Murder in the Sentier (26 page)

“But you sold ten of them,” René said. “Michel said it belongs on you.”

S
HE PUT
the scooter in gear and headed down rue Saint Honoré for the Quai des Orfèvres. At the Pont Neuf she crossed the Seine, sparkling in the sun, and took a left on the Ile de la Cité.

She parked the scooter and showed her
carte d’identité
to the blue-uniformed
flics
. Once inside the cobbled courtyard she veered to the left, passed under the portal that bore the inscription DIRECTION DE LA POLICE JUDICIARE, and climbed the five hundred steps to reach the blue insignia of the Brigade Criminelle.

It had been a long time. But she remembered the way well.

After again showing her ID, she was buzzed in. She found the vaulted wooden doors marked
toilette
. Now it served both sexes since the former ladies’ room had become part of the communication systems control room.

This was no classic hole in the floor or stinky urinal like many in the building but an elegant Art Nouveau lavatory: private wooden stalls with inset stained-glass panels and a glazed ceramic frieze accompanied by an elegant shoe-shine stand circa 1905.

The usual lavatory attendant was off duty, probably at lunch. A box with five franc tips sat on a ledge. A stall door opened a slit and Léo beckoned with a crooked finger.

“Timing is everything,” he breathed, as she joined him.

She slipped his amended credit report, with proof of the postage-meter glitch and three-day grace period for his online account, into his freckled hands.

His small sharklike teeth, crooked nose, and full head of curly brown hair gave him an academic air. “Devious nerd” best described him. And that, she thought, was being generous. Given his proclivity to taunt and blackmail fellow students in the
lycée
, his skills were wasted in the
préfecture
’s Records Department.

“Twenty minutes,” he whispered, handing her a manila envelope, “then I’ll come back for them. DST files are shut tighter than a nun’s legs.”

“Léo, that’s not the deal!” She pulled back her file.

He put his finger on his lips. “But I got this. My housecleaner sleeps with the adjutant’s clerk….”

“Look,” she said, making a moue of distaste. “I don’t want to know.”

“No photos.”

She nodded, and set her phone to Vibrate. “Call me when you’re coming back.”

He yanked the brass pull chain. A thunderous flushing noise filled the stall as he slid out the door.

Aimée shut the mahogany toilet lid and leaned on a shiny chrome knob. From her leather backpack, she lifted the portable scanner bar, then connected it to her wireless palm organizer revved up with extra memory by René. She punched in her office fax number. The organizer would simultaneously fax the scanned pages to her office. Scanning wasn’t photographing, was it? Apprehensive, she took a deep breath. She had a terrible thought … what if René hadn’t paid the France Télécom bill? Then she saw the familiar handshake logo indicating
Connect
on the tiny screen. Thank God!

With a studied calm she didn’t feel, Aimée thumbed open the folder from the IGPN, the disciplinary branch within the police. Inside lay a lined yellow sheet with notes written in an angular hand.

With the bar, she began scanning the notes, which were dated 1976. The first page had a coffee stain and recounted surveillance on rue de Cléry. She recognized the address. Romain Figeac’s apartment.

Her brow beaded with sweat. The air in the lavatory was stifling and the scanner’s speed was only about five pages per minute.

The surveillance entailed the comings and goings from the apartment of a female suspect. The phone tap report stated she’d used Figeac’s phone for calling and receiving calls from a Left Bank gallery owner, known by the police to fence stolen paintings. From what Aimée gathered, the gallery owner was feeding information to the police. There were several blurred black-and-white photos of a woman wearing what looked like a long blond wig, in sunglasses, carrying a shopping bag supposed to contain Modigliani paintings. The woman caught in the act was named—Sydney Leduc.

Her own mother caught (by her father?) in a police sting. Aimée sat in the small cubicle, and the world, as she knew it, crumbled.

Aimée’s mother had been jailed and brought to trial, not for terrorism, but for the theft of Laborde’s paintings. There was no proof of her participation in the kidnapping and murder of Laborde. So that’s why she’d only been in prison a year.

But why hadn’t Aimée known about any of this? She looked at the date … That year she had been sixteen, that was the time she’d been an exchange student at a high school in New York!

