Aimée held out small hope she’d find Madame Uzes at the clinique, but she had to do something. Follow any connection.
As she rode toward the clinique, she thought about this monde privé of the privileged elite, and about the manouche community she was trying so hard to track down. They were two different worlds, ostensibly opposite, yet they had so much in common, Aimée thought—they were both secretive cultures, worlds hidden from outsiders; their inhabitants proud people who kept to themselves. Not that Aimée was going to let pride or secrecy stop her from getting to the bottom of this.
Nicu, with his whole life ahead of him, murdered as a result of her fixation on her father. Who next?
She checked her side-view mirror at the intersection. No blue van, no car trailing her. And in front of her was only the lamplight filtering through copper-beech branches onto the zebra-striped crosswalk. The light turned green and she gunned the engine.
More than twenty-three hours now. René was right, Drina was probably dead by this point, and Nicu had been silenced forever. The pros, whoever they were, had accomplished their task. Her father’s death had been walled over, Drina’s secrets had disappeared with her. Aimée was left stumbling in the dark—again.
Cold night air hit her cheekbones and she double looped her scarf with one hand. Thoughts played in an endless reel in her head. Her father’s tangled secrets, which she now knew must be linked to at least two but maybe three or more other murders besides his own, were a vast incomprehensible net descending on her. And in her bones, she knew she was the only one who could unravel the knots. If she wanted justice for her father—and for Nicu, whose life had been cut short for no reason; and for abducted Drina, who had probably died in excruciating pain; and for the mysterious Djanka, whose murder had been buried so many years ago, because no one cared about a dead Gypsy—she would have to figure this out herself. No other choice, whatever Morbier said; whoever had killed Nicu knew she was involved. And it terrified her. Made her knees wobble on the scooter.
For a moment she wondered if she could do this. Chloé depended on her. Mon Dieu, her baby was just teething. René’s accusation spun in her head: “… crazy … giving Melac ammunition …” Would she turn into another version of her mother, the obsessed seventies radical turned CIA agent who’d gone rogue, dealt arms, ended up on Interpol’s wanted list—and abandoned Aimée as a child?
The two didn’t equate. No comparison to her mother, she told herself, as she always did. She chewed her lip, tried to push those thoughts aside.
Aimée had to make it right. She would. Count on it. And she’d make René cover her back.
Aimée smiled at the dark-haired young woman at the billing desk at Clinique Saint-Jean de Dieu. Her second hospital in twenty-four hours. And they weren’t exactly her favorite kind of place to hang out.
She set her vintage clutch bag on the counter. “Ah non, have I missed Madame Uzes again?”
“She’s a patient, Mademoiselle?” The young woman turned to consult her computer screen. Over her shoulder Aimée could make out what looked like patients’ names in columns. Room numbers. If only the young woman would angle the screen to the left, Aimée’d get a clear view.
“Her great-uncle is, and she takes care of his supplementary dietary needs. I’m running late; she must have been by to pay already, non? Perhaps she’s still here?”
“Attendez, I’ll check.” A few clicks. “Yes, she took care of Corporal Uzes’s bill. If that’s all?”
“I wouldn’t bother you, but there’s a problem with her daughter’s babysitter. How long ago was she here?”
“My colleague took care of this. Looks like ten minutes ago.”
“Maybe I can catch her if she’s visiting the corporal. Which way is that?”
The young woman hesitated.
Aimée snapped open her clutch, pulling out her lipstick tube as if to apply it before going. “It will only take a moment,” she said. “Which room is the corporal in?”
The young woman caught the eye of a colleague hunched over the opposite computer screen, phone to her ear. The colleague shook her head. “I’m sorry, clinique policy forbids me to give out that information.”
Aimée tipped her clutch bag. The contents—mascara tube, keys, Chloé’s teething ring—spilled behind the woman’s computer. “Oh, I’m sorry. But I understand.”
The young woman gathered the spilled contents and put them in Aimée’s waiting hands.
“Oops, my lipstick … I think I see it. Behind your computer.”
“Where?” The woman leaned forward, reaching behind the screen. Still blocking Aimée’s view. If only she’d lean a few more … “Désolée, but—”
“There, see?”
The woman bent down.
Over her shoulder Aimée scanned the display, noting the corporal’s room number.
“I can’t find it, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, I’m so dumb,” she said, tapping her forehead with the palm of her hand, “my lipstick’s right here. Merci!”
ROOM 314—SPACIOUS, HIGH-CEILINGED and warmed by soft lamplight—overlooked a dimly lit garden that stretched half a block, if not more. Amazing, all the green spaces hidden behind walls in this quartier. But the room was empty.
Merde! Too late.
She was about to leave when a gnome-like figure entered the room, his gait crab-like. A grey suit hung from his frame as if he’d shrunk inside it. He must have been in his nineties, but his face was smooth, waxen. “Quels idiots.” He shook his head, grabbed Aimée’s arm. “They’re counterattacking, ma petite.”
Startled by his grip, Aimée caught the gaze of the woman behind him. “Madame Belle Uzes?”
The woman nodded, shot Aimée a long-suffering look. “My great-uncle thinks it’s 1917.”
Madame Uzes guided the corporal to a chair. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not the new social worker, I’ve met her. Who are you?”