrow.”

“
Merci
.” Looking again at her watch, Madame Chomette motioned her out. “Vardet, the security guard, will furnish your badge and outline security protocol.”

C
OMMISSAIRE
M
ORBIER 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.”