What he left out, but adhered to faithfully, was procedure. She’d grown up intimately acquainted with investigative procedure, having done her homework, and lost several baby teeth, on the Commissariat marble floor. Following procedure, if nothing else, eliminated unnecessary legwork—now at a premium, since there was only so much René could do on his own.
She found the cell phone, hit the number of Le Drugstore . . . once the sole all night pharmacy and café in Paris. The worn 70s decor, pricey service, and the location on the Champs-Elysées deterred her visiting. Not to mention the suburban backwash attracted by the seedy glitter.
“Martin, please.”
“You are . . .?
“Aimée Leduc, Jean-Claude’s daughter.”
Pause. He must be checking.
“Call back in three minutes.”
“D’accord, merci.”
Standard operating procedure for contacting Martin, her father’s old informant. At least he was still alive and he seemed to be in operation.
After one A.M., despite rain, sickness, or citywide strikes, Martin held court at a back table. He sat near the rear exit, where he could easily slip away.
The phone cabinet, down the tiled stairs branching left from the restrooms, functioned as his communication center. No cell phone, but he brokered information, traded it like a commodities broker. If he didn’t know, he’d find out. Not always a lot, but quality. And worth every franc.
He owed Aimée’s father for saving his skin at least twice. And being of the old school, that counted. Certain ethics prevailed and debts transferred, like a legacy, to offspring. Aimée knew she could count on Martin for something.
She counted to 180 then called the number for the phone cabinet.
“Bonsoir, Martin.”
“Aaah, ma petite mademoiselle!” his voice boomed, gritty like gravel on an unpaved road. ”Such a long time. Ça va?”
She imagined his oversized tortoiseshell glasses, his gray wavy hair combed back, prominent nose, and dancing eyes. A charmer in his own roguish way. Her father always said Martin could have been a first class ship’s cruise director if he’d only trod the straight and narrow.
The last time she’d seen Martin was the day before the bombing in Place Vendôme that had killed her father. He’d furnished information about a gang in the eighth arrondisse-ment. Unrelated. But countless nights, when she’d woken up, she’d wondered if it really was.
The department hadn’t sent flowers when her father died, but Martin had. A bouquet of yellow jonquils. And a donation to the war widows, her father’s favorite charity. Crime created strange partnerships.
“And your dog, smarter than ever?”
The pang of missing Miles Davis hit her.
“Smarter than me, Martin,” she said.
“You need an appointment?”
That was his term.
“Not the usual way, Martin,” she said. “It’s urgent. Thugs evicting tenants in the Eleventh, a Romanian named Draz.”
“You know how I operate.”
He required a personal visit to impart information. He used the phone as a tool, brief and to the point.
“The murdered reporter, Josiane Dolet, what’s the word on her?” she said.
“I want to help you but . . .”
“No disrespect Martin, but I can’t come to meet you,” she said. “Logistics problems.” She didn’t want to admit her blindness. Never show a vulnerable side to a thief; it came back to haunt you.
“These days I’ve cut back,” he said.
She doubted that.
“It’s not like before,” Martin said. “The new gangs, new ways of operating . . .”
Paris had plenty of crime to go around.
“You’re the best, Martin,” she said. “Who else knew the Hsieh Tong sliced the bookie in the Thirteenth but you?”
Few penetrated the Asian underworld around Place d’Italie, but Martin had his sources. Even the flics used him there. Stroke his feathers enough and he should fly.
A low throat-clearing came over the phone. He slept all day but must smoke two packs a night. She’d never seen him without a lit cigarette between his fingers or burning in a nearby ashtray.
The thought made her wish for that Gauloise she’d shared with Mimi.
“Quality’s important, Martin, that’s why I’ve come to you.”
She heard a low chuckle. “Not that I owe you?”
“Life’s a flowing river, currents combine,” she said.
“You’re so like your father, bless him,” Martin said.
“It’s been five years, Martin,” she said.
She remembered the explosion, searing heat, and crawling on the bloody cobblestones. The charred limbs of her father, his shattered reading glasses somehow forgotten in her pocket. And the emptiness that followed.
“We were set up, Martin.” As always she wondered why. “You know that, don’t you?”
Pause.
“Don’t you work on computers now?” he said. “Gangs in the Eleventh seem too low-rent for you.”
“Evictions, they’re rent-a-thug style,” she said. “East European bodybuilder types. But they must stick their thumbs in other tartes. See what you can dig up. I’ll call you later.”
“Tomorrow or the next day,” he said. “It takes time. I’m an old man, remember?”
She hoped Martin could deliver. Time passed, and she knew, to solve a homicide, new information couldn’t come soon enough.
She punched in several numbers and finally connected with the central office at the Quai des Orfèvres.
“I’m Commisaire Vrai’s adjutant,” she said, “requesting a search on an East European, goes by the name Draz. No surname known. I’ll wait.”
She knew they’d find Vrai was on leave if they checked. They did. Good.
“No luck with your computer?” the voice asked.
“We want to cast the net wide.”
“Searching Draz.” Whirring came from the background. “Nothing.”
“Try entries with D.”
Aimée heard a yawn.
“Twenty-three entries. But there might be more; not all the files have been made available online.”
“Meaning they’re sitting in the Commissariat files?”
“Or moldering away in the Frigo.”
“Any ‘D’s’ in the Eleventh?”
“Right now the only person detained in the past six months with a D is a Dicelle . . . transvestite trafficking in amyl nitrate. Sentenced.”
“Thanks for checking.”
She sat back. The clock ticked. Too bad she couldn’t see what time it was. Why hadn’t she asked Chantal for one of those talking clocks?
The lack of police interest in the attack on her bothered her. But as Morbier implied, if the Préfet wanted things nice and tidy to close the Beast of Bastille case, there stood little chance they’d exert themselves.
Would Morbier help? He was edging toward the finish line of retirement, too. These days he seemed more withdrawn than ever. And Loïc Bellan detested her.
If only she could interface with Europol. She needed a last name. Had to have it. Tomorrow, she’d get René to lean on the architect . . . he might know more.
Meanwhile, she checked in with the answering machine at Leduc Detective. It felt like not just a few days but forever since she’d been there. She accessed and listened to the voice mail. A query for security work referred by a current satisfied client. Nice.
Then another message. No voice. The machine clicked off.
She felt uneasy. Even though she’d canceled her phone service right after her cell phone had been stolen, the attacker had time to find her addresses, home and business.
The third message, her connection from la Proc’s office, bothered her in a different way.
“The Incandescent hearing’s scheduled for Monday afternoon at sixteen hundred hours at the Palais de Justice. If your client’s not there, his firm goes on the docket for issuance of a subpoena.”