“Serge photocopied the morgue log,” said René. “I’m trying to figure it out. But the handwriting’s terrible.”
“Good job. Look at Tuesday, under white female, late thirties or early forties found in . . .
“Voilà. Estimated time of death: eleven p.m.,” he said. “Of course Serge said as much. Don’t you remember . . . the astrologer Miou-Miou predicted Josiane’s time of death?”
“René, hurry up. Read the rest.”
“Further on, at five a.m., body parts of white male, early twenties deposited from a charred automobile. Vaduz!”
“Does it give any time for the accident?”
“Non.”
“René, look for an attached police report. Sometimes they submit it with the body. A blue sheet. The writing on the photocopy will be fainter.”
She heard René inhale, the rustle of paper as he thumbed the attached sheets.
“Most of these seem like copies of lab requisitions. . .wait a minute,” he said. “In the middle of the sheaf one’s labelled Commissariat de 11ième arrondissement. It’s just legible.”
“Tiens, Serge’s a genius,” said René. “This report states that a black 1989 Peugeot was reported stolen at ten-thirty p.m. Monday night. A couple attending a film near the République Métro saw a man breaking into their car. He fit Vaduz’s description. They couldn’t catch him and he drove away. The same car was involved in an accident later.”
“Voilà,” she said. “Vaduz didn’t attack me.”
“But he could have driven from République . . .”
“I left the resto at ten-thirty,” she interrupted. “Somewhere, I have my receipt with the time; I needed it, to bill Vincent. So Vaduz couldn’t have attacked me if he was stealing the car. It’s doubtful that he could have killed Josiane in the next courtyard.”
Aimée paused.
“I’m trying to add all this up. Make a timeline.”
“Go on,” said René.
“If we can make the connections, I’ll call Bellan and demand that he reopen the case.”
“And Vaduz certainly couldn’t have attacked you in the Residence,” said René, his voice mounting in excitement. “He died early on Tuesday!”
“Bon. So according to the police log,” she said, “Monday night Vaduz stole a car at the same time I was attacked in Passage de la Boule Blanche.”
“But Serge attached another police report,” said René. “It’s not blue either.”
“Which states . . . ?”
“A man resembling Vaduz, identifiable by those horrible teeth, driving the stolen Peugeot, hung out at a café near Porte la Chapelle. Then he took off with one of the local drug dealers named Barzac.”
“That’s not so good,” she said, worried. Dope dealers were notorious for bending their stories. Especially if the dealer was caught with dope. “The drug dealer probably cut a deal.”
“Meaning?” asked René.
“If the dealer’s mentioned in the report, the flics interviewed him. So his testimony can go either way,” she said, “depending on what he’s up for. And how the flics prefer he testify.”
“Then what does it matter?” said René. His voice sagged.
“Are you all right, René?” Was she being insensitive, pushing him too hard? She’d heard fatigue before in his voice.
She was obsessed, but she didn’t want to use him at the cost of his health.
“I’m fine,” he said. “What about the MRI . . . what did the doctor say, the one you went out with for a drink?”
Pause. Should she tell René the way he’d kissed . . . the little, growing fantasy of regaining her sight and cooking the doctor dinner after a long day in the hospital? Dinner? . . . She didn’t know how to cook.
“He likes watching sunrises.”
She heard the rustling of paper.
“Look, we’re banging up against a brick wall, Aimée. That’s what I mean. The flics want to pin the blame on Vaduz; satisfy the victims’ families’ thirst for justice, and ensure the Préfet’s smooth retirement. They’ll ignore this, non? It’s easier for them to place the blame on Vaduz and pretend you’re crazy.”
“We need to talk with the café owner, René,” she said. “Feel like a drive?”
AIMÉE FELT the car shudder as René downshifted and parked. According to Morbier, Porte la Chapelle’s reputation as a cesspool had grown worse in the two years since she’d been there; it had high dope traffic and East European prostitutes had set up shop under the concrete Périphérique and along the rail lines shooting up from Gare du Nord.
“It’s called Café des Roses?” asked René.
Aimée nodded. Then she wished she hadn’t, as resulting fireworks flashed in her head.
“Nice name for a fixer-upper,” he said. “Broken shutters, cracked pavement, peeling paint. And that’s just the outside.”
“So, no stars in the Michelin guide,” she said. “Tell me what you see.”
“The café’s across from a serrurie, with a big green key for the locksmith sign. That’s the only other functioning business.”
“Handy,” she said. “All the times I’ve locked myself out, I wish a serrurie had been nearby.”
“Several young men wearing dark windbreakers are standing out front of the café,” he said, “and on the pavement. The rest of the buildings are old, Haussman-era, with windows bricked-up.”
Rundown and anonymous. Like much of the area had become.
She heard him turn the ignition off.
“Cars stop,” René reported. “These men go to the windows, hold brief conversations.”
“Then what, René?”
“One just drove off.”
“Drug dealers,” she said. “Let’s have an espresso.”
“ME , I worked the counter that night,” said the café owner, who had a northern, Lille accent.
A former truck driver, Aimée figured. Many bought cafés upon retirement or when their backs gave out from crisscrossing France in 18-hour shifts, 52 weeks a year.
“My wife came down with la grippe. White-faced and weak. I sent her upstairs. Busy. That’s all I remember. Worked my feet off all night. My corns still ache.”
Aimée’s hand circled the espresso cup. She knew her hesitant entrance, gripping René’s shoulder, had brought them immediate attention. She heard the skipped beat of conversations, felt the weight of eyes on them. Heard a few guffaws from the corner.
The stale smell of beer, the sticky counter, and grit from the unswept floor bothered her. But not as much as being the center of attention.
“Monsieur, has Barzac been here tonight?” she asked.
No reply. Only the gush of water in the sink and gurgle of beer from the tap.
“Are you shaking your head no?”
“Look, the flics were here already,” he said. “Barzac talked with them. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Did the flics speak with anyone else?”
“Not that I saw.”
She pulled out the 20 francs arranged the way Chantal had taught her; one edge folded for 20, half-folded bill for 50. A length of the rectangle fold for 100, and a double folded rectangle for 500 franc notes.
“That’s only 10 francs,” said a slurred voice to her right. Garlic breath wafted over her.
“Take it easy, Franck,” said a voice in the rear.
“I always do,” said the garlic-breath.
She felt him lean into her elbow.
“It’s twenty,” she said. “More than enough for two espresso.” She almost added in a dump like this.