Her shoulders shook. She couldn’t get the words out, but any medic should be able to see the Serb didn’t look like a man who’d been hit by a car.
“Alors.” The medic leaned forward. “We’ve treated Serbs who were injured after bar brawls and knife fights here in the quartier.”
“How’s that supposed to make me feel better?”
He scanned the street, nodded to a colleague who assisted Saj toward the ambulance. “Between us,” he said, lowering his voice, “I’d say watch your back.”
But who was this Serb? Why hadn’t anyone come out to identify him after the sirens, the commotion?
Her jacket whipped in the rising wind. She turned to see the van waiting for the corpse, engine running, as the flics arrived. Before she could get past the crowd, the medic bundled Saj into a waiting blue-and-white SAMU van. The engine rumbled, backing out down the lane.
Too late.
A flic escorted the nurse to a police van that had been set up for questioning. Aimée followed. “Wait your turn, Mademoiselle.”
“But my friend’s hurt.” Shaken up, tired, and cold, she wanted to get this over with. “I need to get to the hospital.”
“Where he’s going you can’t visit him.”
The hair stood up on her neck. “You’ve taken him in garde à vue?”
“C’est de rigueur, questioning and treatment, Mademoiselle.”
She knew the criminal ward at H?tel-Dieu, the public hospital.
“But it was an accident, this man came out of nowhere and landed on our windshield.”
“That’s up to our investigation,” he said, checking for messages on his cell phone. “Right now we’re calling it a homicide involontaire.”
Her heart dropped. Saj could face a charge of manslaughter. Saj? A gentle soul who meditated and spent months in ashrams in India. A hacker genius who could paralyze the French bourse, bring a Ministry database to its knees, but wouldn’t hurt a fly. It made her sick to think they suspected him.
“Zut alors, Saj swerved trying to avoid this man.”
“So he’d had a few drinks, eh?”
Again, the flic was off base. “Saj drinks green tea.”
“Immediate blood tests and alcohol level analysis will confirm that.” He nodded to the crime scene unit to tape off the area. “What’s your worry?”
“The victim’s injuries.” She pointed to the dry cobbles. “Do you see any blood here?”
But he’d already gone to join several officers near the ambulance.
She hated waiting. Hated thinking of Saj being questioned in the criminal ward. The Mercedes’ smashed grill leaked water; escaping radiator steam hovered cloud-like over the hood. At least the car alarms had subsided.
A stocky man of medium height, bundled into a black lamb-fur coat—the kind she hadn’t seen since the seventies—and a Russian fur hat ran toward them. His gaze took in the ambulance. Short of breath, he paused and shook his head. “Mon Dieu. Someone hurt?” There was shock and concern in his voice.
“Dead,” muttered someone in the crowd. A finger pointed at her. The Mercedes.
“My car? Think you can get away with smashing my car, too?”
Aimée flinched.
Just what she needed. René’s insurance would go sky-high. Another layer of guilt descended on her. René hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours and they’d run over a Serb and totaled his prized car.
“An angry little Cossack,” said one of the firemen under his breath. “The only things missing are his boots.”
“Restez tranquille, Monsieur,” Aimée said. “I’ll take care of the damages.”
Aimée noted a long-haired young man, a cell phone to his ear, rushing up behind the older man. An armband encircled his khaki jacket sleeve. “What’s happened to your car?”
The old man waved him away. “I’ll handle this, Damien.”
His brows knit in worry. “But you need my help.”
“Go back to the hospital,” the old man said. “Your aunt’s more important.”
“You’re sure?” said Damien, his tone conflicted.
The old man nodded. Aimée heard the slap of Damien’s footsteps as he disappeared into the shadows.
“So you don’t have insurance, Mademoiselle?” The man’s face flushed. “I know your type, you want to rip me off. Offer to fix my car but sell the parts. You some gypsy?”
“Do I look like a gypsy?” He grated on Aimée’s nerves. Saj injured, a man dead, and now this callous car owner. “I’ll have your car repaired.”
“Think I’ll fall for that old trick?” Suspicion showed in his watery blue eyes. He gave a quick shake of his head. “Don’t think you’re leaving, Mademoiselle.”
She had no intention of leaving—not until she had done everything she could to save René’s insurance. But before she could respond, a flic, notepad out, asked for the car registration. She opened the intact door on the driver’s side and reached into the glove compartment. Felt René’s kid leather driving gloves. Size petit. A pang went through her.
After handing the flic René’s car registration and scooping up the contents of her bag from the floor, she shifted on her high-tops, awaiting questioning. The crime scene unit photographer’s flash emitted bursts of light. She caught sight of the old man a few meters away—he was opening the door to Number 14. He had to be the man she’d come to see, Yuri Volodya! She hurried after the old man just as he disappeared behind the gate.
“Monsieur … Monsieur Volodya?” she called out.
No answer. As she reached the darkened front door of the atelier, Aimée heard the tinkle of broken glass. A cry. She reached out but felt only cold air.
“Monsieur?” Her eyes tried to adjust to the dank vacuum in front of her. “What happened?”
“My door was open, the lights don’t work,” he said, his voice quavering. “I’ve been robbed.”
Aimée’s spine tingled. Smart thieves short-circuited electricity these days. With a tickle of intuition, she wondered if this was connected to the Serb they’d run over outside his door.