She could almost hear the rustle and swish of the short tulle skirt, the grinding twist of the leather-toed shoe on the wood stage floor of l’Opéra.
The old grande dame had been so thankful to Aimée’s grandfather that she willed the ballerina to the Louvre, much to the chagrin of her heirs.
She pored over her grandfather’s cramped writing on the yellowed pages in his case report—surveillance, suspects, alibis, possible motives, a diagram of interrelations.
Bon, she’d done all that. Timelined events. Followed everything step for step per her grandfather’s example.
Correction—her grandfather had rechecked the alibi of the old dame’s trusted secretary. The hospital nurse, who was finally back from vacation when he followed up, had never seen the secretary the night of the robbery when the secretary claimed to have been visiting her mother.
It was the little things, the details, that made 2+2 = 5, as her grandfather had said.
Aimée knew where to start.
“Let’s pull up the numbers from Marina Bereskova’s phone.”
“Done.” Saj handed her a printout. “Pretty self-explanatory. Calls to Dmitri, Svetla the bodyguard, Tatyana, a boutique.…”
“And this one?”
Saj shrugged. “The bank?”
She pulled out her cell phone and checked the call log.
The same number. Received two days ago at 6:10 P.M. She thought back. Damien the printer.
Her head spun. How did he connect to Marina? Wasn’t she Tatyana’s friend? Why was Marina talking to her friend’s husband’s rival?
“I’ve got an idea. Try Dmitri’s number from one of our disposable phones.”
“I just tried. Still working,” Saj said.
Could it be so simple?
“BONJOUR, MADAME FIGUER,” she said on the phone. “I want to send flowers to Damien’s aunt, but.…”
“Madame Perret? She’s at death’s door. He’s beside himself, that young man.”
That answered her first question.
“Voilà. But I forgot which hospital she’s in.”
“Damien moved her to a nursing home,” said Madame Figuer.
“Vraiment? Where?” The old busybody should know, just as she knew everyone’s business. And never kept her mouth closed.
Pause. “A private one. Expensive. Near the Métro at Mouton Duvernet.”
“But I thought she was too ill to be moved. Can you remember?”
“On Villa Coeur de Vey, I think,” she said. “How’s the case going?”
Aimée clicked her pen. “Another call, Madame, got to go. Merci.”
Fifteen minutes later, she parked her scooter outside the Monoprix cornering the thin slice of an alley. On Villa Coeur de Vey, next to the charitable organization that handed out free food, she found the nursing home.
“Madame Perret?” the dark-haired receptionist said. “Too late, I’m afraid.”
“She’s passed away?”
“Her nephew took her home. Contacted hospice. He’s following Madame’s wishes.”
Aimée thought back.
“When was that?”
The receptionist consulted her computer screen. “Let’s see, we discharged her Tuesday to H?pital Broussais for a CAT scan. Oui, the ambulance took her.”
The morning of Yuri’s murder.
“Her nephew accompanied her, I assume.”
“He made the arrangements,” the receptionist said.
Something about this bothered Aimée.
“Did you see him?”
“Tuesdays I’m off. But ambulances only transport patients.”
“Then her nephew met her at H?pital Broussais?”
The receptionist pulled the readers down from her head.
“You’re a flic, non? I’ll need to see identification, Mademoiselle.”
Aimée flashed her father’s police ID with her photo.
“Alors, a note here says the hospital’s CAT scan machine was broken,” the receptionist said. “Madame Perret was brought back here in the ambulance.”
How did that fit in?
“Anything else?”
“We were unable to contact her nephew until late afternoon,” she said. “He took care of the arrangements that evening.”
“Tuesday evening?”
The receptionist nodded.
Damien told her he’d been with his aunt all day at the hospital.
“May I check that cell number against the one we have for her nephew?” Aimée mustered a smile. “It’s routine.”
The receptionist swung the screen for Aimée to see. She copied it down on her to-do list.
“Such a caring young man, as I remember,” the receptionist said. “Very concerned over his aunt. Not many like that these days.”
“But didn’t one of our force question your staff?” Aimée gave a sigh. “It’s about dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s for reports. We’ve got to follow the new regulations.”
“You’re the first.”
Sloppy police work. And on her end, too.
SHE UNLATCHED THE gate of the printing works on rue de Chatillon. Today the courtyard lay quiet. No pounding machines or delivery camionnette. An older woman she hadn’t seen before stood locking the warehouse door.
“Lost?” the woman asked, a frown marring her mouth.
Aimée’s heels sank in the gravel. “Looks like you’re closing early.”
“I’m not the boss,” she said.
“Where is Damien?”
“Full of questions, aren’t you? Take a number.”
Such helpful staff, a tradition here, she thought, remembering Florent, who’d attacked her in the truck.
The woman shrugged. “I’m off the clock. Forever. He’s shut down the factory.”
No wonder. It all added up.
“Everyone’s gone.”
Aimée saw a light upstairs at the back window.
Watching her? “I guess I’ll try reaching him another way.”
“Suit yourself, but I’m locking up.”
Aimée walked out of the gate.
The woman locked the padlock. Without a goodbye, she walked toward the Métro.