Murder in the Latin Quarter (27 page)

“Merci,
Serge.”

So the notes contained formulas for mercury and lead. She remembered the list from Benoît’s locker, the formulas for lead and mercury checked off. The pig tissue slides had contained heavy metals. Huby had shown them to her. That tied together. If she’d been a scientist who understood this, or if Huby had returned her calls. . . . But life didn’t allow for ifs, and she shouldn’t think ill of the dead.

She hoped Morbier was questioning Castaing at Hydrolis’s office. And if justice existed in this world, she’d find the proof she needed.

AS SHE HURRIED in the dusk across rue Mouffetard, a familiar scent filled the air. Swollen, purple figs nestled in a bed of green leaves at the fruit stall. Fit to burst, like those in her grandmother’s garden in the Auvergne. It took her back to the days when she picked figs among the leafy branches heavy with fruit; tasted the ripe red flesh, the tiny seeds crunching between her teeth, the clear sap dribbling down her cheek. Back to the smell of her grandmother’s
tarte aux figues,
warm from the oven, her father’s favorite, and how he always claimed the largest slice. The way his eyes crinkled in a grin.

How could she explain her father to Mireille? His warmth, his crooked smile? A father Mireille only knew from a frayed black-and-white photograph, faded with time. He would have cared for her, Aimée was sure now, if he’d known of her existence.

She shook the image off. She could almost taste autumn in the air, the time when the aroma of chestnuts would replace that of figs. Roasting chestnuts with street-corner vendors rub-bing their hands together in the chill and heating the chest-nuts over low flames.

The seasons moved on. Life moved on. Why couldn’t she?

She pressed Professeur Zarek’s number but got only her voicemail. She was worried until she remembered that the professor might still be sleeping. She left a message.

Her phone rang.

Already? Eagerly, she hit ANSWER.
“Allo?”

“Nice muddle you led me to, Leduc,” said Morbier. “No way I can hold these
mecs,
” he continued. “There’s no proof. Their chief, Jérôme Castaing, isn’t here. According to his secretary, Hydrolis employs them.”

“Can’t you run background checks on them? Look for pri-ors, parole violations? Figure out something to charge them with?”

“Just like that?”

“You do it all the time, Morbier,” she said. “They stole my bag. A worn black leather Vuitton.”

Pause.

“Afraid not, Leduc.”

They’d already passed it on, or destroyed it.

“Léonie, the older woman, she’s ill.”

“The only woman here is the secretary. You’re wasting my time, Leduc.”

“Look, Morbier—”

“And for the last time.”

The line buzzed. He’d hung up. Her shoulders sagged. She’d have to do this herself.

She’d reached Square Paul Painlevè. She could see the
flics’
cars on rue Sommerand, pulled up in front of the Hydrolis building. Morbier was upstairs, she was sure, in Castaing’s office. Somehow she’d have to persuade him to find Léonie before he left.

Over the metal spikes of the fence, she glimpsed Jérôme Castaing in a raincoat, not in his office at all but walking arm in arm with a woman under the plane trees bordering the square. Making an abrupt turn, he and his companion changed direction. No wonder, she thought: he’d seen the
flic
cars in front of his office.

The couple hurried into the gothic entrance of the Cluny Museum.

Aimée rushed across the gravel to the square’s gate, unlatched it, and crossed narrow rue du Sommerand. She ran inside the Cluny’s medieval stone entrance. There was no sign of Castaing or his companion in the courtyard, nor by the sun-dial with its Latin inscription NIL SINE NOBIS, nor in the damp stone arcade. For a moment she felt dizzy. Her heels slipped on the slick worn pavers, and the ground went out from under her. She reached out, catching the ledge of the fifteenth-century well, and stared into its dark depths. Breathing hard, she pulled herself up.
Slow down and get a grip,
she told herself.

Castaing must have entered the museum.

At least no line of tourists and no school groups were waiting at the reception desk.

She caught her breath, steadied herself, and smiled at the ticket-taker. “I’m meeting my friends, a couple. They just came in, a tall man and a woman. Did you see where they went?”

“Toward the special exhibition in the Roman baths.”

“Merci.
” Aimée handed her francs over and took her ticket.

