“Proof parfaite. Back up the recording, make a copy. I’ll write up my notes and download the digital photos. We’ll deliver a nice package to the comte tomorrow.” She reached for her helmet. “What about Leseur’s tracker? Any activity?”
“Only typical evening activity for a middle-aged homme politique. From the Assemblée Nationale, Leseur walked to his local Picard, for a gourmet frozen dinner, I imagine, then to his apartment off Boulevard Saint-Germain.”
She almost dropped her helmet on the cobbled street.
“You followed him, René?”
“No need. This tracker does it and works more smoothly than a melting brie,” said René. “I followed him visually on my computer.”
“How? Does this involve some new geekoid program, René?”
“You should see it, Aimée.” His voice rose with excitement. “It’s a prototype in development. It overlays a visual onto a street map—it shows everything, monuments, landmarks, restos, shops.”
“Sounds amazing.” A streetlight cast a furred yellow glow through the trees. Outside the Métro entrance, people sat at the café terrace under a spreading awning.
“My friend invited me to alpha-test it for his new company,” said René. “It even pulls his location from the Internet and plugs it into its programming. I’ve got Leseur’s address, Aimée, which I cross-checked after hacking into the ministry’s site.”
Seemed René favored Leseur for the murderer. And René had more, she could tell by the energy in his voice. He loved new toys.
“So what else does your wonder program tell you?”
“Most hauts fonctionnaires live in state-furnished apartments, you know, at the taxpayer’s—our—expense. But not Leseur. This program pulls up property records and owners. His family owns two apartments in the same building off Boulevard Saint-Germain.”
“Where are you going with this, René?”
“His brother Pascal Leseur committed suicide in one of them.”
Shocked for a moment, she wondered what that could signify. If anything. “I’m surprised they didn’t sell it.”
“Sell in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the most desirable part of the seventh? Where all their neighbors are aristocrats?”
Aristocrats with threadbare apartments, like the Uzes. Laughter, the slam of a door as a couple got out of a taxi.
“But getting back to murder over suicide: Roland had proximity, if not motive, since he lived upstairs,” said René. “And he could dump his brother’s lover in the moat.”
She remembered Leseur’s reaction to her questions: as if he had happy, fond memories of the sisters. On a practical level it seemed possible that he’d killed Djanka and Pascal, but she wasn’t convinced about motive.
“Wasn’t he younger? Might he have been away at school? Can you check on that?”
Silence except for clicking.
“René?”
“Hold on, I have to restart. My connection’s slowing down.”
Great.
“Give me a few minutes.” She heard René suck in his breath. “Almost forgot, a Martin called for you. He said you knew where to find him. I hope this means—”
About time.
“Call me when you’re up and running, René.”
A CURL OF cigarette smoke rose from between the fingers Martin tented on the table at his banquette in the back of Le Drugstore. “Let me tell you a love story, Mademoiselle Aimée.”
An expensive one, considering what she’d paid Martin for information.
She nodded. Took a sip of Evian, mindful of the old framed poster opposite that showed two fishermen on a riverbank opening their bières. The caption read, WATER? THAT’S FOR THE FISHES.
“This love story,” said Martin. “It goes back to Victor Hugo and his hunchback. Remember Esmeralda, the seductive Gypsy? Well, during the war an alliance was formed in the Berry countryside.”
She nodded again. “You mean between the Gypsy King and the Leseur patriarch, who was part of the Resistance.”
“Tiens, tiens, you already know. Why did you ask for my help?”
“Keep going, Martin, I’ll tell you when I don’t know.”
Martin sucked on his cigarette. Tapped the ash into the Ricard ashtray. “The alliance continued long after the war, and a few alliances formed under the sheets, too. If you understand.”
“Pascal Leseur fathered Djanka Constantin’s child.” She sipped her Evian.
“Then I owe you a refund …”
“Désolée, Martin. I won’t interrupt your love story again.”
“For all this Pascal’s faults, and it seems there were many, he loved her. Had loved her since they were children. A grand amour. And he loved the boy. To prevent a scandal … well, I don’t know the details, but your father hid her sister and the child. Later she informed for him, mais then she disappeared again, this time to Avignon, after your father passed.”
Martin would never say “murdered.”
“She was afraid, that’s why—because she saw Papa blown up in the explosion. She told me, Martin. Told me as she was dying. She knew his murderers. Who are Fifi and Tesla?”
“Ask Radu Constantin.” Martin flicked his ash. “He’s waiting for you outside in the Mercedes. My next appointment’s here, Mademoiselle Aimée. Kiss the baby for me.”
“Merci, Martin.” She pecked him on both cheeks. Wished she didn’t want to suck up the smoke from his smoldering cigarette butt.
At the corner of the Champs-élysées, Radu Constantin leaned against the hood of his brown Mercedes, smoking. Like he had at the hospital, he wore a fedora. He appeared more haggard, with deep pouches under his eyes. “Le petit said you found my sister before she went into a coma.”
Sounded like he had a problem with that. She pulled her bolero tighter. “We alerted you as soon as we could. Didn’t you get to the clinique in time …?”
“She’d departed on her journey.” He removed his fedora. Put it to his chest. Wind whistled and shook the overhead plane-tree branches. He looked up. “You broke our tradition, violated our customs.”