“Who else would I trust with this, René?” she said.
“You think I can figure out what happened twenty years ago from people who lie for a living?”
“You’re right,” she said, seething inside. “A racist’s the wrong person to ask. I’ll figure it out myself.”
Her phone rang. Morbier.
She turned away from René. “Oui?”
“How’s the little princess today?” Morbier asked.
A little shiver traveled down Aimée’s arm. Her father had called her that.
“She loves apricots,” she said. “And splattering them on the wall. Today’s her first care day with Babette. But that’s not why I called and left you a message, Morbier. Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said, dismissive. “Speaking of calling, have you contacted that attorney?”
“Seems Melac’s attorney contacted mine before I’d even made an appointment. Not good, Morbier.”
She knew René was listening to her conversation. The office behind her had gone too quiet. Him overhearing this was the last thing she wanted.
“Hold on, Morbier.” She put her hand over the phone. Turned. But no René.
Had he stormed out in a huff?
She couldn’t think about that right now. She needed to fill Morbier in, find out what he’d discovered.
“Leduc, I’m tied up testifying at the tribunal. It’s the first time I could take a break. Make this quick.”
Last night he’d promised to help her. For a moment she debated how much to share, decided on the bullet points: Nicu framed, his call, Drina’s trashed atelier, the possible link to her father’s murder.
“Back in trouble, Leduc? You broke your promise to me,” Morbier interrupted. “What’s going on in your mind these days?”
She figured that was rhetorical.
“Phfft.” An angry expulsion of air came through the line. “Quit playing Wonder Woman and jeopardizing my efforts to find the Gypsy.”
“Wait un moment, Morbier. Your efforts? Like what? Don’t hold out on me—”
“I’m following up,” he said. “And I can’t talk about it here. Tu comprends?”
Before she could voice her fear that Drina’s life was ebbing away, he hung up. She hit callback.
“Leduc, I’m going into court.” Morbier’s tone was ice-cold.
“Promise you’ll tell me what you hear and I’ll—”
“Keep the promise you’ve broken, Leduc?”
“Something like that. Morbier, the poor woman’s condition’s deteriorating every hour.”
Pause. “I’ve called in favors from a surveillance contact in the seventh. Put my neck out. My contact’s on it as we speak. It’s promising, but I don’t know any more.”
“Promising?”
“Keep your skirt on, Leduc.”
She heard a door slam in the background.
“Please don’t disappoint me, Morbier,” she said. Begging, she was begging now.
The phone cut off. She hated to admit it, but he was right. She needed to prioritize. She had come within footsteps of a murder this afternoon—what would happen to Chloé if she let herself get hurt chasing whispers? She had to trust Morbier, at least for now. How many times had he gone to bat for her, saved her derrière? More than she cared to remember.
She sensed a presence behind her in the office, whipped her swivel chair around. René had slunk silently back in and was sitting with his back to her in his customized ergonomic chair. A minute of silence lengthened to two. When René got really angry, he retreated behind a wall of silence. She was in big trouble.
She’d have to eat her pride. Time to make peace.
“Désolée, René,” she said. “Call me out of line. You’re right, I don’t want you thinking—”
René jumped off his chair. “That you’re crazy to get mixed up in this when you’ve got Chloé to think of? That you’re giving Melac ammunition for his custody case? Next he’ll accuse you of terrorism, going vigilante.”
Implying that she was like her mother. Was she? Guilty heat spread up her neck.
“How much did you hear, René?”
“Enough to know that—”
“I went to meet Nicu,” she interrupted, her breaths coming short, like pants. “To help him find his mother. Not to watch him bleed to death under the Métro, René.” Her throat caught. “And it was my fault he was killed. My fault because I insisted he keep looking so I could find Papa’s killer. When he found her notebook, they stole it and killed him for it. On top of that, Drina’s not even his mother.”
René’s mouth widened in an O. “That part I didn’t hear.”
She’d kept it from Morbier, although she was unsure why. Maybe she didn’t want to delve that deep into the details, feel the guilt of Nicu’s death again.
“Aimée, this whole mess gets more compliqué at every turn.”
“Like I don’t know that, René.” She looked up at the time. “It’s four P.M., nineteen hours since Drina’s abduction, twenty hours since her last medication. Without it she’s suffering.”
René shook his head. “If she’s even alive, Aimée. Get realistic. She’s gone, and her supposed secret about your father’s murderer has died with her.”
“Maybe she’s gone.” She sighed. “But her secret isn’t, René.”
“Face it. Time’s run out. Drina’s out of the picture, and her son who’s not her son, too.” He plopped down, adjusted the height of his custom chair. “I had too much champagne last night.” He rubbed his temples.
“Then you need this.” She reached into her drawer, found her Doliprane and threw him the packet. “Not that you look hungover or anything.” She paused, couldn’t give up. “There’s more, René.”
“Do I really want to hear this? And does it even matter?” René sighed. “You’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you, Aimée?”
He was always a good sounding board; she did want to hear his take. She began with Drina’s notebook. René listened, swallowed the paracetamol and sipped green tea.