Inside the museum’s dimly lit vaulted corridor, humid stale air lingered. She hated the old smell of these places, the reek of porous stone, exuding long-past lives. This fifteenth-century monolith had been her history teacher’s favorite field-trip destination. It displayed artifacts of medieval life, from carved fifteenth-century hair combs to sculpted sarcophagi with Latin inscriptions.

Eerie. Any moment she expected the hovering ghost of a medieval monk to appear.

She strode down a dark passage, walked past a gallery lined with weathered sculpted heads. These twenty-one kings of Judea had formed part of Notre Dame’s façade until peasants had beheaded them during the Revolution. A flight of stairs led down to the remains of the adjoining Roman baths. Vaulted brown-rose brick arches rose above the baths.

So far, no sign of Jérôme Castaing and his companion.

She’d written a paper for history class on the ancient Roman thermal baths: the
frigidarium
holding cold water, the
calderium
hot, and the steam rooms. Next came the museum’s celebrated fifteenth-century tapestry sequence,
Lady with the Unicorn,
depicting the five senses. Art historians still debated the meaning of the enigmatic last panel.

Few patrons lingered in the exhibit area at this late hour. Frustrated, she walked faster, wondering where Castaing could have gone.

How could he just vanish?

She retraced her steps and glanced into a low crypt-like cavity. Somewhere, water was dripping in steady plops.

“But you can explain. . . .” a woman’s voice was saying. “Tell the
flics.
. . .” The voice receded.

Aimée stepped behind a pillar. She peered into the cavern and saw Jérôme Castaing standing in a niche in the vaulted stone wall.

She stiffened. Jérôme Castaing’s arms were holding Josephe, the woman from Father Privert’s foundation.

“
Ma puce,”
he said, “you worry too much.” His hand cupped Josephe’s chin. Her face glowed.

A couple . . . they were a couple! And so different, she thought, Jérôme dapper in a trim Burberry raincoat, Josephe in khaki pants, worn sweater, mussed hair half-caught in a ponytail.

Aimée pressed against the cold stone to catch their conversation.

“Tell them the truth,” Josephe was saying, her gaze intent, searching Jérôme’s face. “Deny Benoît’s allegations.”

Allegations? What were they?

He stroked her cheek. “Aaah, my little radical. They can-not understand how Haiti works.”

Jérôme pulled her closer.

“But you do,” she said. “Be careful, Jérôme. Father Privert’s mission is so important. . . .”

Aimée couldn’t catch the rest. She tiptoed to the next pillar.

“Dried-up wells. . . .” Josephe was saying. “The empty reservoirs, the trucks selling water, gouging the people . . . nothing functions.”

This was another side of Josephe, the harshness gone. In-deed, Jérôme seemed more smitten than she.

Jérôme took off his glasses to wipe them. Aimée noticed the tremor in his hands as he put them back on. Then he took Josephe’s hands, kissing them. “I’ll do anything. You know that. Don’t worry. You leave first. I’ll find a rear exit.”

Aimée’s thoughts sped in rapid succession; Jérôme was in love, promising Josephe he’d do anything; the water company had been founded by his father; Benoît’s report referred to lead and mercury. In the water? One thing stood out: Castaing was telling Josephe lies to keep her love.

Josephe’s footsteps echoed under the cavernous arches, then paused. Had she seen Aimée? Aimée squeezed deeper into the wedge between the pillar and a stone sarcophagus. But Josephe, her gaze on Jérôme, had only turned to blow him a kiss.

She waited until Josephe disappeared around the corner.

He’d pulled out his cell phone, ready to dial.

“Too late, Castaing,” Aimée said. “There’s a reception com-mittee waiting at your office. A commissaire’s waiting to question you.”

Surprised, Jérôme stepped back.

“Who in the. . . .” Recognition dawned in his eyes. “You! Nice outfit, Detective,” he said sarcastically.

“Forget the fashion critique,” she said. “Not only did your
mecs
knock me out, they stole Benoît’s file from my bag. I want it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re skimming millions, lining your pockets by selling the poor Haitians polluted water,” Aimée said, moving closer. “I’d say your girlfriend’s out the door when she discovers what you’ve been doing.”

“Discovers what?”

Without Benoît’s report, what could she prove? She thought fast.