Aimée read further. Offered the chance to inform on the gang for a lighter sentence, Sydney had agreed to find out the location of terrorist gang members and their loot. But Aimée read between the lines. Her father had cut a deal for her mother.

Yet at the end of the report, her father had been brought up for disciplinary hearings. Why? That didn’t make sense.

There was no explanation, unless he had been found in possession of the seized paintings on July 15th during the surveillance sting.

On another sheet, with “Surveillance Unit” written across the top, were several names:

Szlovak

Dray

Teynard

Leduc

She recognized Szlovak, a middle-aged man on her father’s Commissariat team who’d retired early. Dray had been kicked upstairs to the préfecture at the Quai des Orfèvres ten years or so before. Teynard had been posted to the STUP, the narcotics branch of the Brigade Criminelle.

Her wrist ached. She managed to scan the Action-Réaction files before her cell phone vibrated. Within two minutes she’d finished, disconnected the scanner bar from her palm organizer, and stood reapplying Chanel red lipstick at the old silver-edged mirror.

The lavatory attendant, an older woman with her white hair in a bun, a copy of
Telé-Journal
under her arm, appeared as Léo returned. Aimée watched him enter the stall but not before she winked and dropped ten francs in the bowl.

A half hour later, back at her office, she found Szlovak’s number on the Minitel, left a message, looked up Dray in the préfecture, and had no luck finding Teynard at the Brigade.

At the préfecture, the receptionist said Dray had left for
vacances
the day before. Aimée sat down to reread the pages she’d faxed and to read those she hadn’t had time to.

Something felt off. Way off.

She didn’t know what was bothering her but … and then she looked up. The dates were wrong. They had to be.

She reread the file. On her office wall was her favorite photo of herself with her father, taken the day after Bastille Day in 1976. They’d spent the whole day together before her flight to New York. She looked closer at the surveillance log dated July 15, 1976, containing her father’s name. The day the paintings were recovered.

But Bastille Day was always July 14th.

So her father had been with her on July 15th. Not on stakeout.

He’d been set up. And she was the proof.

She took the photo from the wall and stuck it in her bag with the Modigliani data she’d copied from the Agence France Presse.

A further search showed Teynard had retired. He ran a detective firm with his nephew on rue de Turbigo.

Close. On the edge of the Sentier and a few blocks away.

Forget the scooter. She needed to walk. Work out some angry energy, so she wouldn’t arrive at Teynard’s swinging. At least not at first.

“
D
ESOLÉE
, M
ADEMOISELLE
Leduc!” said the secretary, Madame Goroux. “Monsieur Teynard’s evening seems totally booked.”

“Please, can’t you fit me in?” Aimée asked, letting the whine rise in her voice. “Something’s come up, it’s important.”

“He handles cases jointly with his nephew,” Madame Goroux said. “Let me see if he’s available.”

“Merci,”
Aimée said. The nephew might help her to get to see his uncle.

An express delivery man wheeled in a package on a dolly. “
Bonjour
, Madame Goroux, I need the
patron
’s signature.”

“I can sign, Cédric,” she said.

“Sorry, but the sender specifically required Monsieur Teynard’s signature.”

“Come back in a while,” said Madame Goroux, consulting her schedule. “He marked himself out until his three o’clock appointment.”

Aimée glanced at her Tintin watch.

Twenty minutes. If he was on time.

She left and descended the worn stairs. In the quiet mosaic-tiled lobby of Teynard’s building, her mind raced. She chewed Nicorette furiously, dying for a cigarette. Within ten minutes, a dapper white-haired man in his sixties in a wheat-colored linen suit entered the lobby.

“Monsieur Teynard?” she asked, standing partially behind a pillar.

He removed his sunglasses and blinked, adjusting his eyes from the glare outside to the darkened lobby.

“Mademoiselle, are we acquainted?” he asked, a smile spreading over his face. A whiff of scented aftershave accompanied him. Perhaps he fancied himself a ladies’ man.

“Indirectly,” she said, walking toward him. “That’s what I’d like to talk about.”

He squinted.

Aimée hit the light switch, flooding the lobby with light.

Teynard’s brow furrowed as he stared at her.

“If I didn’t know better,” he said in a low voice, “I’d say the past has come back …”

“To haunt you?” she finished for him. “Let’s go talk.”

