A buzzer went off.
“Calm down,” Picq said, “I can coax a newborn from a ton of steel. Tran’s in place, right? He lets us into the house and then—”
“But we don’t know the jade’s in there,” Gassot interrupted.
Nemours waved Gassot’s remark aside. “Where else, eh?”
Picq switched on an industrial dryer for enamelware and slid in a small tray of gleaming teeth. An even heat emanated from it, warming the back of the lab. Comfortable and safe.
But Gassot shuddered. It reminded him of the false teeth of an old Vietnamese woman at Dien Bien Phu. Her grandson had been caught in a tunnel with French rations. The fire bombing had left her burnt and naked. “Ivory,” she’d said pulling the teeth out and offering them, since she’d had nothing else to barter.
The corporal had shot the old woman and her grandson anyway. The next day the elite Parachute troops found out they’d been innocent. Years later he’d seen the photo of the Vietnamese girl burnt with napalm with the same expression on her face.
Gassot knew he had to reason them out of this.
“Listen, Picq, it’s just a feeling but I think they stashed the jade in a safe place, somewhere. After the old man died, Thadée must have discovered it.”
“Stands to reason,” Nemours said. “According to Albert, he talked big, but he didn’t deliver.”
“You think he was killed because he didn’t hand over the jade?” Gassot said. “But that makes no sense. He was the key, the connection.”
“You don’t kill a connection,” Picq said. “You kill a failure.”
So why did this ring false, Gassot wondered.
“Instead of blowing up the man’s safe, we should be searching for Albert’s killer, and the jade.”
“And you think we’re not? At least, you concede Albert was murdered?”
Gassot pulled the folded napkin out of his pocket. Showed them the threat scribbled on it: “We’re going to roll your pants leg up, too.”
Nemours’s face paled. “It’s all connected. Ever since we found out the jade’s in France—”
“Since it’s in the wrong hands, bad luck has followed it,” Gassot said.
Picq and Nemours exchanged a look.
“You’re not going native on us again, eh?”
Gassot’s eyes flashed. “Remember the officers, they ate the best . . .”
“And we ate the rest,” finished Picq.
Gassot walked toward the glassed-in front of the shop, wondering what more he could say to persuade his comrades to hold back. If they lay low they would be led right to it—and avoid whoever meant to kill them.
He pushed away the thoughts of Bao that crowded his mind. More and more he wondered about Bao. The idealist with soft rounded cheeks, who pared the skin off a mango in deft strokes. Bao, whose laugh had sounded like warm rain.
Gassot stiffened as a uniformed policeman and plainclothes flic entered the shop. “We’re looking for Monsieur Picq. We have some questions,” said a flic in a windbreaker, pulling out a search warrant. “Concerning some recent purchases he made at Castorama.”
Gassot shivered. “I’m just a customer,” he said, trying to control the shaking in his voice. “Monsieur Picq’s back there.”
And with that, Gassot opened the door and slid into the narrow passage.
Thursday Early Evening
“WE’RE STAYING IN A hotel,” Aimée said as she cleaned René’s bloodied hands with disinfectant. The taxi pulled up on rue Sauffroy in front of Kinshasa Coiffure, its windows covered with pictures of women with braided cornrows and Afros. HÔTEL BONHEUR read an old sign by a window of the second-story building. Smells of fish and coconut mingled in the dusk.
“Here?” René asked.
She tipped the taxi driver.
“Always four star with you, Aimée,” he said.
“There’s an elevator and plenty of electrical outlets. I’ll get your car and park it in back, if you want.”
“Don’t you think we’ll stick out?” he said, observing the African women in bright scarves on the street.
“No one will think of looking for us in the African music center of Paris,” she said. “And the owner owes my cousin Sebastian a favor.”
“But we’re still in Clichy.”
“That’s why it’s perfect. Did you see the faces of the men who were holding you? Could you recognize them?”
He nodded. “One heavy-set with red hair, the other lean with a ponytail.”
Like the RG men who had been on the quai outside her apartment.
“What happened, René?”
He rubbed his neck. “They threw a net over me on the office stairs, then put a choke hold on my throat. A carotid sleeper special!”
René reached in his pocket and winced. “Does this help?” he said, pulling out the notebook.
“I’m proud of you, partner,” she said, scanning the pages.
One had writing on it, with a phone number. Regnier’s number.
“This confirms it,” she said. “Regnier, the suspended RG mec, kidnapped you to make sure I handed over the jade. How’s your hip?”
“I’ve felt worse.” Though he couldn’t remember when. With an effort, he tried not to limp.
The hotel room’s furniture—two beds, an angular leopard-skin couch and 1960s Formica end tables—seemed out of place under the tall ceilings and ornate nineteenth-century scrollwork moldings. Lemon verbena scents came from the bathroom. She took out her laptop and hooked it up.
“Saj will bring laptops from the office and we’ll work from here. That’s if the doctor gives you the OK.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” he said. “I just need to lie down, and to bandage my wrists. What about Miles Davis?”
“He’s on holiday at the groomer’s. Loves it, according to the groomer.”
“Is Guy coming?”
She turned away.
“What’s the matter, Aimée?”
“Time to talk about that later. There’s something more important.”
René’s brow furrowed. She reached for the box of gauze bandages. She wasn’t very good at this but she had to say it. “I know I’m not the easiest person to work with René. But I can’t see myself anywhere but Leduc Detective. And you’re part of that. I do know that with your skills, you could go anywhere. Maybe you’ve received other offers. Was that what you meant the other day?”
An odd look crossed René’s face.
“Are you in pain?” she asked. Or was he afraid to tell her he was leaving?
“You’re my family, René, but I don’t want to stand in your way. I’ll try and talk you out of it, because I’m selfish. But I will respect whatever . . .”
“Did I say anything like that?” René asked.
She shook her head. “But I thought. . . .”
“I’d appreciate a raise when we’re solvent again,” he said, as Aimée bandaged his wrists.
“Consider it done,” she grinned. She took a deep breath.
“At this rate I’m going to have to put your name on the door.”
He looked away but not before she saw a small smile on his face.
“In the meantime, what I can’t figure out is why didn’t they call you again,” René said, “or make more demands.”
Was he trying to change the subject? But he’d made a good point. “True, Regnier was waiting for me to find the jade, or else Gassot.” She stood up. “And I haven’t found either. Not yet.”
She looked out the window to the wet street below. No sign of Regnier or anyone tailing her. The orange-pink neon of Kinshasa Coiffure reflected on the windows opposite. From the resto below, came the beat of the music of Papa Wemba, the King of Congolese Rhumba Rock.
“I have to find out why Olf wants me to monitor the Chinese and British oil bids,” she said. “You’ll have to help me.”