Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis (27 page)

Thursday Late Afternoon

THE CAFÉ WAS crowded and noisy; Aimée held Stella in her arms. A few hours ago, she’d visited a pediatrician, who, after examining Stella, had pronounced her healthy and fever free. For two hundred francs more, he’d prescribed antibiotics for Aimée and asked no questions as to why she needed to ward off the Seine’s microbes. She’d slept half the day, soaked in the tub at Martine’s, and borrowed a black velvet pantsuit and cap. Rested now, despite an undercurrent of anxiety, she tugged the little hat onto Stella’s head and scanned the other customers in the café.

A milk steamer hissed, competing with the conversations at the zinc counter. Delivery truck drivers in blue work smocks threw back espressos and
bières
, a pinstripe-suited Ministry type stood reading
Le Monde
, an office worker on a break in a pencil-thin skirt spoke on her cell phone, and a gray-haired, elaborately coiffed woman held a cigarette between her beringed fingers, Bon Marché shopping bag at her feet, and blew smoke rings in the air.

The man she was waiting for hadn’t arrived.

She sat back. This
café-tabac,
across from the Institut Océanique, was filled with locals. No one would look for them here.

The cell phone in her jacket pocket vibrated. With the phone crooked between her neck and shoulder, she laid Stella on the booth’s leather seat.

“Aimée, what happened to you last night?” René said with irritation. “I left you messages—”

“Sorry, René. I set off some fireworks, then took a swim,” she said. “It seemed better to lie low and call you when I—”

“That was you?”

“Let’s say it was an alter ego,” she said. “Has Saj found anything promising?”

“We used the dial-up system and accessed Vavin’s password and account.”

“Brilliant, René.”

“I said I would, Aimée,” René reminded her. “Now Saj is working from the PC’s hard drive backup. But I’m working on the Fontainebleau contract again. One more time. They’re ready to sign.”

He meant he had a “paying” job; she heard the implied criticism in his voice.

“The computer’s been put back in Vavin’s office,” René said.

She heard a pause at the other end.

“But my log-in using Vavin’s password will show up, Aimée. It’s just a matter of time until the techs at Alstrom discover the intrusion.”

“Right, but they can’t prove you did it,” she said. She had to reassure him and so she said the only thing she could think of.

“Of course not,” René said. “We ‘visited’ the travel agency next door and luckily their telephone was still connected so we used it to dial up.”

René constantly amazed her.

“Worst-case scenario, we’ll spin the break-in as ‘in the public interest,’” she said.

“You don’t mean that law whistle-blowers use, citing special journalistic privileges or whatever?”

“That’s only if we get caught, René,” she said. “And I’m about to meet a
L’Express
journalist.”

“Saj tunneled into some Ministry meeting minutes in Alstrom’s storage database. He’s not sure but—”

She heard the clicking of keys on the laptop under René’s fingers.

“We’re looking for what exactly?” he asked.

“A doctor’s report from La Hague. And pollution statistics. You know, like a second pair of books accountants keep. The real set.” She had an idea. “Ask Saj to find Alstrom’s file of independent contractors.”

“Tall order, Aimée. He’s slogging through their records and he says it’s a huge job.”

“What about checking Alstrom’s accounts payable? See if Halkyut’s on the list; no one works for free.”

“Halkyut?” René said louder. “The spies for hire?”

“One of Halkyut’s employees has been after Stella.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Aimée?”

“I made it hot for him,” she said.

In the literal sense, but she didn’t think it wise to give René the details. “He’s in La Santé right now. I’ll fill you in after I meet the journalist.”

She eyed the
café-tabac
lace-curtained door again. He was late. He had to show. And if he didn’t come? She pushed the thought away. If she’d read him right, he wanted to make his name, and a scoop like this would do it.

Something still bothered her.

“We have to find out what those marks I copied from under Stella’s arm mean.”

Nelie must have been desperate; she hadn’t taken the time to diaper Stella but she had scribbled letters and numbers on her skin. Yet she must have realized that the marks would rub off soon, or be washed off.

“What’s the big secret, Aimée?”

“No big secret, René,” she said. “Right now, those ink marks—the letters and numbers that were written on Stella—seem to be the key.”

