“At the prime minister’s residence at H?tel Matignon,” said Pons, “we like to stay on top of things.”
“Why am I here?” She wished he’d spit it out. A bad feeling thrummed in her stomach. She thought of the front page of Le Parisien—had they somehow connected Radu Constantin’s protest and the activists who marched here to her?
Pons set several grainy black-and-white photos on the stainless-steel counter. Photos of her running down the side street toward rue Oudinot last night.
Pons thought he could prove something? Blurred printouts taken from CCTV? Something told her to hold back for once, to stay calm and bite her tongue.
“I apologize for the poor quality: it’s from CCTV coverage,” said Pons. “But you know how that is, Mademoiselle, from your line of work. It’s hard to make an identification based only on such photos.”
She focused on what looked like a gravy stain on the wall telephone. “Why are you showing me these photos?”
“Word has reached us that you’re a person of interest, Mademoiselle, who visited a patient in the nearby medical facility on rue Oudinot. And for security reasons—”
“What security reasons?”
“We’re not at liberty to release that information, Mademoiselle,” said Grévot, leaning forward.
It clicked now. Drina’s abduction from the Laennec, the nurse at the clinique noting her words down … She remembered the monsieur the nurse had mentioned, who was waiting on Drina’s incriminating last words. Was she looking at the monsieur now? What if this went higher up the food chain than she had ever imagined?
She had to get out of here.
“We know you were at the clinique.”
“Moi? Because you saw a blurred figure in the CCTV footage?”
Her father’s rules ran through her head: Don’t manufacture an alibi or you’ll look guilty. Keep them off target, make them tell you what they know. Save an alibi as your last resort.
No one at the clinique knew her real name—she’d given Marie’s card from H?pital Laennec to Madame Uzes, and had lied to the receptionist at billing, at Dr. Estienne’s clinic and to Drina’s nurse.
She shook her head. “Wrong person, Monsieur.” She stood. “If that’s all?”
Pons and Grévot exchanged glances. The fragrant bouquet garni simmering on the stove made her stomach growl. Hadn’t she just eaten?
“I’m afraid not. We have a witness from the clinique who can identify you, Mademoiselle Leduc.”
The receptionist? Drina’s nurse?
“Back up, Monsieur Pons. A witness to what? A crime?”
“Take a look, s’il vous pla?t.” He spread out that day’s Le Parisien. “The clinic suffered a near riot last night. We know because it happens to neighbor the Ministère de l’Outre-Mer.”
The ministry responsible for a few centuries of French colonialism.
“L’H?tel Matignon was mentioned—”
“I just saw that,” she interrupted. “Now you’re worried about your reputation. Picking me to blame. Why?”
She waited for them to pick up her challenge. Silence. She glanced at her Tintin watch. She’d fight her way out of here, even if she had to start throwing the copper pans and fancy Le Creuset cookware.
“I think that security which deals with the ministries got caught with its pants down for abducting a dying Gypsy woman,” she said, taking her bag. “Her family should press criminal charges against all involved, if they haven’t already.”
Pons exchanged a look with Grévot.
“Robbery, Mademoiselle, is a crime.”
Her fingers clenched on her bag strap. The notepad. “Alors,” she said, thinking fast, “I’m a little confused. In our judicial system, the police investigate robberies, not the prime minister’s security office. Then again, if this woman was kidnapped by a ministry, she must have had important secrets.”
“No doubt she did, Mademoiselle. But that’s not our terrain; we had no knowledge of this woman until last night,” said Grévot. “You’ve got us wrong. We don’t like what’s been stuck on the soles of our shoes, if you get my meaning.”
Surprised at his candor, she swallowed hard. She believed him.
Her collar was sticking to her neck. “The time stamp on your blurry photo says ten P.M. I was home feeding my six-month-old.”
With René driving like a speed demon, they’d walked into her apartment at 10:17. She knew because she’d paid Babette extra for staying past ten.
Silence except for the sounds of the pot bubbling and the sparking of the gas burner on the professional stove. She’d talked too much. She’d given an alibi.
Pons pulled a ringing cell phone from his pocket. Answered.
She wished she’d just replied to their questions. Kept it simple. Now her hands were shaking.
A balding man rushed into the kitchen, tying an apron around his middle. “Holding a convention in ma cuisine? Sortez!”
She’d use this diversion to escape. “Pardonnez-moi, but I’m late.”
Pons clicked his phone off and blocked her before she could reach the door. “Of course. We apologize and appreciate your cooperation,” Pons said.
Grévot picked up the thread. “However, you understand that we work in the spirit of inter-ministerial cooperation.”
Like hell. You lick the heels of whoever’s top of the heap, she almost shouted, itching to leave.
She gave her bag a purposeful yank higher up her shoulders. Pons showed her to the door, but not the one she’d come in through.
“Désolé, Mademoiselle—one more thing,” said Grévot. “We’d like you to leave through the salle à manger. Just to eliminate you from the inquiry. Clarification only.”
Her knees shook. Did they have a witness? Staff who would recognize her, nail her? Her lies must be written all over her face. What could she do?
“Nervous tic, Mademoiselle?” said Pons, guiding her into the salle à manger.