Aimée pointed to the café in Passage du Bourg-l’Abbé directly opposite Teynard’s office.

W
ITH A
wary look, Teynard watched her set two espressos on the café table. She pushed the round aluminum sugar cube bowl toward him. The young owner, wearing a Lakers tank top and prayer beads around his wrist, sat behind the counter reading a Turkish newspaper.

Apart from Aimée and Teynard, the narrow cafe, with its yellowed smoke-stained walls, hammered-tin counter, and brown leatherette chairs, was empty. From the corners came the musk-like smell of lingering genteel decay. Wood-framed windows fronted the passage under a glass-and-iron roof probably unchanged from Napoleon’s time.

“Monsieur Teynard,” she said, “you were part of the Galerie Arte surveillance on July 15, 1976, weren’t you?”

“That’s a long time ago,” Teynard said, smoothing back his hair. His ice blue eyes darted over the café.

“I’m interested in your version.”

“My version?”

“You were there along with my father, Dray, and Szlovak.”

“I don’t remember.”

She nodded, unwrapping the sugar cube’s paper. “Good point. Maybe you weren’t there either. I know Papa wasn’t.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Shouldn’t you tell me, Monsieur Teynard?” She stirred her sugar.

“I have appointments….” He smoothed his linen trousers and started to stand up.

“I told Madame Goroux your plans had changed.”

For the first time he looked surprised.

“This might refresh your memory,” she said, wiping the sticky table off with a napkin and spreading the file in front of him. “I’m a visual person. Seeing things in black and white brings it home to me. Maybe you are, too. See, there’s your name.”

Teynard’s chin sagged.

She pointed. “Here’s another visual.” She pulled out the photo of her and her father. “There’s a date. See
Le Figaro
on the
tabac
stand behind us—July 15, 1976. I even checked. The old noon edition came out at eleven
A.M
. Doesn’t fit with the surveillance record, does it? My father was with me July 15, not on surveillance as this shows.”

“You’re talking about ancient history,” Teynard said.

“My father was framed,” she said, “for something he didn’t do.”

“The facts speak for themselves.”

“
Pas du tout
—they lie,” she said. “But the rumor he was dirty follows him and me, even now.”

“That’s old news,” he said. “If you had more going on in your life you wouldn’t be hung up on the past.”

Rude man. Maybe that was true. But it was none of his business.

“Move on, young lady,” he smiled. “Get a life. Isn’t that how they say it?”

Teynard didn’t like women. Or maybe just her. But something about his dapper persona didn’t match his hard eyes.

“Good advice, Monsieur Teynard,” she said. “I’ll move on to the prosecutor, Edith Mésard.”

She saw a flicker of interest in his eyes.

“And Monsieur Szlovak,” she lied. “He has a better memory than you.”

“Talk with Dray,” he said. “Before you make more of a fool of yourself.”

And then she knew. Dray and Teynard were thick. Pudding thick, like thieves.

“It was you two, wasn’t it?”

Something caught in his throat. “What are you …?”

“Don’t lie again,” she said. “For more than twenty years, you’ve been afraid someone would accuse you of that, haven’t you? But my father took the fall. Maybe he was just convenient, having a terrorist wife and all.”

Teynard shook his head. “You aren’t making sense,” he said in a quiet voice. “I need to get back to the office.”

“But it makes perfect sense,” she said. “Especially if he got my mother to inform, and cut a deal for a light prison sentence for her. He left the force with honors, too. Things don’t often happen like that if a police officer has been under disciplinary review, do they?”

Teynard looked away. “Typical
flic
’s kid!”

“Matter of fact”—she leaned forward and downed her espresso—“in the Commissariat, you probably bounced me on your knee!”

That should make him feel old. And dried up, like he looked under the tan and his
GQ
fashion attempt.

“What do you want?”

“Papa’s vindication,” she said. “And what you know about my mother.”

He shrugged. “I’m retired. What makes you think I know anything?” She’d saved the best for last, hoping he’d nibble. Well, he’d sort of nibbled.

“But I know about the Modigliani paintings, you see,” she said, pulling the
Figaro
article out. “They weren’t lost at all. You signed for their consignment to the police repository. But here they are in a 1984 London exhibition.”