said in that trembling, innocent, lost voice of the little boy he’d once been.
Merde! It couldn’t be. Xavierre, and now.…
Agustino’s mind went back to the dank blood-smeared cell, moisture dripping from the stone. Twenty of them sweating, crowded inside with one chipped enamel pot to piss in. The gangrene blackening his fingers. But that had happened in another lifetime.
“A political action years ago? That’s over. My life’s changed, Jorge,” he said. His throat caught, remembering that day: the hoarse shouts, the acrid black smoke winding through glazed silver leaves on the olive trees, the thwack of police truncheons on the demonstrators. Xavierre’s high-pitched screams. The policeman caught in the bombing. The mistake.
Jorge trembled. “He gave me no choice. I’m sorry, Agustino.”
“But that’s all over. My art celebrates peace, the cease-fire we’re working to achieve, our Basque traditions.”
“One thing never changes, Agustino. We’re Basque.”
One hell of a payback. Had Xavierre refused to cooperate and paid the price? From outside came the rustling of branches, the skitter of birds in bushes.
“If you dont …” Jorge swallowed, then looked down at his Adidas, “… he’ll slit my throat, Agustino.”
Tuesday Night
I N THE OFFICE of Leduc Detective, Aimée banked more juniper logs on the fire to combat the damp chill. Determined to catch up on work, she made un express on their office machine, then monitored the relay data feed from the suspect VP and filed a status report. All of which took her half an hour. Restless, she completed René’s two security proposals and got a jump on their accounts. Working on a Tuesday evening, and it would still take an hour before she could make much of a dent in the work piled on her desk. But it didn’t keep her mind off Xavierre’s lifeless eyes. The questions.
She wished to god none of this had ever happened. That she hadn’t failed Morbier. But wishing wouldn’t bring Xavierre back or vindicate Morbier. Or do anything about the guilty feeling that she could have prevented it.
Somehow.
She took a roll of fax paper, unwound it, and taped it like a banner across the wall. Her mind worked better when she could see in black and white what made sense and what didn’t. With a black marker, she drew a grid for a chart listing Xavierre, Irati, Robbé, Cybèle, Agustino, and Madame de Boucher, leaving blanks for guests. She sketched a rough map of Xavierre’s street, the high-walled back lane; diagrammed the town house layout, the garden.
She drew a column for evidence, under which she taped pieces of gravel from her pocket, the Euskadi Action flyer, and the photo of Xavierre and Irati by the Mercedes. Under a question mark, she wrote Heels at Lab, Footprint, Tiepin, Lyon Driver, and FRAMED? in bold letters. Under unknowns she wrote The Murderer.
Things began to form a pattern, in a confused sort of way. The flics , calling this a crime of passion, hadn’t been so far off the mark. Xavierre couldn’t have been out of sight five minutes, if that. The attack reeked of desperation; she felt that too.
Something had gone very wrong.
Under The Murderer she wrote Wounded? Man arguing, guests. But she felt she’d missed something.
She raked her memory, pacing back and forth. If Irati blamed Morbier, what explained her almost palpable fear? Nothing added up.
Did Irati hold the key? But Irati wouldn’t talk to her. Unless.…
Bon, then she’d listen. She checked her Rolodex, found a number she hadn’t called in several years. Busy.
She tapped her high-heeled boot. Impatient, she checked the time, dialed again. Busy, always busy. She shut down her laptop.
In the rear armoire, she found her stonewashed suede leggings, warmest cashmere sweater, and red high-tops. She pulled on her faux fur to combat the cold.
Down on rue de Rivoli, her breath frosted in the night air. Before she turned the corner to her parked scooter, her cell
Merde! It couldn’t be. Xavierre, and now.…
Agustino’s mind went back to the dank blood-smeared cell, moisture dripping from the stone. Twenty of them sweating, crowded inside with one chipped enamel pot to piss in. The gangrene blackening his fingers. But that had happened in another lifetime.
“A political action years ago? That’s over. My life’s changed, Jorge,” he said. His throat caught, remembering that day: the hoarse shouts, the acrid black smoke winding through glazed silver leaves on the olive trees, the thwack of police truncheons on the demonstrators. Xavierre’s high-pitched screams. The policeman caught in the bombing. The mistake.
Jorge trembled. “He gave me no choice. I’m sorry, Agustino.”
“But that’s all over. My art celebrates peace, the cease-fire we’re working to achieve, our Basque traditions.”
“One thing never changes, Agustino. We’re Basque.”
One hell of a payback. Had Xavierre refused to cooperate and paid the price? From outside came the rustling of branches, the skitter of birds in bushes.
“If you dont …” Jorge swallowed, then looked down at his Adidas, “… he’ll slit my throat, Agustino.”
Tuesday Night
I N THE OFFICE of Leduc Detective, Aimée banked more juniper logs on the fire to combat the damp chill. Determined to catch up on work, she made un express on their office machine, then monitored the relay data feed from the suspect VP and filed a status report. All of which took her half an hour. Restless, she completed René’s two security proposals and got a jump on their accounts. Working on a Tuesday evening, and it would still take an hour before she could make much of a dent in the work piled on her desk. But it didn’t keep her mind off Xavierre’s lifeless eyes. The questions.
She wished to god none of this had ever happened. That she hadn’t failed Morbier. But wishing wouldn’t bring Xavierre back or vindicate Morbier. Or do anything about the guilty feeling that she could have prevented it.
Somehow.
She took a roll of fax paper, unwound it, and taped it like a banner across the wall. Her mind worked better when she could see in black and white what made sense and what didn’t. With a black marker, she drew a grid for a chart listing Xavierre, Irati, Robbé, Cybèle, Agustino, and Madame de Boucher, leaving blanks for guests. She sketched a rough map of Xavierre’s street, the high-walled back lane; diagrammed the town house layout, the garden.
She drew a column for evidence, under which she taped pieces of gravel from her pocket, the Euskadi Action flyer, and the photo of Xavierre and Irati by the Mercedes. Under a question mark, she wrote Heels at Lab, Footprint, Tiepin, Lyon Driver, and FRAMED? in bold letters. Under unknowns she wrote The Murderer.
Things began to form a pattern, in a confused sort of way. The flics , calling this a crime of passion, hadn’t been so far off the mark. Xavierre couldn’t have been out of sight five minutes, if that. The attack reeked of desperation; she felt that too.
Something had gone very wrong.
Under The Murderer she wrote Wounded? Man arguing, guests. But she felt she’d missed something.
She raked her memory, pacing back and forth. If Irati blamed Morbier, what explained her almost palpable fear? Nothing added up.
Did Irati hold the key? But Irati wouldn’t talk to her. Unless.…
Bon, then she’d listen. She checked her Rolodex, found a number she hadn’t called in several years. Busy.
She tapped her high-heeled boot. Impatient, she checked the time, dialed again. Busy, always busy. She shut down her laptop.
In the rear armoire, she found her stonewashed suede leggings, warmest cashmere sweater, and red high-tops. She pulled on her faux fur to combat the cold.
Down on rue de Rivoli, her breath frosted in the night air. Before she turned the corner to her parked scooter, her cell
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