“I’ve seen your police record, Nicu,” said Ponchet. “This will go better for you if you help us.” Ponchet nodded to the uniformed flic. Handcuffs were clamped around Nicu’s wrists. “You can tell us more at the commissariat.”
Jail. Not again. They’d beat him up, let him rot in the cell. Uncontrollable shaking overcame him.
The door opened on his Uncle Radu, escorted by a flic.
Radu took in the scene, his eyes brimming as he walked to the viewing window. He took off his fedora, then shook his head.
“I thought you found my sister,” he said. “Who’s this? Why the handcuffs on Nicu?”
Nicu turned to the priest. “Father, you’re a man of God. Is this right?”
The priest, a young man, shrugged. “Captain Ponchet, two members of Drina Constantin’s family can’t identify this woman as Drina Constantin. It’s not my place, but under the circumstances, I’d suggest you release this young man.”
Ponchet’s mouth tightened. He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, rolled it between his thick fingers, nodded to the other flic. “Good point, Father. Release him. For now.”
Nicu heard the click and felt the metal handcuffs tug, then loosen. He rubbed his wrists.
“Do your job,” Nicu said to Ponchet. “Find her.”
But Ponchet had his phone to his ear.
His uncle put on his fedora. “When did the flics ever do anything for us?” he spat. “We’ll take care of it our way.”
Monday Morning
PRIORITIES. AIMéE HAD priorities. Right now they boiled down to loading Chloé’s baby bag for shared care, finding a project proposal she’d misplaced and getting dressed. All in ten minutes. Her cell beeped.
Merde! Where had she left it? Chloé, lying in the middle of the duvet on Aimée’s bed, laughed with delight as Miles Davis licked her toes. They played this game all the time. Over the birds chirping outside the open window and Chloé’s dulcet burbling, Aimée traced her phone to her leather motorcycle jacket pocket.
She saw a voice message received last night after she’d fallen asleep. Merde again! She hit play. Nicu’s voice trembled. “The police tried to frame me.” Panting. “… done nothing and she’s still missing.” His voice was low. “When we were followed …” Shouts and banging in the background drowned out his words. “Please meet me—”
The message cut off. Where was he?
She hit callback. But a France Telecom recording came on, telling her, “This number does not accept calls.”
Her fingers tightened on her cell phone. She was worried. She wished to God she’d spoken with him last night. Had he been followed and framed by whoever took his mother?
Morbier didn’t answer. Merde, merde, merde again. She left him a message.
She cleaned up Chloé’s apricot-smeared chin, spooned horse meat from the butcher’s white-paper packet into Miles Davis’s bowl. By the time that was done, she knew she couldn’t wait until Morbier responded. With no other lead to Nicu, she’d go to the hospital before starting her first official day back in the office.
Ten minutes later, clad in black leather pants, a silk YSL blouse (a flea-market find) and a flounced three-quarter-length wool coat by Jean Paul Gaultier, she locked the front door. Thank God the coat fit her again. Chloé, slung in the carrier on her back, drooled on her collar. “Babette’s taking care of you today, ma puce. You remember, we talked about this.”
She’d worked out an arrangement with Babette, her concierge’s twenty-something niece, who also took care of Gabrielle, the six-month-old daughter of the new family across the courtyard. Now that Aimée was going back to work full-time, they would share care in a garde à domicile arrangement, alternating apartments. This week, Babette would watch the babies at Gabrielle’s apartment, and her aunt, Madame Cachou, would take Miles Davis on his walks. On Babette’s Wednesday afternoons off, Aimée and René would take turns, or bring Chloé to the office. Between Babette and Madame Cachou, Aimée would have backup coverage if she needed to work late. Like tonight for surveillance, Babette would take her after-hours at Aimée’s place.
The carved door in the flat above the carriage house opened for them. Butter smells wafted out. A cat slinked a velvet tail across her ankles.
Chloé smiled in delight as they passed a colorful, dancing mobile. Babette, her hair up in a ponytail and an apron over her jeans, beckoned them inside with a breathy bonjour, followed by “Hungry?” In the light-filled, stainless-steel state-of-the art kitchen sat a bowl of ripe strawberries—small, fragrant gariguettes, just in season.
Aimée put Chloé in the high chair adjoining Gabrielle’s. Two peas in a pod—one with light brown hair, one blonde.
“ ‘Don’t sugar the strawberries,’ my mother used to say,” Babette said as Aimée set down Chloé’s baby bag—biscuits, diapers, clothes and milk she’d pumped for tonight.
“My grandmother did too,” said Aimée, catching the meaning behind the saying. “Is there a problem?” Already? It was only the first day of their arrangement. Babette had babysat for Aimée before and Chloé had loved her. Aimée dreaded a search for a new caregiver; this would have been so convenient and reasonable.
“Can you pick Chloé up by five on Fridays?” Babette said. “I’m taking a class. Just until June.”
Aimée breathed a silent sigh of relief. That was all. “Bien s?r.” She’d have to write that down. “Hope you brought extra bottles for tonight, just in case,” said Babette.
Aimée nodded. “If surveillance runs late, I’ll call.”
She nuzzled Chloé, inhaling her freshly powdered baby smell. “I’d like to stay and play with you, ma puce.”
“Maman’s off to work,” said Babette, lifting Chloé’s fist to wave. Aimée kissed her once more and left, riding out a powerful stab of regret.