for several Carambars. She unwrapped the yellow waxed paper, glanced at the joke printed inside, and popped the caramel into her mouth. “Ever seen Lucien Sarti, black hair, black leather jacket, who gets messages there?” she went on.
He shrugged. “ When the weather’s like this, I stay in the shop.”
She handed him her card. “If you do, call me. I’d like to speak with him, Monsieur.”
She wrote down Strago’s phone number and belted her leather coat against the cold. Snow clumps in the plane tree branches melted into dripping lines that ran down the bare trunks. Snow, the rare times it occurred in Paris, never lasted long. The rising heat from the buildings took care of that. Like it had taken care of any evidence that the snow on the roof might have held.
She rooted in her worn Vuitton wallet. Found it. The card with Jubert’s name that Pleyet from Interpol had given her when she’d dealt with him in the Clichy district. Her thoughts jumped to Laure’s ramblings. For two months she’d searched for Jubert, the one link she’d found to her father’s death in the Place Vendôme bombing. But he hadn’t been at the address listed, or in the Ministry. It was as if the man had never existed.
Was Jubert the “Ludovic” Laure had mentioned? Was there another Ludovic in her father’s past, a past of whispers, secrets, and shadows she’d only caught hints of. Morbier would know. She pulled out her cell phone.
“ Oui ,” Morbier answered.
“May I buy you a late lunch?”
“You want to thank me?”
For what? she almost said, before she remembered he’d gotten her released from the Commissariat. She paused, looking down at the oily rainbow-slicked swirls reflecting the sky in a pewter puddle. A January sky.
“Or make it up to me for your atrocious manners, ruining Ouvrier’s party and landing me in hot water with La Proc,” he was saying.
“She’s got it in for you, anyway,” Aimée said. “But how—?
A diesel bus rumbled past her, drowning Morbier’s response. Aimée felt for her gloves in her pocket.
“Le Rendez-vous des Chauffeurs in half an hour?” Morbier asked.
A taxi-driver haunt, with good food. That should sweeten the questions she had to ask.
* * *
MIRRORS LINED the walls, yellow-and-white-checked cloths covered the twelve tables in the resto, an aluminum meat slicer rested on the counter. The last diners finished a late lunch with a cheese course. Morbier sat on the camel-colored leather banquette, split and taped in places, worn by the repose of generations of taxi drivers. He was reading a newspaper.
“Nice choice, Morbier,” she said, sitting down and hanging her bag on the back of her wooden chair. The hot, close air felt welcome after the brisk chill outside. Framed posters of the Montmartre vineyard vendanges hung above the mirrors. Background jazz played low on a radio as the owner wiped down the aging red formica counter through which patches of the original zinc were visible.
“Combines all facets of the Montmartre spirit: rustic, bohemian, and bon vivant,” he said, setting down his paper. “But you’re buying me lunch. What’s your real reason?”
“René said you were a romantic,” she said, pouring from the pichet of rosé, already on the table, into his wineglass. “And to thank you.”
“If I didn’t know you better,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together, “I’d believe it, Leduc.”
“Believe that Laure’s in the Hôtel Dieu in intensive care,” she said, spreading the napkin on her lap.
Morbier shook his head.
Should she tell him the rest?
“Laure heard men’s voices from the roof,” she said. “Speaking another language.”
“You interrogated her, Leduc?”
“There’s so little to go on, I had to ask questions,” she said. “But I made her worse.”
“Blaming yourself won’t make her better. Look, we do it all the time.”
“After I saw the police dossier at her lawyer’s, nothing else looks good
He shrugged. “ When the weather’s like this, I stay in the shop.”
She handed him her card. “If you do, call me. I’d like to speak with him, Monsieur.”
She wrote down Strago’s phone number and belted her leather coat against the cold. Snow clumps in the plane tree branches melted into dripping lines that ran down the bare trunks. Snow, the rare times it occurred in Paris, never lasted long. The rising heat from the buildings took care of that. Like it had taken care of any evidence that the snow on the roof might have held.
She rooted in her worn Vuitton wallet. Found it. The card with Jubert’s name that Pleyet from Interpol had given her when she’d dealt with him in the Clichy district. Her thoughts jumped to Laure’s ramblings. For two months she’d searched for Jubert, the one link she’d found to her father’s death in the Place Vendôme bombing. But he hadn’t been at the address listed, or in the Ministry. It was as if the man had never existed.
Was Jubert the “Ludovic” Laure had mentioned? Was there another Ludovic in her father’s past, a past of whispers, secrets, and shadows she’d only caught hints of. Morbier would know. She pulled out her cell phone.
“ Oui ,” Morbier answered.
“May I buy you a late lunch?”
“You want to thank me?”
For what? she almost said, before she remembered he’d gotten her released from the Commissariat. She paused, looking down at the oily rainbow-slicked swirls reflecting the sky in a pewter puddle. A January sky.
“Or make it up to me for your atrocious manners, ruining Ouvrier’s party and landing me in hot water with La Proc,” he was saying.
“She’s got it in for you, anyway,” Aimée said. “But how—?
A diesel bus rumbled past her, drowning Morbier’s response. Aimée felt for her gloves in her pocket.
“Le Rendez-vous des Chauffeurs in half an hour?” Morbier asked.
A taxi-driver haunt, with good food. That should sweeten the questions she had to ask.
* * *
MIRRORS LINED the walls, yellow-and-white-checked cloths covered the twelve tables in the resto, an aluminum meat slicer rested on the counter. The last diners finished a late lunch with a cheese course. Morbier sat on the camel-colored leather banquette, split and taped in places, worn by the repose of generations of taxi drivers. He was reading a newspaper.
“Nice choice, Morbier,” she said, sitting down and hanging her bag on the back of her wooden chair. The hot, close air felt welcome after the brisk chill outside. Framed posters of the Montmartre vineyard vendanges hung above the mirrors. Background jazz played low on a radio as the owner wiped down the aging red formica counter through which patches of the original zinc were visible.
“Combines all facets of the Montmartre spirit: rustic, bohemian, and bon vivant,” he said, setting down his paper. “But you’re buying me lunch. What’s your real reason?”
“René said you were a romantic,” she said, pouring from the pichet of rosé, already on the table, into his wineglass. “And to thank you.”
“If I didn’t know you better,” he said, his eyebrows knitting together, “I’d believe it, Leduc.”
“Believe that Laure’s in the Hôtel Dieu in intensive care,” she said, spreading the napkin on her lap.
Morbier shook his head.
Should she tell him the rest?
“Laure heard men’s voices from the roof,” she said. “Speaking another language.”
“You interrogated her, Leduc?”
“There’s so little to go on, I had to ask questions,” she said. “But I made her worse.”
“Blaming yourself won’t make her better. Look, we do it all the time.”
“After I saw the police dossier at her lawyer’s, nothing else looks good
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