Should she tell Saj? She’d kept it from René. But even she didn’t know for sure—just that gut feeling. The messages all arrived by diplomatic pouch. The last one from Dar es Salaam.
A firm set up in Luxembourg, Andiamo Limited, an obvious shell company, listed her as the trustee and beneficiary of all company funds. The first pouch arrived with debit and credit cards in her name and a key to a safety deposit box. Up till now, she’d put it aside. Hadn’t wanted to touch it.
Only one person in the world would do this.
Her mother. She must have escaped Interpol.
Saj looked up from his computer and gave a thumbs-up. There was enough in the account.
Terrorism, blood money? What if her mother had killed someone for it? Illegal, any way you put it—and someday, somehow, would there be repercussions, a link back to her?
And her choices—let her business go bankrupt with a little mouth to feed soon, or deal with the consequences later? Her shoulders tightened.
“Withdraw the funds and reroute a wire transfer now,” she said. “Reroute as in creatively, compris?”
“You mean as in avoiding jail time?”
She put her finger to her lips again, shook her head. “I’ll explain later. Don’t want to be late for my first sonogram appointment.”
She checked her Tintin watch. Grabbed her bag.
Saj stopped her on her way out the door.
“First we pray to Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, who removes obstacles,” said Saj. “After he’s been invoked, we pray to the Goddess Garbarakshambigai, the mother goddess, protector of pregnancies and the womb. She’s manifested as the Goddess Parvati, Lord Shiva’s wife.”
Saj sounded serious. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.
He took off his orange scarf, which was imprinted with Hindu mantras, and looped it around her neck. “From the Tanjore temple in Tamil Nadu.”
“Sweet, Saj.” She hoped that didn’t mean he would insist on chanting. “Later, okay?”
Her nerves fluttered. A creeping dread—of what? Bad news about the baby’s health?
Aimée slipped into her ballet flats and out the door. On rue du Louvre she caught the 67 and rode the bus to Pigalle. Like Zazie.
She took out a new red Moleskine notebook, her attempt at organization and more professional than scribbling on the back of her checkbook. What would she do if Zazie was not at the Commissariat? Even if she was, what about her own hunches about the rapist? Could she just step aside and leave it up to the flics? She’d decide later; for now she was only making notes. She thumbed to the to-do list, and after Maman et Moi yoga and Cooking classes she wrote down Violin teacher, Madame de Langlet and then Zazie’s report—surveillance? Check with schoolteacher. Aimée needed to find out if all this snooping was somehow related to a school project, and if not, figure out a way to discourage dangerous playing at detective. Guilty, she realized that Zazie had just been copying Aimée. Some role model.
Outside the bus windows, the gold-tipped facade of l’Opéra passed by, the teeming Grands Boulevards and crowds surging into Galeries Lafayette. Several stops before Pigalle, she disembarked by the back door. Took a deep breath, gulping air tinged with diesel fumes. Not the best idea. Pulled out a Badoit from her bag and stepped into the maternity clinic on rue de Maubeuge.
Tuesday, 9 A.M.
AIMéE FELT THE cold jelly lubricant on her stomach, the rolling scope pressing on her pelvis. Near the bed, the sonogram machine made bleeping noises. What if something was wrong?
“Voilà,” said Dr. Weil, a grinning, grey-haired woman. “Now you can see your baby.”
Aimée turned her head, following the doctor’s finger to an off-white moonscape on the screen. “Where?”
Dr. Weil pointed to a pulsing blob. “See, that’s the little heart working. The legs, the head. Bon, makes it real, n’est-ce pas?”
Aimée gasped, just like women always did in the movies. But there it was, a real baby. Something melted inside her.
“That’s why I prefer waiting until the second trimester for a sonogram,” Dr. Weil said. “Not all my colleagues advise waiting. But the baby’s formed, and you can see that everything is going well.”
A little hand floated. Moved as if waving. The tiny fingers like jewels.
So sweet it made her heart ache.
“Little Leduc’s facing away, so we can’t tell the gender. Everything looks fine. Think I’ll ask the lab to run more tests.” Dr. Weil smiled at Aimée, putting her stethoscope back around her neck.
“Tests like what?” Aimée asked, sitting up. The cold jelly lubricant was sticky and damp on her bump.
A machine whirred into life, printing out the sonogram image.
“Standard tests.” Dr. Weill tore off a lab request slip from a pad. Handed it to Aimée. A whole column of tests checked off. “Did your mother experience difficulties during her pregnancy?”
“Non …” Aimée said, taken aback. “I mean, I don’t know.”
What were all these tests for? Her one year of premed hadn’t approached obstetrics. Was the doctor keeping something from her?
“Doctor, you don’t order a full-course menu like this for nothing …” As soon as she spoke, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to know. Encephalitis, some rare blood disease, deformity?
Coward.
“Just to rule things out, Aimée. I like to be thorough.” The doctor smiled again. “Based on your age, balanced nutrition, exercise and lifestyle, everything should be fine, but it’s a good idea to prepare, especially since you’re considering a water birth.”
She blinked. No way in hell. Water birth was René’s crazy suggestion. She wished he hadn’t opened his mouth about it to Dr. Weil when he’d insisted on accompanying her to her last visit. And then she understood—Dr. Weil thought René was the father. These tests were for chromosome defects associated with dwarfism.
After explaining her situation to Dr. Weil, she added, “I’m also exploring other birthing options, Doctor.”
“No hurry to decide,” the doctor said. “Meanwhile, keep that blood pressure down. And exercise. And talk with your mother.”