“Smells like a ripe Roquefort,” she said, the flic phrase for corruption.
Jojo raised his arm and shrugged as if to say small-fry. He rocked on his heels. A nervous habit of his, she remembered. “You should know that we found a procès-verbal from 1978 signed by your father in this Nicu Constantin’s pocket. A document that should have stayed in-house—tu comprends? I was going to call you.” He glanced out the office window. “You don’t want that getting out, Aimée.”
Had Drina been keeping this procès-verbal in her notebook? Or had Nicu found this with his birth certificate?
“I don’t understand,” she said, but she had her suspicions, and wanted him to spell it out. “Why? Nineteen seventy-eight, that’s twenty-odd years ago. And it looks like a copy. Why would that procès-verbal matter now?”
“Back in 1978, a woman named Djanka Constantin, whom we have learned was this boy Nicu’s mother, was murdered. Your father furnished the homicide-investigation file to the victim’s family. That didn’t fly, then or now.” Jojo paused. “That’s why it matters.”
It sounded like Jojo was turning this back on her father. Again. But she had to keep pressing him.
“Alors, Jojo, what’s your investigation turned up apart from that?”
“What’s it to you, Aimée?”
“This all goes back to who killed Papa, Jojo,” she said. “And you know Nicu’s homicide wasn’t a hate crime.”
“I do?” Jojo’s phone console lit up. Jojo sighed, his shirt straining.
“His uncle, Roland Leseur, from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, got knifed the same way on the Champ de Mars last night.”
“That’s news to me,” he said, looking away.
“And that Thomas Dussollier’s investigating? That’s news to you, too?”
Jojo shook his head. “Non, we’re in contact,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m working on it, compris?”
So Dussollier had acted on her request.
“It’s like walking on eggshells, Aimée. If I’m not careful, everything cracks.”
So not like walking on eggshells at all then, Aimée wanted to say, since they crack whether you’re careful or not.
Jojo shrugged. “Nicu had a juvenile record but he’d gone Evangelical, the Gypsy version.”
Accepted to pursue religious studies at the Sorbonne. Guilt welled up in her stomach. But she needed to hear Jojo’s version. “Evangelical, a Bible type?”
“If they haven’t found God, they’re robbing apartments while the owners visit their country chateaux,” said Jojo, “or winching out ATMs with their Mercedes SUVs—those are the ones I see in here. My ‘guests.’”
“No surprise your ‘guests’ like to float in the crème de la crème’s quartier, Jojo. Rich pickings. Yet as you said, none of that fits Nicu’s profile—not these days, anyway.”
Jojo rubbed his neck. “Zut, I’m just following the préfecture’s directives—trying to solve this thing. There’s intense media pressure—unheard-of demonstrations near l’H?tel Matignon, Sciences Po students staging a sit-down at the mairie.” He rocked again on his feet. “A pain in the neck. And now protests at the Ministry of Health bringing traffic to a standstill.”
“Jojo, that’s classic—when isn’t there a protest bringing traffic to a standstill?”
Bravo, Martine—she must have managed to seed accusations against the Ministry of Health with the right contacts at Le Monde. And Rose was rallying the students with her petition. They had been marginalized during their lifetimes, but no one could ignore Drina or Nicu in death.
Small consolation, but something. And maybe a safety net for Aimée. Enough outcry might force a deeper investigation into Nicu’s murder.
The officer from reception knocked on the office window. Gestured for Jojo to pick up the phone.
“Alors, take that procès-verbal, Aimée. It’s got no bearing anyway, but la maison”—he meant the préfecture—“will play by the rules and order an investigation. You cleared your father’s name; why get muck on it?” He picked up the phone. “Leave the door open on your way out, s’il te pla?t.” As he started to turn his back on her, he pointed to the yellowed envelope on his desk. “Don’t forget that.”
It was addressed to Madame Constantin, in what she recognized as her father’s faded handwriting. The sight of it seized her heart in a choke hold.
Inside was a copy of the same procès-verbal on Djanka’s homicide she’d found in her father’s files, minus the crime-scene photos.
BUT AS SOON as she came out of the commissariat, it came flooding back. The memory was ten years old, but she felt it as clearly as if she were reliving it—the twisted, burned metal of the fence around the column in Place Vend?me, her papa’s melted watch, the blackened van door gaping open on the cobbles.
Her ringing phone brought her back to the street she was standing on, to the pigeon pecking near her feet. Her father’s loss went back to being to a dull ache that never went away.
“Aimée, we’re at the park,” said Babette. “Chloé’s having a big day. Her first tooth’s almost here. She’ll sleep like a log this afternoon.”
Sounded like Babette had it all under control, thank God. The perfect nanny, ready to take her Wednesday afternoon off.
“Put Chloé on,” she said.
“Un moment, Aimée.”
Sounds of gurgling on the line.
“?a va, ma puce? I hear that tooth’s about to peek out.”
More gurgling. Her breath caught at the image of the little rosebud mouth. Babette’s voice. “Wet diaper. Need to change it. We’re near the slide. See you at the park?”
“I’m on the way, Babette.”