“I can’t give you that, of course,” Marie said. “Her son hasn’t given it to you? I’m not surprised. Even the integrated Gypsies take off in a moment. Roaming’s in their blood.”
Some public-health liaison this Marie was. “The alarm wires to the back fire-exit door of Ward C were severed last night,” Aimée said, pretending to consult her Moleskine, which she’d opened to her to-do list. “One of Drina’s socks was found beside a wheelchair that had been abandoned near the emergency entrance at the back of the hospital. It’s clear that Drina Constantin was abducted by someone familiar with the ward layout, someone who blended in.” Or anyone who had cased out the hospital and its slipshod security, but she bit her tongue. “If that doesn’t point to staff, Marie …”
“Haven’t you consulted the flics? They questioned the staff who were on duty last night,” she said. “Each of them has accounted for their whereabouts last night pre-and post-shift.”
Yet no one had questioned Lana the ambulance driver.
“So how did the abductor get in?” Someone had probably watered the plants, as her father would say—bribery. “Perhaps a wad of francs to an orderly to disconnect the alarm? Maybe even to bring the patient out to the ambulance alley?”
“I personally vouch for the three orderlies on duty last night.” Marie’s small eyes narrowed. “One of my husband’s cousins; the other two have worked here ten, fifteen years and will retire when we close.”
Alors, Aimée thought: if it wasn’t a paid-off hospital employee, then a keen observer.
Behind Marie’s head a hospital directory was pasted on the wall by a list labeled USEFUL NUMBERS. That gave her an idea.
“Here’s my card,” said Aimée.
Professional courtesy demanded that Marie give hers in return. Didn’t it? Marie made no move.
“May I have your card in case I need to reach you?”
“Désolée, I’m all out.”
Liar. One was stuck above her head on the corkboard.
“Consult the flics if you have any further questions,” Marie said, an arch tone in her voice. She showed Aimée to the hall, closing the office door behind them. “I’ve got a meeting.”
So far she’d gotten little: Naftali overhearing Drina’s shouting about birds, and Nicu needing to know the truth; Lana’s recollection of a black car with tinted windows.
Aimée followed several paces behind Marie until she entered a ward; as soon as she did, Aimée backtracked down the hallway and slipped back into the office, praying the woman wouldn’t return. Standing behind the door for cover, Aimée took Marie’s card from the corkboard and consulted the wall directory, then on the desk phone dialed 09, the extension for Admissions.
“I’m Marie Fourcy, calling from Doctor Estienne’s Ward C station. We’re unable to locate a patient’s records. Drina Constantin. Can you give me her contact information?”
“You’ve got the files,” the admissions clerk said.
Great. “Her chart’s missing, that’s the problem.”
“Your problem. We processed the patient yesterday upon admission and sent the records down to you at … eighteen hundred hours.”
She had to get something. Thought back to Nicu pulling out the market work permit. “Bon, what’s the patient’s address?”
“Address? You should have it.”
“But of course you’ve kept a copy in Admissions, non?”
A sigh. “When the messenger comes I’ll send it …”
“Merci beaucoup,” Aimée interrupted. Noises came from the hall. The rubber wheels of a trolley, approaching voices—merde! Couldn’t the woman just hurry up and cooperate? “But the flics in the hallway want her address.”
“This is their second request.” Her voice rose in irritation. “I’ve got to process pending admissions, I told them.”
Aimée heard footsteps outside the door. “Bon, just give me an address so I can keep them happy.”
“Attendez,” she said. “There’s a pile here to go through.”
The footsteps came closer.
“Voilà. Thirty-nine Boulevard des Invalides.”
“Merci.”
“What are you doing here?” asked a nurse.
Aimée hung up the phone as noiselessly as she could and turned around. Managed a shrug. “Stupid me, I left my sunglasses on the doctor’s desk.”
A moment later she’d escaped into the corridor, not looking back.
WITH AN IDEA forming in her mind, she headed to the service rooms she’d noticed. The laundry steam seeped through a wall vent. She followed the ramp through swinging doors labeled LAVERIE and UNIFORM PICKUP.
Inside she saw lockers and canvas carts heaped with soiled sheets. Detergent and stale coffee smells wafted from a table in the corner with a cafetière on it. She could hear loud voices from the changing room for male staff.
Aimée reached for a staff newsletter on the table by the coffee stains. “Excusez-moi,” she called into the locker area. “I’m with Department of Requisition checking on stock. Reports have reached us about thefts in staff locker rooms and in the laundry.”
“Tell me about it,” said a man who stuck his head out. “Lost my windbreaker, my uniform, even my ID.”
She nodded, controlled her excitement. “As recently as last night or today?”
He shrugged. “I come back to work today after two days off, my locker’s been cleaned out and I have no uniform. It’s making me late for my shift. Why don’t you people investigate?”
“Oh, I will,” she said.
HER PHONE VIBRATED in her pocket. A number she didn’t recognize. Nicu, finally!
But it was the lawyer’s secretary calling to book her appointment. “She has an opening tomorrow afternoon.”
“Nothing sooner?”
“Call it lucky a client cancelled and I can fit you in, Mademoiselle.”
“D’accord, merci.” Aimée scratched the details into her Moleskine. “My baby’s biological father is making custody claims.”
“Oh, she knows.”
She did? “But how?”
“The commissaire,” said the secretary. “Just to alert you, the biological father’s attorney has contacted Ma?tre Benosh.”