her came the groan of a garbage truck in the narrow street.
“What’s the evidence?” Melac asked.
She gave him a brief account.
“From what you say, it sounds circumstantial. But I didn’t say that,” he said. “Anyway, what can I do?”
“A lot,” she said. “Request the police dossier, find out who’s been questioned, obtain copies of the lab results, the daughter Irati’s statement, the statement of Morbier’s driver who took him to Lyon.… ”
“Aimée, all that’s routed to Internal Affairs.”
“As if you can’t call in favors from the responding Police Judiciaire, suggest it links to a case you investigated. There’s a million ways, Melac. Morbier says you’re the best. Prove it.”
“Look, I’m on leave. Think I’d complicate my own ongoing investigations?”
“ Non, I thought you wanted to have dinner tonight,” she said. “After you’ve dropped in at La Crim, chewed the fat, skimmed the file. I know you know how to do that. None of that’s changed since my father’s time, has it?”
“ Alors , I go back to Brittany day after tomorrow. I just thought we could meet.” He cleared his throat. “You do know that any outside interference could hurt Morbier’s case?”
“Interference?” She tried to control her voice.
A woman bundled in a fur coat stared at her, then turned the corner.
“Morbier, my godfather, lost the woman he loves, could lose everything he’s given his life to, the reputation he’s earned, his honor, freedom,” she said. “A lot more than just his retirement, Melac. It’s all wrong. Tell me, could I live with myself if I didn’t help? But look at it this way: What if you’re in this situation some day? Who could you call?”
“You’re just using me,” Melac said, disappointed.
Her throat constricted. Was she using him? Wasn’t she asking a favor for Morbier?
“Relationships don’t work that way,” said Melac.
Melac called a one-nighter and a brief bout of telephone tag a “relationship”?
“Aimee, I needed to wind up the divorce, work out the settlement,” he said. “My ex is making it difficult. I wanted to settle custody arrangements before, well, getting back in touch with you.”
Stunned, she wondered if she’d read him wrong.
“Morbier warned me you follow jungle rules like a feral cat,” he continued.
What did she know? Her penchant for bad boys had racked up a miserable record. Feral cats did better.
In the background came the scrape of roller bags, the muffled arrival announcement. There was a pause. “I’ve been getting my life together, taking my daughter to piano lessons,” he said. “Thinking a lot. Just hoped you wanted dinner. I’m sorry.”
Score zero. Blown it again.
Dejected, she kicked at a pile of brown leaves. Soggy and damp, they clung to her heel. Like the guilt in her heart. “I understand,” she said. “It’s not fair to involve you. I just saw a broken man this morning. Not the man I know. Morbier’s given up.”
It tore her insides to see Morbier wrongly accused. In such pain. The arrival announcements boomed louder now.
She’d figure something out. Find another angle.
Somehow.
“Et alors,” he exhaled. “I’m picking up messages at La Crim . I’ll test the waters. But no promises.” Pause. “Still have that Champagne in your fridge?”
She envisioned the moldy Brie and Miles Davis’s butcher’s scraps in her otherwise empty refrigerator. Not smart to appear too easy. Her eye caught the lit maroon storefront of Nicolas, the wine shop, down the street.
“Let’s say my office. Nine P.M .” She hung up. Said a little prayer and looked at her Tintin watch. Two hours. Forget her scooter.
In the wine shop, she bought two bottles—a Veuve Clicquot and a Beaujolais Nouveau—on the owner’s recommendation. At the tree-lined intersection, a taxi’s blue light signaled that it was free. She waved her arm holding the bag and caught the driver’s attention.
The young taxi
“What’s the evidence?” Melac asked.
She gave him a brief account.
“From what you say, it sounds circumstantial. But I didn’t say that,” he said. “Anyway, what can I do?”
“A lot,” she said. “Request the police dossier, find out who’s been questioned, obtain copies of the lab results, the daughter Irati’s statement, the statement of Morbier’s driver who took him to Lyon.… ”
“Aimée, all that’s routed to Internal Affairs.”
“As if you can’t call in favors from the responding Police Judiciaire, suggest it links to a case you investigated. There’s a million ways, Melac. Morbier says you’re the best. Prove it.”
“Look, I’m on leave. Think I’d complicate my own ongoing investigations?”
“ Non, I thought you wanted to have dinner tonight,” she said. “After you’ve dropped in at La Crim, chewed the fat, skimmed the file. I know you know how to do that. None of that’s changed since my father’s time, has it?”
“ Alors , I go back to Brittany day after tomorrow. I just thought we could meet.” He cleared his throat. “You do know that any outside interference could hurt Morbier’s case?”
“Interference?” She tried to control her voice.
A woman bundled in a fur coat stared at her, then turned the corner.
“Morbier, my godfather, lost the woman he loves, could lose everything he’s given his life to, the reputation he’s earned, his honor, freedom,” she said. “A lot more than just his retirement, Melac. It’s all wrong. Tell me, could I live with myself if I didn’t help? But look at it this way: What if you’re in this situation some day? Who could you call?”
“You’re just using me,” Melac said, disappointed.
Her throat constricted. Was she using him? Wasn’t she asking a favor for Morbier?
“Relationships don’t work that way,” said Melac.
Melac called a one-nighter and a brief bout of telephone tag a “relationship”?
“Aimee, I needed to wind up the divorce, work out the settlement,” he said. “My ex is making it difficult. I wanted to settle custody arrangements before, well, getting back in touch with you.”
Stunned, she wondered if she’d read him wrong.
“Morbier warned me you follow jungle rules like a feral cat,” he continued.
What did she know? Her penchant for bad boys had racked up a miserable record. Feral cats did better.
In the background came the scrape of roller bags, the muffled arrival announcement. There was a pause. “I’ve been getting my life together, taking my daughter to piano lessons,” he said. “Thinking a lot. Just hoped you wanted dinner. I’m sorry.”
Score zero. Blown it again.
Dejected, she kicked at a pile of brown leaves. Soggy and damp, they clung to her heel. Like the guilt in her heart. “I understand,” she said. “It’s not fair to involve you. I just saw a broken man this morning. Not the man I know. Morbier’s given up.”
It tore her insides to see Morbier wrongly accused. In such pain. The arrival announcements boomed louder now.
She’d figure something out. Find another angle.
Somehow.
“Et alors,” he exhaled. “I’m picking up messages at La Crim . I’ll test the waters. But no promises.” Pause. “Still have that Champagne in your fridge?”
She envisioned the moldy Brie and Miles Davis’s butcher’s scraps in her otherwise empty refrigerator. Not smart to appear too easy. Her eye caught the lit maroon storefront of Nicolas, the wine shop, down the street.
“Let’s say my office. Nine P.M .” She hung up. Said a little prayer and looked at her Tintin watch. Two hours. Forget her scooter.
In the wine shop, she bought two bottles—a Veuve Clicquot and a Beaujolais Nouveau—on the owner’s recommendation. At the tree-lined intersection, a taxi’s blue light signaled that it was free. She waved her arm holding the bag and caught the driver’s attention.
The young taxi
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