“Deciphering an alphanumeric strand is a big headache.”

It could take an hour. Or twelve. Or forever.

She thought hard. “Say Vavin discovered proof that Alstrom had falsified their reports and it’s hidden in this equation. What if he told this to Nelie . . .”

“And it got him killed?” René finished for her. “We went through this last night. Big stretch.”

Stella began to cry. Aimée put the baby over her shoulder and patted her back.

“How’s Stella?” René asked in a gruff tone that didn’t hide his concern.

“The doctor examined her; she’s fine,” she told him.

A dark-haired man entered the café, working his way past those in line buying telephone cards, and waved at her. Finally.

“The
L’Express
journalist’s here,” Aimée said, waving back. “I’ll get his fax number. When you find the reports, you can fax them, and if I play it right, he’ll nail them in print.”

“Play it right, Aimée,” René said and hung up.

Daniel Ristat, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, edged through the line at the counter looking every bit the handsome Left Bank journalist and knowing it. More than one woman glanced up from her magazine and gave him the eye.

“Je m’excuse,”
he said, setting his laptop on the table in front of Aimée. His snobbism evaporated when he saw Stella. He ground his cigarette out and waved the smoke away. “The baby, smoke . . . I’m sorry. She’s a beauty!”

He sat down, a smile in his eyes.

“What’s her name?”

“Stella, meet Daniel Ristat.”

He took Stella’s fingers in his big ones and gazed at her. Stella wrinkled her nose, curled her finger around his, and gave a halfhearted cry. Amazed, Aimée saw that Daniel Ristat’s face had changed. The trendy journalist was putty in her small hands. This little
ravissante
was a natural
coquette
, born to it.

“Martine never mentioned your child. I had no idea,” he said. Amid the noise of conversations, the
télé
above the counter with horse races blaring, the clatter of cups stacked on the espresso machine, he only had eyes for Stella. “You’re so lucky.”

Aimée winced.

“My wife and I can’t have children. We’re trying to adopt but the waiting list is two years long. Or longer.” He shrugged. “
Famille d’accueil
recommends we become foster parents to gain priority.”

Despite his male-model looks and air, something about him told her he’d make a wonderful papa.

Should she tell him the truth to gain his sympathy? But the truth wasn’t hers to tell.

“I’m just taking care of her.”

“Vraiment?”
He studied her. “You seem so natural, the way you hold her. Like her mother. I don’t know that much about babies . . .”

She blinked. “Shall we get to work?”

For a moment he directed a laserlike stare at her that went right to the bone. Her heart raced. Was it so obvious she was head over stilettos with this thing that weighed no more than three kilos?

“Here are some of my notes,” he said, businesslike, pulling out a folder. “Background on Alstrom’s corporate structure, the North Sea territorial water disputes, environmental impact statement, and some very subdued eco groups’ responses, which I found surprising.”

She skimmed the several pages of notes. Went back and reread the first page. “Here you note Alstrom’s funding its drilling project with a Ministry loan?”

Daniel Ristat nodded.

“Would you say they’re in financial trouble?”

“Their last drill didn’t recoup their investment, and then unsafe platform construction resulted in the deaths of several workers, for which they were liable. Not to mention the bad press engendered by ecomilitants’ campaigns.”

She put Stella over her shoulder again, patted her back, and was rewarded by a loud resounding burp. She hoped no spit-up had been deposited on Martine’s black velvet jacket.

“In essence, the proposed agreement with the Ministry means they scratch each other’s backs,” he said. “The Ministry gains new revenue sources, higher employment, increased industrial production: it all looks good on their reports. And Alstrom snags a secure base in the North Sea from which to expand. All funded by the government. Everyone wins.”

Except the marine life and the coasts of several countries, she thought.

“Not according to your other notes here on environmental impact studies,” she said.

He flashed a smile at the waiter, who’d appeared with a tray in one hand, rubbing his hand on a white apron with the other.

“Une noisette, s’il vous plaît,”
he said to the waiter.

So trendy journalists drank macchiatos now.

“My information comes from a reliable source,” he said.

