Murder in Passy (32 page)

“You talk like she’s a saint,” Beñat said. “Know anything about her past? She owed me. Owed us all.”

“An oath made in her youth?”

He eyed her with a faint smile. “We’ll have company soon. Any minute, my backup team will join us.”

Bluffing? Her hands shook. She scanned the dark ballroom, the passageway. Doubted she could make a run for it before he got off a shot.

“Let’s talk present tense,” she said. “The referendum includes the Paris-to-Madrid high-speed rail through the Basque country. And you didn’t want that. But why? Bad for your business?”

“You could say that,” he said, his tone becoming bored and businesslike. “Revenue losses of seventy-five percent. All that speed, but no local stops for commerce. No access to the region’s factories. Makes the Basque countryside a wasteland.”

Now she put it together. “So you kidnapped the princess to force a new referendum guaranteeing that the high-speed train would run through your district
with stops.
Millions for you. Hired ETA to sabotage the rail line and make it appear political.”

“What do you know of our long struggle, our culture, our heritage?” His eyes glittered as he edged closer.

“And you’re preserving Basque culture?”

He caught her wrist in a grip of steel. Shoved her against the dripping corner. “Shut up.” His breath reeked of Izarra.

A hypocrite. Greedy, and with his pistol resting cold on her temple.

“Xavierre couldn’t see the big picture.”

Not his way, she couldn’t. And it all made sense.

“She discovered the plan was to line your pocket, not to benefit the Cause. She threatened to expose you.”

“She was going to tell the
flic
—her ‘man,’ she called him. Can you imagine?” he said. “
Et alors,
the richer the woman, the tighter the fist. Me, I only wanted to help Xavierre give Irati this big wedding she was fixated on. I wanted the best for Robbé.” He stopped, a genuine look of puzzlement on his face. “That food her sister cooks—awful—you know that. I even offered to pay for catering as a wedding present.”

His concerned tone sent shivers up her arms. More than deluded—amoral, a sociopath—he believed what he said. His clawlike hand tightened on her wrist. The other kept the pistol at her temple.

She struggled to breathe. She had to get the gun away from him.

“Xavierre wouldn’t listen—”

“But you never planned to kill her, did you?” Her chest heaved. “Or Agustino. After all, the three of you had taken an oath. You thought they’d cooperate. But they saw you for what you are.”

The screech of tires carried from the street. Distant dull thuds. Her heart hammered. No way in hell could the EPIGN make it here that quickly.

His men. The Basque terrorists
.

“A pity, that,” Beñat said. “Agustino, bullheaded as always—” A fit of coughing overtook him. She heard rattling in his chest. For a second, his grip loosened. With all her might, she slammed the gun up into his face. Heard the crack of breaking bones. Her elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

He doubled over, choking, blood streaming from his face.

She grabbed his wrists, tied them behind his back with her scarf, and left him moaning on the floor. Only moments now. Using her coat sleeve, she picked up his bloody pistol, wiped it off, and checked the chamber. Half-full. She tugged the old doors open to use as a shield. Bit her lip, breathing hard.

She heard only the faint rustle of leaves drifting in through the open roof, twisting and spinning in the moonlight. A sixth sense told her the men were there.

She muttered a little prayer, steadied her grip, and took a deep breath. She peered from behind the door. Five black-helmeted men with night-vision goggles in matching assault gear trained Heckler and Koch MP5s at her. She registered the blood-red dot of a laser sight centered on her heart. Her legs wobbled and she grabbed the doorframe.

“You’re the good guys, I presume?” she said.

His MP5 still trained on her, one of the men removed his goggles. “Lieutenant Fabard. EPIGN.”

She expelled a gust of air. “Took your time, Lieutenant.”

“If you’ll just lower the barrel and hand me the pistol?” He extended a gloved hand.

“Otherwise you’ll need to kill me, right?” Trying to control the shaking of her hand, she complied. “Any trouble on the way in, Lieutenant?”

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” he said.

Two of the team had slung Beñat between their shoulders and reached the ballroom door. “Operatives in the van,” Fabard spoke into his mouthpiece. “Mission contained.” He motioned to the others. “Ready?” Not twenty seconds had passed.

“Beñat needs medical attention before he can furnish a statement,” she said. “You did hear his confession to the murders?”

A quizzical look crossed the lieutenant’s eyes. “
Désolé,
but with my headgear.… ”

Panic hit her. Then she smiled. “Trust me, Lieutenant, you heard his confession.” She hit the
CALL
button on the satellite phone. “We’ll chat with Colonel Valois and tell him all about it.”

Thursday Morning

T
HE IRON-STUDDED OLD
jail door clanged shut behind Morbier. He stood, shopping bag in hand, on the quai de l’Horloge, breathing in the mist and damp morning air. Nothing had ever smelled so sweet. A low fog curled under the Pont Neuf, swirling over the khaki-green Seine. A weak November sun struggled above the blue-tiled rooftops.

He was free.

