Martin tapped ash off his Gauloise, unimpressed. “So her son contacts you, out of the blue, after all these years, now that she’s dying?”
Aimée raised her hand to stop him. “Arrête, Martin. Her son’s terrified. I need to find her. Look at this picture again. Do you know anything about this woman?” She put Nicu’s photo down by the ashtray containing his smoldering cigarette. Took a sip of her chocolat chaud, giving him a long moment to think.
“Eh bien, I remember that coat your father’s wearing. ?a fait vraiment longtemps. Memories.”
Something had clicked, she could tell.
“Think, Martin,” she said. “Did Papa talk about a manouche, using her in an operation?”
A drag on his cigarette, a puff of exhaled smoke. “You’re sure this Drina informed for him?”
She couldn’t think of any other explanation, given her father’s open offer of help on the back of his business card. And that Nicu had known her address. And that it felt like something her papa would do.
Aimée nodded and set down her cup. She scooped the lace of foam off the rim. Licked her spoon.
“There are five or six manouche families all the rest are related to. Gens du voyage clans.” Martin stared at the photo. “Do you know if she belonged to the Marseille branch, or Avignon, or Berry or those in Essonne?”
She shrugged.
“That’s important—there might be territorial rivalries, an old feud,” said Martin. “She could come from Montreuil, in the suburbs, or from the few smattered in the nineteenth arrondissement, or maybe north of Porte de Saint-Ouen. Or have ties to the Evangelical Protestant Gypsies clustered in Essonne.”
Aimée remembered Essonne, thirty minutes on the train from Paris, with its patches of farmland, horses, a medieval church she’d visited on a school trip and enclaves of gens du voyage.
“Does she live in an encampment? Or travel, move around?”
“I don’t know.” She wanted to kick herself for not asking Nicu more—insisting he tell her where they lived, how they survived. Then she remembered Drina’s ID. “She worked in the markets. That’s all I know. Can you help me find her, Martin?” she said. “Where do I look next?”
His face was still impassive, but she knew she had engaged him. “Who steals a dying Gypsy from a hospital other than her own clan?”
Under the table she pressed the envelope containing the francs she’d withdrawn from the ATM into his lap. “A gadjo who wants to keep a secret and cover up the past.”
SHE EXITED THE Métro at Pont Marie, her collar up against the wind blowing off the Seine, and crossed the bridge to ?le Saint-Louis. Lights gleamed in her third-floor window on quai d’Anjou. Had Chloé woken up? Was she hungry?
By the time Aimée’d run up the worn marble stairs two at a time and unlocked the tall, carved door, all she could think about was that sneeze of Chloé’s this morning. A full-blown cold now? Or worse?
She tossed her jacket and bag on the hall escritoire. “Is Chloé all right, René?”
But instead of René, it was Morbier who stood at the kitchen stove by the boiling kettle. Steam fogged the window overlooking the quai.
“Shhh. She’s asleep.” He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “René enjoyed a little too much champagne, so when I came back to see you, I sent him home in a taxi. Shame about the celebration.” Morbier pointed to a cup. “Join me for a tisane?”
Her jaw dropped. “Since when do you drink herbal tea?”
“Jeanne sticks the tea bags in my pocket,” he said, pulling one out. Miles Davis looked up hopefully from beside his water dish, wagging his tail.
Morbier had trimmed down, visited the barber, even wore matching socks these days. His new squeeze had accomplished miracles. He handed Aimée a cup.
“Your hands feel like ice, Morbier,” she said.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” he said, not missing a beat.
She was braced for an onslaught, but she felt too tired to deal with his disapproval after the church scene. It all streamed back: the shock of Melac’s arrival; the flicker of joy she’d felt turning into humiliation when she realized he’d brought his new woman; the creeping fear of watching that woman hold her daughter; Melac’s talk of custody and lawyers—it all swirled in her head. How dare he threaten her? Why couldn’t he … but she didn’t even know what she wanted from him anymore. Once she’d hoped he could be a father for the occasional weekend, but he’d disappeared from her life, and she’d shut the door on him. He hadn’t come knocking until now. Her outrage bubbled up again; she wanted to kick something.
“Don’t start on me about Melac,” she warned Morbier. “Not you. Not now.”
“Who said I would?” He jutted out his chin. “Dig your own hole, Leduc.”
Helpful as usual.
The tisane burnt her tongue, and she set down the cup. “I’m finding a lawyer,” she said.
“Good,” he said. She’d expected recriminations, arguments about the benefits of shared custody and how much the baby needed a father figure, but instead Morbier said, “I’ve been hearing things about his new woman.”
Aimée blinked. Melac wasn’t on the up-and-up.
“Make sure you hire a family-law specialist,” said Morbier. “Like this one.”
He pulled out his notebook, tore out a page with the name Annick Benosh written above a phone number and an address in the 8th.
Aimée stared at the paper on the counter. “Can I afford her?”
“I’d say you can’t afford not to hire her.”
Touched, she noticed the look on his face. One she hadn’t seen in a long time. His guard was down; emotion welled in his eyes.
“Get smart, Leduc. For once. My great-goddaughter’s involved.” He dipped his steaming teabag several times. “And if anything happens to me, alors, there’s something set aside for Chloé.”
“Happens to you, Morbier? You’re not threatening retirement again?”