“Deep inside. He must remain unnamed. I can’t use this information or it will point to him as the Ministry leak. He told me Alstrom’s last spill rendered parts of the North and Baltic seas toxic to fish. And then there’s Alstrom’s deliberate misinformation campaign: deny, dupe, and delay. Dupe the public into thinking it’s an environmentally and socially responsible corporation. Have you heard yet of ‘dead zones?’”

She shook her head.

“Algae die from pollutants, and in the process of decomposition they consume oxygen. The depletion of oxygen leaves an oxygenless dead zone on the ocean floor, the effect of which spirals up through the chain of marine life.”

She thought of what Krzysztof had told her. “I was informed that the supposedly abandoned North Sea oil-rig platforms were being used for dump sites. This could be corroboration.”

“But where’s the direct proof?” Daniel said. “Everyone in power wants this agreement to go through. You know it’s almost a done deal. So even though I’d like to, I can’t help you.”

Desperation surged through her. “I’m sure there are more reports that were suppressed. MondeFocus’s protest was sabotaged. Will you expose Alstrom if I get you proof? If I get you minutes of their corporate meetings, will you blow it wide open?”

His eyebrow raised. “Like you blew a hole in the Seine?”

“Moi?”

Why didn’t anyone blame Gabriel Leclerc?

“I read the papers.” He grinned, opening his laptop. “Martine filled me in, too. I was counting on a dramatic interview at your hospital bedside. Instead I have a
tête-à-tête
with two lovely ladies.
Charmante
.”

“I need your help,” she said. “The agreement’s about to be signed.”

He shook his head.

“Like I said, I need evidence: reports, meeting notes,” he said. “No one takes shots at an oil company or the Ministry without incontrovertible evidence.”

A young Turk? He didn’t need convincing, just proof.

“Give me your fax number.”

He handed her his card, slipped some francs onto the table.

“Expect the proof this afternoon or tonight at the latest,” she said.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He looked amused. “But Martine said you meant business.”

Aimée nodded. “My best friend should know.”

Now he’d turned the charm back on.

“She smiled.” He nudged Aimée. “Did you see? Stella smiled at me.”

“It’s gas.”

OUT ON THE STREET she put Daniel Ristat’s fax number in her pocket.

“À bientôt, mes princesses.”
He winked and ran down the Metro steps.

Shadows burnished the shop windows, passersby hurried along the street. The last rays of light illumined cottony puffs of clouds framed by the sloping tiled rooftops. The incandescent clouds were tinged with yellow, as though lit from within, reminiscent of a Monet sky.

Aimée wrapped Stella tighter in the blanket that enfolded the baby in the carrier on her chest. She was about to hail a taxi for Leduc Detective when she realized that she was standing in front of the blue awning of Jacadi, the upscale baby store. The window display had a christening theme featuring a delicate christening gown trimmed with lace, surrounded by white sugar-coated almonds—
de rigueur
for a bourgeois baptism—that had been sprinkled among a phalanx of stuffed animals.

The shop door opened to reveal a young woman wheeling twins in a double stroller. The clerk, a middle-aged woman with her hair in a chignon and appraising eyes, held the door for her. Stella stuck out her little fists and Aimée could have sworn that she was pointing in the direction of a pink terrycloth onesie in the side window.

“Looks like your daughter knows what she wants,” the clerk said.

Newborns couldn’t focus farther than a meter, according to the baby manual. Aimée stroked Stella’s velvety ear. And in the next moment, she found herself standing inside the store, which was filled with every kind of infant clothing possible.

“You were born with fashion sense, too, Stella,” she whispered.

SHE LEFT THE shop hoping Stella would wear the expensive onesie longer than it took her to sneeze. Stella seemed to grow a size a day. Horns honked from cars jammed in the
rond-point
evening traffic. The taxi stand lay just ahead.

“Aimée?”

Startled, she turned at the corner, bag in hand, Stella strapped on her chest, to stare into the face of Yves, her former boyfriend. In a pinstripe suit and long hair, he was more of a hunk than ever. She felt her face flush. A stream of passersby parted around them, as if they were rocks in the middle of a current, then flowed together again at the zebra crosswalk.