Instead of turning right, to the Préfecture, he had a quick stop to make before reaching his office. He walked over the Pont Neuf among the rush of commuters, across the turmoil of rue de Rivoli clogged with buses, bicycles, and parents taking children to school. The soot-stained façades, the knots of people outside cafés, the shouts of kiosk vendors selling newspapers were pulsing with life. Like every day. But he didn’t have Xavierre to share it with, and he felt a pang of sorrow.

He turned onto rue du Louvre, peered under the awning, through the window, into the corner café. He saw her black leather coat, the high-heeled boots, her tousled wispy hair, that shrug of her shoulders. Safe. A little bit of his heart melted.

Thursday Morning

“T
HE BOMB SQUAD
defused a detonator under René’s car?” asked wide-eyed Zazie, the café owners’ red-haired daughter, leaning on her mathematics homework.

Aimée snapped her fingers then popped a Doliprane and downed her espresso at the zinc counter. “Just like that. In ten seconds.”

Zazie shook her head and looked up. “
Oui,
Monsieur?”

Aimée grew aware of the man standing next to her, setting his bag on the mosaic tiled floor littered with sugar wrappers. That familiar scent.

“
Un double, s’il vous plaît,
Mademoiselle.”

Aimée turned and her kohl-rimmed eyes widened.

“
Encore,
Leduc?” Morbier gestured to her empty demitasse.

Her lip trembled. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, his shirt needed ironing, but Morbier was back.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Warmth filled her, and then her arms were around him, hugging him tight, inhaling his Morbier smell. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Thought you knew, Leduc,” he said, pulling out a pack of Gauloises. “Didn’t you have something to do with it?”

“A little.” She rubbed her rib. Then grinned at Zazie, now open-mouthed, setting down a steaming cup of espresso for Morbier with a small chocolate on the saucer. “As I was telling Zazie, last night when the—”

“Save it, Leduc.” Morbier blew a plume of smoke that wavered above the heads of the morning habitués crowded at the counter. “I’m late for the Commissariat.” He drained his espresso. Slipped a twenty-franc note under the saucer. “Don’t complain I never buy you a coffee.”

“You still owe me an
apéritif
, Morbier.”

A blast of air from the open door shook the lace curtains. René entered, leaning on his cane, a big smile on his red-cheeked face.

“Good to have you back, Morbier,” he said, pumping Morbier’s hand. “These three days.… Alors, now we’ll get some work done.” René cleared his throat. “The project report’s being printed, Aimée.”

“Got to go.” She grabbed her bag and stuck this morning’s
Le Parisien
under her arm. “More later, Zazie.”

Out on rue du Louvre, passersby scurried, horns blared. René went ahead. Morbier paused in front of Leduc Detective. Fatigue showed in his eyes. His jowls sagged.

“Promise me you’ll make an appointment for a checkup, okay?”

He nodded. “I need to talk, tell you some things, Leduc.”

“About the letters? My brother?” she asked. A little hope fluttered in her chest.

“As if I knew yet?” He shook his head. Lines creased his mouth. “You see.… ”

A siren whined and an unmarked Peugeot with a flashing blue light on its roof pulled up at the curb. Morbier turned, cocked his head the way he always did.

She recognized Melac emerging from the car. Felt a lurch in her stomach.

“
Excusez-moi,
Commissaire,” Melac said, “but Command thought you’d be here.”

She blinked. The leak, the traitor himself. Her mouth went dry and she didn’t return Melac’s smile.

“Escalating situation in Lyon, Commissaire,” Melac said. “It’s urgent. They asked me to escort you.”

“So you’re the branch liaison now, Melac?”

Melac shrugged. “My leave’s canceled, so I guess you’re stuck with me, Commissaire. A temporary assignment.”

Aimée stared at Melac’s pale gray eyes, wondering what was going on behind them.

Morbier paused in thought. “Anything to do with Laguardiere’s replacement?”

“His replacement, Loisel, sent me, Commissaire.”

Morbier nodded. Flicked his cigarette into the gutter. “Good news. Finally. Let’s go.”

Good news? She pulled Morbier aside. Shot him a look. “But the leak?” she whispered. “Don’t you need a plumber?”

“Plumber? But that’s
my
job now, Leduc.” Morbier gave a little sigh and turned back to Melac. “Life moves on.”

Melac was a good guy after all?

“It’s an honor to work under you, Commissaire,” Melac said.

At that moment, the sun broke over the blue-tiled rooftops. Thin slants of light caught on the wrought-iron balconies above.

“What did you want to tell me, Morbier?” she said, not wanting to let it go.

“Later, Leduc,” he said, now in a hurry. “I’m late.”

As usual.

Melac shut the passenger door after Morbier. His fingers brushed hers, spreading warmth, and he winked. “How about Fauchon takeout tonight?” he whispered, his breath in her ear.

“I’m on deadline.” She paused. “A new client.… ”

Sunlight dappled the pavers. She inhaled the crisp air that was ruffling the plane-tree branches. Life did move on.

“But I’ll keep the Veuve Clicquot chilled.”