“Make a sharp right on avenue Deschanel and go up to rue Marinoni. It’s a narrow street leading to the Champ de Mars.”
She caught the green light and zipped right, cutting in front of an approaching camionnette. Its burst of honking made her almost jump out of her skin.
“Le voilà. I see him getting out of a taxi,” she said. “He’s paying.” She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t find the centime-sized tracker as he riffled through his wallet. Then again, he might mistake it for a coin. “René, he’s going to the front door of …” She pulled over, squinting through her helmet’s visor. “One-four-three rue Marinoni.” A limestone mansion with an Art Nouveau tiled fa?ade, its tall windows framed by iron scrollwork. “Find out who lives here. Could be an embassy, but I don’t see a plaque or flag.”
Trees blocked much of her view, so she idled the engine and checked the time. Leseur might stay an hour, several hours—who knew?
“Checking the address out, Aimée. Takes a minute. Call me back.”
But it was less than a minute before she heard the door open, footsteps on the short rise of stairs and voices. She peered between the trees, catching sight of Roland Leseur and a woman walking past the grilled fence. She couldn’t make out the woman’s face in the darkness, just a shock of white-haired ponytail. The woman held a leash with a trailing Westie following behind.
At 9 P.M. Leseur had taken a taxi across the quartier to walk a dog with this woman—a friend? Not his sister, because her research had told her he didn’t have one. A liaison? Aimée killed the engine, grabbed a knit cap and thin windbreaker from under the scooter seat, stowed her helmet, the Schiaparelli and pocketed her keys. At least the oversized windbreaker covered the Chanel.
She’d lost them now. Merde. But with a dog they couldn’t have gotten too far. The Champ de Mars stretched from the Tour Eiffel, with its tourists and pickpockets, down this way, which was a popular family spot in the daytime: there were pony rides and a marionette theater, and tree-lined gravel pathways favored by les joggeurs. At night it was a different story, according to Morbier—a famous rendezvous spot for assignations in the bushes.
She followed raised voices down the gravel paths of the Champ de Mars, through a stretch of darkness; the only light came from the diffuse radiance of the Tour Eiffel, which was partially obscured by trees. The damp stones crunched and felt cold under the soles of her shoes.
Finally she spotted Leseur, seated on a bench next to the woman holding the Westie’s leash. She darted behind a tree. Heard them arguing but couldn’t catch the words. Leseur leaned forward, trying to embrace the woman. His lover?
A rhythmic crunch, crunch on the gravel path and the bouncing beams of a jogger’s headlamp made her duck into the bushes. Leseur was angry; he was shouting now, although she couldn’t make out the words. Through the parted leaves, as the passing jogger’s beam flashed over the scene, she recognized the 1978 Paris Match Leseur was brandishing at the woman from the photo of the younger Johnny Hallyday on the cover. The same edition she’d found in her grandfather’s collection the night before. The Paris Match with the photo spread on his brother Pascal’s funeral.
She hit René’s number on her phone. “Found out who lives at that address yet?” she whispered. “René?”
“Attends, Aimée, my connection’s slowed,” he said. “Why the whispering?”
“I’m on the Champ de Mars, trailing them. Leseur’s arguing with the woman who came out of the house with her dog. Who is she?”
All of a sudden, the woman threw the Paris Match down on the bench. She stood up. For the first time, Aimée caught her face in the dim light; tears glistened on her prominent cheekbones. Then she pulled at the dog’s leash and hurried away.
Leseur sat, his shoulders sagging, dejected. Should she accost him? But what did she have to say to him? All she had now were theories.
“I’d say it’s Fran?oise Delavigne, widow of the former ambassador to Venezuela. She has recently put one-four-three rue Marinoni on the market,” said René. “The Delavigne family seems to have plenty of other property—including a flat in London where she’s been living with her daughter since her husband’s death. Let’s see, that was about six months ago.” René sucked in his breath. “That help?”
“She treated Leseur like a spurned lover,” said Aimée. “There’s more to this. Some connection to Pascal Leseur.” Otherwise why would he have flashed the Paris Match featuring his brother’s funeral in her face?
“Hmmm. Gerard Delavigne, her dead husband, graduated from école Nationale d’Administration, previously served in the ministry at quai d’Orsay,” said René.
Think. How could that be connected?
“I taped the Paris Match spread to the timeline. Can you check the funeral photos for Gerard Delavigne?”
“Hold on, Aimée.” A pause as she heard René crank down his chair. The scrape as he pulled the step stool to the wall. Why did she always forget that things that were simple for her were difficult for him? “I’m looking at the Paris Match funeral photos … Et voilà, a G. Delavigne is listed as a pallbearer. Her husband?”
“I’d better ask her,” she said, backing out of the bushes to the path. “Keep monitoring Leseur’s tracker in case he leaves. Merci, René.”
She clicked off, took out her earphones. Hurrying, she kept her head down and reached the next tree-canopied allée. On the winding path toward the dark outline of the marionette theater, the Westie sniffed and watered the bushes. How should she play this?
“Excusez-moi, Madame Delavigne.”
The woman gave a sharp turn on the gravel. Her scraped-back bright white hair revealed a makeup-free, tear-streaked face. Her cheekbones were sharp, her skin completely unlined except for some faint traces of smile lines. A classic beauty. Her lips quivered.