Madame Figuer couldn’t keep a secret. The busybody. On top of that, Aimée had an awkward feeling she’d intruded on his tears.
“Then you know about Yuri,” she said.
“I can’t … believe it.”
Aimée sat on a wooden plank chair and watched him blow his nose with a blue bandanna. He reached for a water bottle and poured two glasses full, his hands shaking. She noticed the La Coalition armband by his computer.
Shaken over Yuri’s murder?
“Been gone all day and we’ve got to fill this order tonight before I.…” He took a breath. “Un moment, I’m sorry,” he said, scanning an invoice on his laptop.
Shaken all right. She reached for the glass and drank.
Done, he shut down the desktop. “Can we make this short? I need to handle an order.”
Having come all this way, she wouldn’t let him off before he answered her questions. “This won’t take long, Damien. It’s important we talk,” she said. “You know about what happened on Villa d’Alésia?”
He nodded.
“Did Yuri seem worried?”
Damien rubbed his cheek. “My aunt’s in the hospital, maybe I didn’t pay attention. I don’t know.” He was lean and muscular with wavy black hair that went down the nape of his neck. Handsome, wounded—her type. Well, maybe not bad boy enough.
Then she thought of Melac. Look what bad boy had gotten her.
She decided to test her hunch. “Did you not return my call because you’re scared of the Serb?”
“Serb?” Surprise filled his face. “Zut! Three hours ago I returned from my aunt’s hospital bed and found flics waiting to question me over Yuri’s murder.” His shaking hands spilled the glass of water. He wiped at the puddle with his bandanna. “Then they quizzed me over a painting.”
Aimée had no concrete reason to suspect him of anything, just his proximity to Yuri and the uneasiness in her gut. But he must know something, even if he wasn’t aware. She practiced her concerned look.
“Talk about a bad time,” she said. “I know it’s difficult for you now. But the police investigation is focused on a Serb, the man we ran over, in connection with the stolen painting.”
A lie, but they should be focusing on that.
“That Serb? The dead man in the street?” he said, trying to piece this together. “But how could he murder Yuri this morning? That makes no sense … unless you’re saying he was working with others?”
“I’m saying nothing,” she said. “Tell me about the portrait Yuri recovered from the rue Marie Rose cellar.”
Sadness filled his eyes. “Yuri told you, didn’t he?”
If he’d lived he would have. She nodded.
“Yuri’s the only one who believed in me,” he said, his voice choking. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
Alert to the different tone in his voice, she looked up. “What shouldn’t have happened?”
“If only I had.…” His voice trailed off.
Again that fear in his face. Then it was gone. Blaming himself?
“Done what, Damien?”
“Yuri called me this morning. Left a short message on my phone saying he didn’t need a ride to the art appraiser. But my aunt is dying, and I didn’t.…”
Aimée gripped her glass of water. “Did he say why he didn’t need a ride anymore?”
“He told me not to worry. That’s all.”
Odd. “But his painting was stolen last night.”
“That’s what he told me, too.” Damien shook his head. “So I just stayed at the hospital with my aunt all day. What an idiot I was. I should have gone to his studio.”
She understood his feelings of guilt. If only she’d arrived earlier herself. Those damn detours on the Left Bank. The protesters blocking rue d’Alésia.
Damien’s knuckles whitened on the edge of his desk. “The doctors gave my aunt days to live. That was a month ago.” A look of pain crossed his face. Genuine, as far as she could tell.
“Desolée, but if you could answer a few more questions?”
“My uncle left me this printing business tottering on its last legs.” Damien sighed. “Yuri mentored me. Now I’ve built up a clientele and have more orders than we can keep up with. I can keep the staff on. Support what I believe in.” She saw a hint of pride in the way he gestured to the posters.
Political, like Madame Figuer said. She needed to lead this back to Yuri. But a file with Florent’s ugly mug sat on his desk. She remembered Florent’s knee between her legs, his garlic breath on her neck, his strong arms.
“Your employee Florent.…”
“Him? Gone,” Damien said, his mouth pursed. “Turns out Florent was robbing the till. Yuri had suspected him all along. Turns out he was right.”
She sat up. Florent, the murderer. A straightforward revenge?
“So Florent held a grudge against Yuri?”
“Against me, bien s?r.” Damien expelled air.
“Why’s that? Aren’t you his boss? The one who gave him a job?”
“Called me a Commie. Jeered at our goals in La Coalition. Complained that I print the posters and banners for free to support the cause. But he liked Yuri.”
“Or until he found out Yuri suspected him,” Aimée said. “They argue, it turns nasty, and to stop him Florent—”
“I told the flics,” he interrupted. “Florent made deliveries in Levallois all morning.”
“You’re sure?”
Damien stood, a file tucked under his arm. “Believe me, the shop owner called complaining. The flics checked.” Damien’s fingers played with the file. “Florent’s father and grandfather worked here. No matter our differences, it made me sick to fire him.”
Aimée slammed down her empty water glass. “You’re naive. Florent attacked and almost raped me.”
“What?” Damien’s voice rose in shock.
“Open your eyes,” she said. “No one told you he was the type, eh?”
He shook his head. “Florent’s always caused trouble, but attacking you.…” He ran his ink-stained fingers through his hair. “I had no idea. That’s terrible. Désolé.”