him, damn whoever did this.”
By the time the duty guards appeared in the humid, narrow cellblock corridor, hoarse shouts accompanied muffled banging on the thick metal doors. The prisoners in the exercise yard, the one hour in twenty-four that they were let out of their crowded cells, jammed against the windows of the sweating, moisture-clad kitchen walls, trying to see inside. Scummed greasy water, drained from the lamb shanks, trailed over the cracked concrete floor. Laurel and bay leaf smells rose through the steam vents.
The first guard shook his billyclub. The second, armed with a taser, stepped inside. “By the wall, you lot. Now!” he ordered.
“We found him like that. And in this heat . . . still warm.”
“Parboiled more like it, eh, Alphonse?” said the other auxi. “Second one this month. It’s quite a comment on your cuisine.” He cleaned under his fingernails with a matchstick, a studied look of indifference on his pale face.
“Shut up, Sicard. Leave Alphonse alone.” The guard edged closer with his taser outstretched. Alphonse, oblivious, stirred the simmering pot of lentils, his thick lips moving in silent prayer.
The guard flicked the taser against the stainless steel counter. “Cut him down.” He motioned to the other guard. “I’ll call the chaplain.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” said Sicard.
“Makes every kind of sense in this hellhole.” The guard shrugged. “Then again, no one comes here for gourmet cuisine.”
“Why the hell in my kitchen?” Alphonse asked no one in particular.
The guard waved the vapors away and turned over the body. They saw the face.
Nicolas Evry’s bulging vacant eyes were webbed with thin red veins. His swollen tongue hung over his blue lips.
“So young,” said Sicard, his voice thick.
“Won’t do him much good now.”
“But he was scheduled for the review board,” said Sicard. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t you have work to do, Sicard?”
Sicard bit back his reply. He was due to be released in two days.
The guard hefted Nicolas’s body and he saw the clean, pale soles of Nicolas’s bare feet. Too clean for this dirty floor. “What are you looking at?” he snapped.
Sicard grabbed the mop, averted his gaze, and lowered his head. He knew what he’d seen. And he wondered what it would be worth.
Wednesday
“ I T’S URGENT, M ONSIEUR Guérin,” Aimée said, over the phone. “There’s a wire-deposit mistake in our account.”
She’d tried to reach the banker all morning. Finally, she got through to him after lunch. She imagined Guérin at his desk upstairs in Paribas. He had a corner office replete with mahogany desk, leather armchairs, and private bar concealed in a matching console, and a highly polished parquet floor. His plump cheeks, little moustache, and rotund body were almost comical. His little feet, supporting such a big girth, fascinated her.
“There’s no mistake, Mademoiselle Leduc,” said Guérin. “Bookkeeping recorded a wire deposit of one hundred thousand francs.” He cleared his throat.
She’d known Guérin for years. After her father’s death in the Place Vendôme explosion, he’d guided her through shock and grief, through the intricacies of the inheritance laws, and her reorganization of Leduc Detective from criminal investigation into corporate computer security, advising on streamlining their antiquated accounting and bookkeeping systems used since her grandfather’s time.
“Monsieur Guérin,” she said. “Data entry should have alerted you. I’m sure there’s been a simple bookkeeping error.”
“‘Error,’ Mademoiselle?”
Frustrated, Aimée tapped her heels on the parquet floor of her office. On her laptop screen, she scanned Leduc Detective’s bank account display. Beside her, client records and bank statements were piled on her desk. Sunlit limestone Hauss-mann buildings caught the early afternoon light outside her window on rue de Louvre.
“No client owes my firm anywhere
By the time the duty guards appeared in the humid, narrow cellblock corridor, hoarse shouts accompanied muffled banging on the thick metal doors. The prisoners in the exercise yard, the one hour in twenty-four that they were let out of their crowded cells, jammed against the windows of the sweating, moisture-clad kitchen walls, trying to see inside. Scummed greasy water, drained from the lamb shanks, trailed over the cracked concrete floor. Laurel and bay leaf smells rose through the steam vents.
The first guard shook his billyclub. The second, armed with a taser, stepped inside. “By the wall, you lot. Now!” he ordered.
“We found him like that. And in this heat . . . still warm.”
“Parboiled more like it, eh, Alphonse?” said the other auxi. “Second one this month. It’s quite a comment on your cuisine.” He cleaned under his fingernails with a matchstick, a studied look of indifference on his pale face.
“Shut up, Sicard. Leave Alphonse alone.” The guard edged closer with his taser outstretched. Alphonse, oblivious, stirred the simmering pot of lentils, his thick lips moving in silent prayer.
The guard flicked the taser against the stainless steel counter. “Cut him down.” He motioned to the other guard. “I’ll call the chaplain.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” said Sicard.
“Makes every kind of sense in this hellhole.” The guard shrugged. “Then again, no one comes here for gourmet cuisine.”
“Why the hell in my kitchen?” Alphonse asked no one in particular.
The guard waved the vapors away and turned over the body. They saw the face.
Nicolas Evry’s bulging vacant eyes were webbed with thin red veins. His swollen tongue hung over his blue lips.
“So young,” said Sicard, his voice thick.
“Won’t do him much good now.”
“But he was scheduled for the review board,” said Sicard. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t you have work to do, Sicard?”
Sicard bit back his reply. He was due to be released in two days.
The guard hefted Nicolas’s body and he saw the clean, pale soles of Nicolas’s bare feet. Too clean for this dirty floor. “What are you looking at?” he snapped.
Sicard grabbed the mop, averted his gaze, and lowered his head. He knew what he’d seen. And he wondered what it would be worth.
Wednesday
“ I T’S URGENT, M ONSIEUR Guérin,” Aimée said, over the phone. “There’s a wire-deposit mistake in our account.”
She’d tried to reach the banker all morning. Finally, she got through to him after lunch. She imagined Guérin at his desk upstairs in Paribas. He had a corner office replete with mahogany desk, leather armchairs, and private bar concealed in a matching console, and a highly polished parquet floor. His plump cheeks, little moustache, and rotund body were almost comical. His little feet, supporting such a big girth, fascinated her.
“There’s no mistake, Mademoiselle Leduc,” said Guérin. “Bookkeeping recorded a wire deposit of one hundred thousand francs.” He cleared his throat.
She’d known Guérin for years. After her father’s death in the Place Vendôme explosion, he’d guided her through shock and grief, through the intricacies of the inheritance laws, and her reorganization of Leduc Detective from criminal investigation into corporate computer security, advising on streamlining their antiquated accounting and bookkeeping systems used since her grandfather’s time.
“Monsieur Guérin,” she said. “Data entry should have alerted you. I’m sure there’s been a simple bookkeeping error.”
“‘Error,’ Mademoiselle?”
Frustrated, Aimée tapped her heels on the parquet floor of her office. On her laptop screen, she scanned Leduc Detective’s bank account display. Beside her, client records and bank statements were piled on her desk. Sunlit limestone Hauss-mann buildings caught the early afternoon light outside her window on rue de Louvre.
“No client owes my firm anywhere
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