“For a start, falsifying proposals to the World Bank.”

“You’re misinformed, Detective,” Castaing said.

“Leduc. My name’s Leduc,” she said. “Then there’s corruption, bribery.”

He gave a shrug. “You don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand?”

“It’s the cost of doing business in Haiti,” Castaing said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Everyone from the military, to the ministry, down to the guards at the pumps have to be paid off to keep the system running, to keep things going. The government structure has collapsed. The rich elite have their own reservoirs. Do they care? No one provides water to those people, to the poor, the destitute. No one goes to Cité Soleil except me and my company’s workers.”

Now it all made sense.

“And you make a fat profit by doing so, Castaing,” she said.

“The alternative’s a ten-mile walk through sugarcane fields for brackish water that’s been used in irrigation.”

“And I suppose that’s your rationale for supplying toxic water full of mercury and lead,” she said, her anger mounting. “Water that poisons people and animals. How can you justify that?”

“
Nom de Dieu,
” Jérôme said, shaking his head. “Do you think I knew?”

She held back her surprise. He’d as good as admitted her charges.

“Now you’re pleading ignorance? That’s gross negligence. Our water’s tested several times a day here in Paris. It’s your responsibility to replace the pipes, clean the filtration system, and make sure you deliver clean water.”

“And I will,” he said. “The plan’s in place to renovate the water plant, replace the pipes, and renew the sewage system. It’s contingent on IMF and World Bank loans. Benoît knew that.”

His hands twisted; a look of anguish appeared on his face. “Don’t involve Josephe,” he said. “She wouldn’t understand.”

And for a moment she almost felt sorry for him. Jérôme Castaing had it bad.

“Heartfelt, but not good enough, Castaing. Josephe de-serves the truth.”

“You wouldn’t do that. You can’t!”

What if Jérôme had instigated Benoît’s murder? She had to know. “Benoît threatened to make public his findings that your water was tainted with heavy metals. That would ruin you. You couldn’t have that.”

Castaing’s thin lips pursed.

“Nor have Darquin, the old lab guard, give testimony as to Benoît’s murder. Nor allow Huby, his assistant, to talk to me. All along, your
mecs
have followed me. You employ killers.”

“You’re paranoid.” Jérôme emitted a brittle laugh.

“You had them add a sick touch, to make Benoît’s murder resemble the tonton macoutes’ work.” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Big mistake. Tonton macoutes do it differently.”

Shock crossed Castaing’s face. He stepped back. “You really think I’d murder that big lumbering ox of a scientist? Benoît, a brilliant man, the first black lecturer at Ecole Normale Supérieure! Do you know the prejudice he battled in those hallowed halls? We differed, we disagreed. But I liked him, Detective, I respected him,” Castaing said. “I don’t even know those men you refer to. And I’m not like my father.”

Despite everything, she believed him.

“Then who killed Benoît?”

“You’re the detective.”

“I made copies of Benoît’s report, Castaing.” A lie, but it would give her leverage. He couldn’t know the truth.

Instead of the fear she expected, Jérôme waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“And, when the World Bank aid comes through, you’ll find it too expensive or drum up some other excuses to keep your old system running. You’ll pocket their money too and keep selling poisoned water.”

“You’ve got no concrete evidence against my firm,” he replied.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and riffled through the business cards. “Let’s see, I’ll make a quick call to the minister. We attended the
lycée
together.”

The old-boy network. A favor called in, a promise made, scratching each other’s backs behind closed doors. The big players who occupied high positions in the ministries raked in profits from the Third World without ever leaving their elegant offices. What could she do?

“You forgot the tissue samples, Castaing.”

“I’m afraid you’re too late.”

Did that mean he’d found them?

“The Paris Club’s already in session,” Castaing continued. “The economic meeting’s under way.”

He meant the World Bank and IMF representatives, dubbed by the media the “Paris Club,” the group that had been mentioned in the article Martine had showed her. The men who dictated Third World economic policy, the loans given and the loans forgiven.

She couldn’t give up. She’d bluff, use Martine’s connection to the press.

She said, “
Libération
will jump at the chance to publish an exposé detailing your connection with the World Bank, the bribes you pay, the laundering of funds.”

“What in hell do you mean?”