“Another scandal?” Roland folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “What do you ever print but scandals?”
“There’s a memoir coming out. Libération is going to run an accompanying article about governmental corruption, and Pascal’s mentioned. Often.”
Roland’s jaw clamped. “He died twenty-one years ago. Such old news, your editor must be desperate.”
Jacques twisted in the chair. He took his case and stood. Roland had never seen this seasoned journalist look so uncomfortable before.
“Bad idea, let’s forget I came,” said Jacques. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
Worried, Roland shook his head. “Please tell me what you feel I need to know. I’m sorry, I see this isn’t easy for you.”
Instead of sitting back down, Jacques walked to Pascal’s framed presidential commendation, then to the window overlooking the Seine. His bald crown shone in the sun. Perspiration glimmered on his neck.
“Minister Chalond’s former teenage boy lover wrote a memoir—not even that scandal-worthy, given that Chalond’s long dead and the remaining family all senile. This now mature man has cirrhosis of the liver.” Jacques paused.
“Pascal? Gay?” Sunlight slanted onto the Aubusson rug and warmed Roland’s arms. “Au contraire.”
“The issue being that he serviced others in the ministry as well. Others who are very much alive.” Jacques paused. “It has other implications. This boyfriend heard pillow talk and gossip, attended dinners. He overheard deals being made—promised ministerial posts, do-this-and-the-ambassadorship’s-yours favors, bribes disguised as foreign-delegation junkets.”
Roland folded his arms tighter against his chest. “So? Why would the public believe a boy prostitute with twenty-year-old stories?”
“The issue, Roland, is that the exposé was thoroughly researched, all allegations verified. Pascal led two of those foreign delegations.”
Roland shrugged. “That’s all part of the public record, Jacques.”
“Cover-ups can still do damage twenty years later. They’re a threat to certain officials. I know Pascal was your older brother and you—”
“Idolized him? Say it, my father always did.”
Jacques averted his gaze. He pulled several stapled sheets from his case, set them on Roland’s desk. “I never gave you this, Roland.”
Roland didn’t want to look. Wouldn’t. Then his eye caught on “… honeypot sting … police hush money … homicide of Pascal’s Gypsy lover … reputed ‘suicide.’ ”
Good God. The fear he’d smothered all these years made him break out in a cold sweat. His arms tingled and blood rushed to his head. Dizzy, he gripped his desk, knocking the papers to the floor. Could it be true? Had Pascal’s suicide been a murder?
“I just didn’t want you blindsided,” said Jacques. “I’m sorry. It goes to print next week. I heard rumors of an investigation.”
Roland bent to pick up some papers, trying to recover. “I’m having my attorney read this.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” he said. “He’s got media lined up. Matter of fact, he is the media.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Charles Frenet, aka the teenage lover, is the former announcer on RTL. He’s been paid off to keep this quiet all these years, I imagine. Now he’s broke, wants a new liver. The interviews go live day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll stop him.”
“Good luck with that.” Jacques shot him a meaningful look. “Fran?oise’s husband’s name came up. There are implications …” Jacques sighed. “What you can do is warn Fran?oise.”
Monday, 11 A.M.
AIMéE’S EMPTY STOMACH was knotted in fear. Her raw throat hurt and she was trembling. She tried to piece the implications together as she sat on a bench under a canopy of linden trees. Her mind spun.
She had sent Nicu to his death.
Focus. She had to focus. Drina was still out there. Whoever she was.
Put it together, her father had always said, piece together the puzzle. If you fail, try again. And again.
Half a notebook. Drina now fourteen hours gone and counting; her limbs would be ceasing to function.
Loose ends—she only had loose ends. Names and a few family photographs. And without the notebook, which she’d never had a chance to see, it led nowhere. She had zero.
Nothing to follow up on.
Chloé depended on her. What kind of fool was she, putting herself in danger like that? And she’d found nothing but a trail of smoke and names.
Part of her wanted to run away from the whole damn thing. Erase what had happened. As if she could. If she stopped now, whatever Drina knew about her father’s killer would go with her.
Her father’s words came back to her from an afternoon at the park long ago when she’d fallen off the swing. “No pity party, Aimée. If kisses don’t make the tears go away, be a big girl, put on the Band-Aid.” Her ten-year-old self that afternoon needed to put on a brave face and get back on the swing.
If she gave up now, Nicu’s death would mean nothing. Any chance of finding her father’s killer would disappear.
She hitched her bag over her shoulder. Time to put on the Band-Aid, get back on the swing and fit the pieces of the puzzle together. If she didn’t, she could be next.
NUMBER 39 BOULEVARD des Invalides, the address from Drina’s hospital record, stood three stories high opposite the nineteenth-century Saint-Fran?ois-Xavier Church, amid the green stretches of Place du Président Mithouard. This was the stomping ground of France’s titled families, and it oozed privilege. Pas mal, she thought.
Drina Constantin had given this as her address. A friend’s place, maybe? Where she received mail? Worth a try. And if she came up with zero, she’d figure the next thing out from there.